There were layers of covers over her; they were, Cash suspected, trying to sweat it out. This was the worst he had ever seen her look. Her hair was damp with sweat, her face was pale and sweaty, and there was still that smell of sick and blood in the air. All this, for a baby, for an heir, that Cash had never been sure he wanted.

He reached out and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. What was there to say? I'm sorry; I'm sorry; please don't leave me; I'm sorry.

"I'll get Aristide back," Cash said, instead, voice soft. "And I'll inform your uncle."