Read Online The Midwife and the Assassin by Sam Thomas - Free Book Online

but we have a good one on the front door, so you needn’t worry. And here we are!”
    Martha and I stared through the doorway, both struck dumb by the sight. Mrs. Evelyn did not notice.
    â€œGo on in!” she cried. “There’s plenty of room for the two of you. And in the back you’ve got a nice big bed to share.” She herded us into the tenement like a garrulous, barrel-chested sheep dog. The room in which we found ourselves contained a small stone hearth, two stools, and a trestle table. The table seemed to wobble under the pressure of my gaze, and I worried that a sneeze would send it crashing to the ground. The other room—the only other room—held our bed, so this entry-room would serve triple duty as our kitchen, dining room, and parlor.
    I peered into the bedroom and pasted a smile on my face. A small bed stood in the corner, one end of the frame supported by blocks of wood rather than proper legs. The thin, straw mattress promised little in the way of comfort, and the limp canvas coverlet offered even less.
    â€œWe have a second clothes chest somewhere, and one of you can use that,” Mrs. Evelyn chirped. Only now did I notice a single pitifully small wood box in the corner. “When winter comes you’ll be glad to have each other to keep warm, but there’s no reason you should share a chest.”
    â€œThis is lovely,” Martha said at last. “We cannot thank you enough for your neighborliness.”
    Mrs. Evelyn beamed, and I thanked the Lord for her momentary silence. After a few more minutes of talk about the neighbors—none of whom I knew, of course—Mrs. Evelyn excused herself and left the room, pulling the door closed behind her.
    Martha and I held our breath until her footsteps faded.
    â€œOh Lord,” I moaned, even as Martha burst out laughing.
    â€œFor what it’s worth,” Martha said, “this isn’t so different from the garret of your house in York, and I lived there for years. The only difference is that instead of sharing a bed with Hannah, I’ll share one with you.” Despite our miserable condition, Martha was entirely delighted with this turn of events.
    â€œA straw mattress?” I moaned. “I’ve never slept on one.”
    This pleased Martha even more. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever slept on, so how poor can it be?”
    I could find no response that would not seem peevish, so I held my tongue.
    The sun had set, and I felt a chill seeping through the ill-fitting windows and into my bones. My first thought was to start a fire in the hearth to chase away the cold. I realized then that we had neither wood nor coal.
    Without warning, tears of fear and frustration welled up in my eyes. I dropped onto one of our stools, which promptly collapsed into a small pile of kindling. I tumbled backwards, crashing into the table, which tipped onto its side and fell apart at every joint. It was all too much. I looked around the dirty little room that was now my home and began to sob.
    I felt Martha’s arms around me and she helped me to our remaining stool. She made sure I wasn’t bleeding, and then retrieved a bottle of wine from our bags. We’d only brought one, but this seemed like the time to open it. We then discovered that we had no glasses from which to drink. Even I had to smile at this final indignity.
    When Martha sat on the floor and leaned against the wall, I joined her. We sat in silence for a time, passing the bottle between us, drinking straight from the neck.
    â€œOh, God, what have we gotten ourselves into?” I asked. We’d drunk about three-quarters of the wine, and it soothed some of the days’ wounds. “No silks, no feather bed, no chairs … no wine glasses.”
    Martha laughed. “You’ll get used to most of it soon enough. And we can buy wine glasses.”
    Once we’d finished the bottle, Martha and I—exhausted, hungry,