Of course there was nothing there. That was the point. She would pull that vivid cloth aside and there would be a terrible absence waiting for her, the emptiness where her baby grew. It used to lurk inside her, like a hollow in her heart. Now it was here, expressing itself. Taking itself literally. Coming to take her away. She was terrified, entirely. She could barely bring herself to move. It couldn’t call, it had no mouth except the bells’ mouths where their clappers swung like knives to cut at her; but it sucked at her, and she tottered towards it because she had no choice. It would swallow her down like a whirlpool, manifest and appalling, and she was doomed and almost glad of it, and— And there was suddenly a strong stout arm to block her, tangling with her own; and a voice that said, ‘Whoa there, Georgie, where are you going?’ She was lifting her arm, either to point or to appeal – come and get me, reach out, you can do it, you’re a big boy now – but it was the wrong arm, the one that bled, because Mary was gripping the other.
