“I will get it,” I said.

I slipped past the study door, moving toward the nursery at the end of the hall.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I reached the white door with the painted flowers.

The brass handle was cold under my palm.

I turned it slowly, millimeter by millimeter, until the latch clicked open.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The room was dark, lit only by the pale moonlight coming through the window.

A small figure lay beneath a pink quilt in the center of the bed.

I approached the bed, my boots making no sound on the soft carpet.

Lily lay on her side, her breathing shallow and uneven.

Her small face was pale, her dark hair tangled across her forehead.

I knelt beside the bed, my hand trembling as I reached out to touch her cheek.

Her skin was cool.

“Lily,” I whispered softly.

She did not move, her eyelids remaining heavy and closed.

The anger returned, hot and sharp, but I pushed it down again.

I checked her pulse.

It was steady, but slow.