Lightning struck the courtyard and every candle leaned; then the newborn wailed and the flames steadied. "Push!" the midwife barked. "Harder, now!" "Don't you dare faint, Jia Shi!" another woman shouted, slapping a palm against the sweat-slick forehead of the laboring mother. "He's coming!" a boy at the doorway called, voice thin with fear. Jia Shi answered with a raw sound and a last pull. The midwife caught something wet and slick and held it up as if showing a prize. "A boy!" she said. "Clear his mouth. Tie the cord." "Quick!" the second midwife ordered. "Bring the warm water, a clean hem, and the amber sponge." "I'll cut," the first midwife said. "Tie the cord below the knot." Jia Shi held the bed rail with both hands and screamed one name into the heat and rain: "Tingyun!" A wet, furious cry filled the room and the candles straightened as if someone had pressed them into line. "Count his fingers!" the midwife said to the assistant. "One, two, three—" the assistant counted, breath catching on the way to ten. "Ten. Ten fingers." "Count the toes," the boy at the door piped up, eyes stuck to the child's small, wriggling hands. "Five toes," the second midwife said, fingers quick with a practiced tenderness. "Five. He has good nails." Jia Shi tried to look down and failed. Blood and sweat and the smell of boiled herbs took over the small inner chamber. She reached for the baby