"Thank you," Mama whispered, and Steph pulled her into a hug—the kind that wasn't brief or polite, but the kind that said I've got you.

After she left, the cottage felt warmer somehow, like her presence had added another layer of protection to the stone walls. Papa and I looked at each other over Mama's head.

"We're lucky," he said simply.

"We're very lucky," I agreed.

Two days later, Steph arrived in the late afternoon with something different in her hands—not food, but a small cloth bag that jingled softly when she set it on the table. Mama looked up from the sofa where she'd been dozing, her belly rising and falling with her breath.

"I brought you something," Steph said, settling into the chair across from her. She opened the bag and pulled out three smooth stones—one deep purple, one milky white, one rust-red. They caught the firelight and seemed to glow from within.

"Amethyst, moonstone, carnelian," Steph said, placing them on the table one by one. "For protection, intuition, and courage. I've been carrying them for weeks, charging them. They're for you."

Mama reached out tentatively, her fingers brushing the moonstone. "They're beautiful."

The stones were cool to the touch, smooth as river water had shaped them. The amethyst caught the firelight and turned it purple-dark. The moonstone had an otherworldly sheen, like looking at something through milk. The carnelian was warm rust-red, the color of dried blood or autumn leaves. Each one fit perfectly in her palm, the right weight to ground without burdening.

"They're practical," Steph corrected with a small smile. "The moon is waxing now—we're five days from full. That's when she'll likely come. Babies know the tides, even the ones we can't see. Your body's been listening to the moon this whole time, even if you haven't noticed."

She leaned forward, her voice dropping to something more intimate. "When I had Eira, I was terrified. I didn't know anything about the old ways yet. I was just a scared girl in a hospital room. But after, when I found the coven, I learned that labor isn't just physical. It's a threshold. You're crossing from one world to another, and so is the baby. That's sacred work."

Mama's eyes were wide, taking it in. "What do I do with them?" she asked, holding the stones in her palm.

"Keep them close," Steph said. "In the hospital, in your pocket, in your hand during contractions. They're anchors. When the pain gets overwhelming and your mind starts to scatter, hold one. Feel its weight. Remember that you're not just enduring—you're opening a door."

Papa and I watched from the kitchen doorway. This was beyond us—beyond our attempts to help with practical things like bags and car rides. This was the women's knowledge, the kind passed down in whispers and rituals older than the cottage stones.