I couldn't believe what the doctor was telling me. The child I had hoped for, prayed for, wished into existence—taken by a single glass of Agatha's "water."
When they wheeled me out of the emergency room, I had no strength left. My eyes were hollow. Tears had dried in streaks across my face.
Voices drifted down the corridor outside. Faint, but I caught every word.
"Frederick, what do we do now? I only gave it to her because you told me to. I didn't think it would actually make her miscarry!"
"How could you be so careless? That child was the only reason I've been putting up with this."
"Forget it. It's fine. We'll just have her get pregnant again."
"Relax. When the time comes, act sweet and beg her forgiveness. She can't really do anything to you. Besides, I'm the one who told you to hand her that drink."
Frederick's tone was light, almost bored, though a trace of regret flickered in his eyes.
My breathing turned ragged. My eyes went wide. Frederick had only ever cared about the baby. Not once had he worried about whether I lived or died. The child was gone, and the grief crushed down on my chest like a physical weight, suffocating and relentless.