She arrived within fifteen minutes, moving through the cottage door like she'd been summoned by something older than a phone call. She took one look at Mama—standing by the fireplace, hands braced on the mantle, breathing through a contraction—and nodded.

"We do the circle first," Steph said firmly. "Before you go. We have time."

Peter and I looked at each other, uncertain, but Mama nodded, her face pale but determined. Steph moved to the center of the living room, clearing a small space on the rug. She gestured for us to stand in a circle—the four of us, close enough that our shoulders nearly touched.

"This is simple," Steph said, her voice calm and grounding. "We're not calling quarters or casting formally. We're just setting intention. We're saying: this child is welcomed. This birth is witnessed. This family is held."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small bundle of dried herbs—sage and lavender, tied with red thread. She lit it from the candle on the mantle, and the smoke curled upward, filling the room with a sharp, clean scent.

"I bless this threshold," Steph said, walking the smoke around our circle. "Mama, you are crossing from maiden to mother. Papa, you are crossing from son to father. Peter, you hold the bridge. And Tima—" she paused, looking at Mama's belly, "—you are crossing from spirit to flesh. May your journey be safe. May your arrival be gentle. May you know you are loved before you even open your eyes."

Mama's breathing hitched, not from pain but from the weight of it. Peter's jaw was tight, his eyes glassy. I felt something crack open in my chest—something that had been holding itself together for months.

"We release you to the work," Steph said, taking Mama's hand. "Go now. Do what you need to do. We'll be with you. The circle doesn't break just because you leave this room."

Mama reached for the three stones on the mantle—amethyst, moonstone, carnelian—and tucked them into her coat pocket. She looked at each of us, her eyes clear and bright.

"I'm ready," she said.

The next hour was a blur of sensory fragments. The grit of the stone floor under my bare feet. The weight of the orange "Go-Bag." The metallic clack of the front door lock. Outside, the world was a crystalline nightmare of black and silver. The frost was so thick on the lane it looked like salt.

Peter was already at the car. He hadn't slept; he was a shadow in a heavy coat, his breath blooming in white clouds. He didn't say a word. He just opened the back door of Vera, his face set in stone.

"Careful," he muttered, his hand steadying her elbow.