The moment Thalora crossed the threshold, her gaze was immediately drawn to the bed. Circe lay there, her body rigid with pain, her face contorted in silent suffering. A sheen of sweat clung to her skin, and her breathing came in shallow, uneven bursts. Then Thalora saw it, the crimson stain spreading across the hem of Circe's cream-colored dress.
Her heart dropped sharply, as though it had been dragged down into the depths of her stomach.
"Take me closer to her," Thalora said, her voice trembling now with urgency and rising panic. She needed to know what was wrong. Seeing her daughter in such agony felt like a blade had been driven straight through her chest. The distance between them, however small, was unbearable. She needed to be near her, needed to make this right.
The maid hesitated only long enough to glance at Nieah for permission. Nieah gave a small, decisive dip of her chin.
Moments later, Thalora was carefully lowered onto the edge of Circe's bed.
