Wheeling Gull Isle Some feathers I stole from the birds

Mou's words brought it all into crisp, sharp focus. Cut them out. It was the only way, right? Niamh no longer could push them out herself, after all, and Maegi's kneading had done nothing to spur along that process post-mortem. 

If they lived and breathed—didn't they have an obligation—?

Nausea came over her, and she swayed where she stood, the world spinning. I. . .yes, she agreed faintly, though her voice lacked conviction. She had stolen babes from Parvati—but they had been born and into the world before the woman died at her hand. Maegi was a poisoner, a cold-blooded killer. . .

But a butcher? No. At least. . .not yet.

They must be saved, came a voice through her head, and she thought it to be Jaes, though it held the madness of her father's alter ego Sheogorath. It was the only way, but it was crazy. This was crazy.

Yes, she repeated, and then gagged as she thought of her muzzle within the flesh and blood of this woman, as if she were ripping apart some great kill. I don't think. . .I don't know if I can. . .

She stumbled back, and gave her husband a pleading look. 

She would help the children in any capacity—but it was Mou that brought wild ideas into life. He must do it, and she would clean up afterward.