Moving to a glass partition, the priest paused, waiting as Thorn hesitantly approached and gazed down at what lay on the other side. It was a child. Newborn. A child of angelic perfection. With thick black hair tousled above deep-set blue eyes, it stared upward, instinctively finding Thorn's eyes. "It is a foundling," said the priest. "Its mother died as your own child … in the same hour." Confused, Thorn turned to him. "Your wife needs a child," continued the priest. "The child needs a mother."
