Madame Biore's Lament

I, Biore von Emmental, came to this Emmental household at the age of eighteen.

Since then, I have been blessed with my eldest son, Cain, and my second son, Alex, without so much as a word of complaint from my mother-in-law or my aunts on the matter of succession. I have lived in quiet peace.

Yet, deep within, I cherished memories of joyful times spent with my sisters and my mother. In my heart, I had hoped the second child would be a girl.

Thus, when Alex was young, I often dressed him in girl’s clothing and tied his hair, for he had a delicate face.

Perhaps that is why, even as he grew older, he continued to keep his hair long. It suits him well, so there is no issue.

When the two had just begun to drift apart, I became pregnant. I thought perhaps this time it would be a girl, but the vigorous movements within me made it clear even before birth that the child would be lively and mischievous. I suspected it would be a boy, and when the birth month arrived, indeed, Fret, our third son, was born.

After that, a short time passed, and I became pregnant for the fourth time. Joyfully, Lady Elizabeth, the maid I had brought from my family home and who was my foster sister, discovered she was also pregnant around the same time.

Lady Elizabeth had recently married a servant who worked in the manor. We had spoken of how it was like a story—two foster sisters, pregnant at the same time—how lovely it was. We even joked that if they were born on the same day, it would be perfect.

It did not unfold with such drama, yet reality proved even more like a tale.

This pregnancy was calmer than the previous three. Nausea was mild, and the movements of the child were gentle. Of course, it moved—yet not with the force that had made me cry out, “Stop!” during the birth of my third son, Fret. Instead, it felt like a soft, affectionate whisper: *I am here. I am well.*

I prayed for a healthy birth, yet the world outside grew increasingly uneasy.

Abductions of noble children had become frequent. With three young sons at home, I could not rest. Fret, in particular, was a restless boy who often slipped away from the manor to play—how deeply I worried, he could never know. I asked my husband to be vigilant and to increase the guards, knowing full well I could not manage such matters in my condition.

Before long, I reached my final month.

Lady Rizana has taken leave from her duties as personal maid to enter maternity rest. "Riza," I said, sending her off, "if your child arrives first and your milk flows well, I shall ask you to become a wet nurse." She replied, "You're ahead of yourself, my lady! But I shall return, strong and healthy, with my child!" and left the estate.

I never thought this would be our final parting as sisters in milk.

Not long after, news came of Rizana’s childbirth.

A girl was born safely, but the labor had been prolonged, and Rizana had not regained consciousness...

I prayed fervently for her to awaken, and felt sorrow for the infant, who would not yet be fed at her mother’s breast, and sent word to Rizana’s home.

"We have already prepared a wet nurse for the child soon to be born. Until your ladyship regains your strength and awareness, let us share the care of the child together."

Her husband had bowed repeatedly, saying, “Such a kind offer.”

I felt relief when I learned from the wet nurse that she had already fed the child the same day the offer was made. The nurse had only just requested to move into Lady Spica’s household, as she had not yet given birth, when I myself went into labor.

By the fourth child, it was demanding, yet still a manageable birth.

Though my husband was away on estate inspection, as he had been during Alex’s birth, it did not matter. I had no strength to spare for such concerns. What hurt more was that Spica, who had been present at every previous birth, was not there. In the midst of labor, I realized how skilled she had been at supporting me from behind.

Despite everything, I gave birth within half a day— a delicate, radiant, utterly precious daughter.

The baby’s cry rang strong and clear, and I exhaled at last. Holding my purified child in my arms, the emotion surged—beyond words, beyond expression.

Though I had held infants before, I was struck by the difference between boys and girls.

A boy felt like a leather water sack filled to the brim—solid, heavy, grounded.

A girl, by contrast, was like a sack holding only seven-tenths of water. The weight was there, but her form shifted too easily, yielding in my arms, fragile, as if she might break.

When my husband returned that evening, we were alone together, gazing at our child in quiet wonder.

What name shall we give her? Whose features does she take after? How shall we show her to the world? We spoke of such things, lost in the warmth of happiness.

After a short while, the maid and the wet nurse led the girl to the adjacent chamber. The head maid, Maasa, held a robe and said, “Madam is especially weary today. It is time to retire.” I nodded in agreement and lay down. Sleep came swiftly.

We shall decide the child’s name tomorrow…

We shall introduce her to her siblings tomorrow…

As I drifted into dreams, these thoughts settled within me.

At dawn, the first thing that struck me was unease. The chamber beyond was abnormally noisy. Though I was weary from childbirth, I rose and rang the bell to summon the servants. After a moment, Head Maid Maasa arrived, her face pale. “Is something amiss?” I asked, trembling. She spoke in a quivering voice, “The young mistress is nowhere to be found. We believe she has been taken.” The moment the meaning sank in, my mind went dark.

She became aware, after a while, that she had lost consciousness, but could not comprehend the reality, and screamed. Why my daughter? Is my daughter safe? Where is she? Is she not hungry? Is she not crying out? Do they think I have done something? Who is behind this? Who has set this trap? Whose design is this? Her thoughts spun in endless circles through dark voids. Gradually, she fell into worse imaginings. Her tears had dried to the point of no longer falling, and she had wept until there was nothing left.

How long had passed? One day? Three days? A month? Longer still?

Time had no shape. Days passed without measure. The world, drained of color, turned slowly, yet swiftly. She began to think this might be madness, and strangely, she accepted it.

At times, she would erupt in sudden, violent fits.

God, return my daughter to me, she prayed again and again.