1st May, 1890 — Hughes Household
Blythe Fairchild

Mrs Emily Hughes was an old hand at bringing children into the world so Temperance had deemed her a suitable candidate for Blythe's first foray into the birthing room. There was no one to coddle and reassure, the father had wisely taken himself off to the Irvingly Arms until the womanly business was complete and nothing in the woman's pregnancy had suggested to Temperance that things would be anything other than smooth.

Pressing her hand gently to the woman's abdomen Temperance felt her heart fall into her stomach and sent up a quick prayer begging for help. When nothing immediately happened she turned to her niece - she might as well use the help she actually had for now.

"Blythe, do you recall what I told you about breech births?"

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Blythe Fairchild had always imagined Hell to be filled with fire and brimstone and sharp jabs to her milky flesh, but today she knew how wrong she was. Though the young witch was not certain how she had died, she knew it must have been in truly a sinful fashion, for Hell was a birthing room and she was here.

(Was thinking that enough to discount her from Heaven? Something to consult Mr. Dursley about, she thought).

Ever so often, particularly in the last year or two, Aunt Temperance had made noises about Blythe following in her footsteps and doing something good with her time and efforts. Thus far, the extent of her aunt's insistence had been lessons which, though deeply uncomfortable, had all been entirely in the abstract.  As she stood in the bedchamber with the labouring Mrs. Hughes, however, it all became very real, very quickly. The smells, sights, and sounds of a woman who was clearly lacking in comfort were all so visceral, so primal, and Blythe wondered if she wouldn't faint before this was all over.

(It might be a blessing.)

"Yes," she answered from her vantage point as far from Mrs. Hughes as she could muster, eyes trained on anything else until realization hit her like the Hogwarts Express rolling into Hogsmeade Station: if Aunt Temperance was asking about breech births...

Lord help her.

(Blythe was not certain which of the three 'hers' she referred to.)

— Temperance Fairchild —

  

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Lord give her strength.

“It was not an academic question Blythe, come here,” she instructed brusquely, sharing a small but hopefully significant glance with the labouring woman in which she prayed Mrs Hughes understood that there was no need for alarm. Temperance was confident enough in her own abilities that she refused to panic but she wasn’t too sure she could manage it alone.

“Feel for the head,” she insisted, nodding towards where her own hands had been, hoping her niece got the message to feel for herself. They were here now, after all, so she might as well make the best out of it and instruct Blythe properly.

  

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With a great deal of reluctance, Blythe inched towards the other women, eyes still trained on the wall above the bed, working hard to focus on breathing through her mouth but failing more than she would have liked. At her aunt's direction, though, the young witch paled even further, emitting some sort of strained noise of discomfort, eyes widening. Was the room growing hazy, or was it only her?

— Temperance Fairchild —

  

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It was a sad state of affairs when the mother-to-be looked less in distress than her assistant midwife. Indeed the mother was breathing quite methodically – well-trained woman – and was fortunately remaining quite calm (it would be some hours later when Temperance recalled that Mrs Hughes’ last but one child had been born the same way).

The trouble was that Blythe seemed to have been rendered entirely immobile by what Temperance had considered a fairly easy request. Rolling her eyes she reached out to take hold of her niece’s hand, pulling her the last few steps towards the bed and placing it firmly against the top of Mrs Hughes’ swelling belly.

“Here,” she said. “The head. Quite the wrong way around for our purposes. Can you feel it?”

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   Blythe Fairchild

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Blythe did not want to be here. She also did not wish to spark her aunt's ire, two desires that were irreconcilably at odds with one another.

Feeling rather like an outsider in her own skin, Blythe reluctantly felt as her aunt indicated. The sense of wrongness did not hit her, perhaps, as the elder Miss Fairchild would have hoped; indeed, Blythe was too busy trying not to faint to focus on much else.

"Yes, Aunt Temperance," she answered quietly, by rote, feeling this the safest response. Whatever His purpose was in placing her upon this earth, the young witch was certain it was not this.

— Temperance Fairchild —

  

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Underwhelmed by the response she was given Temperance began to feel her irritation grow. She was determined to do well by Blythe, had tried to act as she believed Mayfield would have instructed for his daughter but the years since his last communication that consisted of anything other than a reassurance he was still doing the Lord’s work and had not gone to join their maker had begun to add up.

Temperance had taken it as implicit that he trusted her judgement and if he trusted that then surely he must approve of her profession. Ergo it made sense to her for Blythe to follow in her footsteps as a means of honouring her father.

The logic was there but Temperance was rapidly discovering that the will was not.

“Now, we can either turn the child ourselves or deliver in this position. Which do you think best Blythe?”

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"Turning," she answered without thinking, stomach sinking as the word left her. Her aunt had said we. Blythe did not wish to be a we, an us, or anything else that saw her more engaged in this process than she already was! Indeed, in this moment she felt so averse to the childbirth ordeal that she began to doubt she would find herself even in Mrs. Hughes' (lack of) shoes!

— Temperance Fairchild —

  

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At that Temperance finally found cause to nod her approval at the decision. She wouldn’t have minded either way but the very fact that Blythe had taken some initiative, while still deferring to her of course, was definitely a step in the right direction.

“If you apply pressure here,” Temperance moved her niece’s hand to the right spot. “Then you will begin to feel the baby move-”

Slowly, ensuring Blythe felt every moment of the laborious process of turning the child – including every moan that emanated from the mother, a sound Temperance was mostly deaf to now – they moved the child.

“And now we can see the head for ourselves.”

  

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It seemed as though every hair's breadth the baby turned, so too did Blythe's stomach.

She glanced briefly at the scalp protruding from between Mrs. Hughes' legs before all she could see was black.

— Temperance Fairchild —

  

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Temperance rolled her eyes to the heavens and prayed for strength. Clearly this had been a misstep, but she had expected more than this from her niece.

Calmly she reached for her tucked away wand and levitated Blythe a few feet out of her way, all the while keeping her eyes on the crowning head.

“Not to worry Mrs Hughes, we’re almost there,” she said steadily, tucking Blythe’s robe around her body in case shock set in before retaking her position in front of her patient. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  

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