September 10th, 1891 — The Crouch Home, Swallowbury

The exhausted look the midwife shot her on her way out was enough to shame Melody for the next century. For the third time she had waited for the pain to become unbearable, for the pattern to become obvious. She couldn't help that her call to Reuben had happened well after everyone should have gone to bed, nor could she prevent the contractions petering out after the midwife had, once again, ensured everything was set up and dawn broke on the horizon.

Melody sat at the kitchen table with her shoulders slumped and a steaming mug of tea before her. "I don't understand," she muttered to Reuben miserably. "The midwife even thought this would be it." For hours, Melody had muddled through, following the midwife's instructions to the letter. Only to end up like this. Again! "I don't understand what keeps going wrong."

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