The German Midwife Novels & Stories

She keeps mumbling something to herself until she turns back to me and pales. The midwife grabs my hand and holds it tightly as if her life depended on that grip. "Oh, I'm sorry, my Queen, I didn't think." Before I can understand if something went wrong, she sinks to her knees and cries out. "I'll be more careful with my words in the future." "You didn't say anything wrong, believe me. I'm just shocked."

she whispered to the other midwives. “All babies are different, maybe she’s calmed down now.” Another responded, moving towards the Luna, my mother to check on her. “....No…she’s gone…” The elderly midwife muttered. “The Luna is dead!” “It is not possible, this cannot be.” The one holding me said, as she looked down at me. My eyes began dilating to a shade of light violet. “She’s cursed!” She screamed and tossed me out of her arms as if I was some sort of a parasite. The elder midwife caught me just in time before I fell.

Her ice-blonde hair was swept back into a tight bun, her emerald eyes glinting with so much happiness as she held him. Her lips curled into a perfect smile. “Thank you for your service, Aurelia. But it's quite unfortunate that this will be your last day on earth.” My heart stopped. I blinked, trying to comprehend what she had just said. But then a sudden, wet gurgling sound snapped my head to the other side. The midwife’s eyes were wide open as she gasped for breath. Her throat had been slit clean across, and her blood sprayed everywhere as she crumpled to the floor.

The midwife—a wrinkled woman from the village—examined me with a mix of fear and disbelief. “This… isn’t a normal pregnancy,” she murmured. “The baby moves… like it knows what’s coming.” “What do you mean?” I gasped. She didn’t answer. Her hands worked quickly, but I saw her glance at Mrs. Whitmore as if sharing a secret I wasn’t meant to hear. Another wave of pain hit. I screamed, clutching the sheets. The air felt heavy. The wedding dress was now beside the bed, its fabric quivering with my every breath.

I stammered, feeling breathless. "Hold on ma'am. Please try to steady your breaths, we're here for you." She assured me. They held both of my hands and led me slowly to the bed. My handmaiden Kira knelt beside me, clutching my hands. "Raise your legs ma'am." The midwife said, I did as I was instructed.

“I gave her blood not knowing how long it would take Gera to find you, but my blood does not have your potency.” “What is wrong?” Thaelen took Isolte’s place and accepted the athame that Gera brought him, slicing over his wrist and placing it at the witch’s mouth. She was unconscious, and he could feel the heat of her fever, smell the sharp stench of illness on her sweat. “I do not know,” Sigrid told him, shaking her head. “I think I do,” Isolte offered hesitantly. “I have seen mothers take suddenly like this, without warning, after hard births. The midwives say that it is an infection inside that spreads so quickly.” She shook her head to indicate that such cases were lost.

“She’s that good.” The midwife lived twenty minutes from Cora’s old place, in a terraced house with a green door and a small plaque beside it that just said her first name and Independent Midwifery Practice. Wren stood outside it for a full minute before she knocked. The woman who opened the door was somewhere in her sixties. She had short hair, reading glasses pushed up on her head, the kind of direct eye contact that meant she’d seen everything and wasn’t going to pretend otherwise.

1568—The beginning of the witch hunt “Push! Push!” The midwife barked at the pregnant woman, who has been in labor for several hours, suffering excruciating pain as she bleeds all over the sheets. “I can’t,” The pregnant woman cried, “Tear me open and take my baby out of me; I don’t think I can go on any longer.” She wept; her body was frail, and she could barely breathe, panting profusely as the other midwives held her down.

felt suspiciously unnatural. Kael followed in silence. The demon's movements were calm, but tension radiated from him. Not because he feared the midwife or what truths might be revealed—but because some ancient instinct whispered: today, something irreversible would happen. The midwife was already waiting for them. She sat in the center of the room, in her armchair, never appearing frail—rather like someone who had been battered by the world, but never defeated. Her face was wrinkled, her eyes sunken and dark, yet piercingly sharp.

The doctor looks between her and Rasmus, trying to gauge if he’ll get angry. “Oh, he’ll get angry all right” the midwife turns to the doctor “If you don’t hurry up and help me deal with his wife and child!” That snaps him into action; he pushes his glasses back up his nose and wipes the clammy shine off his bald head. I glance at the midwife; she sees me looking and rolls her eyes before offering me a reassuring smile. “Men. They’ll go to war but show ‘em the most natural blood in the world and their nerves are all aflame.” she waves her hands like ‘jazz hands’ as she pauses; assessing the situation