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At the end of the long passage, I see my sister’s door is open. The artificial light from inside shines, making shapes on the dark hallway wall opposite. Suddenly, a shadow blocks the light. Turin leaves the room with a glass vase in his hand, and I- I-
I stop in my tracks. My muscles refuse to move, not an inch, too tight like a coiled band.
Then they snap.
I take off down the hall.
Something is wrong.
I need to get to her.
Two Guards attempt to slow me, stepping in my path. “My prince, wai—"
I throw them both into the walls, crack the age-old brick under the force, and knock them both out cold.
Dead, maybe.
I don’t care.
I round her bedroom door and enter her room. The light hits me in harsh brilliance.
I scan the space as though possessed; the bed is empty, sheets bunched; a woman in the corner stuffs bloody rags into a purple canvas bag; the washroom is illuminated by a glowing gap bordering the door.
What have they done?
Letting my rage burn through me, I stride toward the door against the tension of shuddering limbs. I reach for the handle and pull it open.
Then I see her.
My sweet sister is naked, being helped by two women into her claw-footed bathtub. Her slim legs tremble to hold her weight, her skin is pale and clammy, a blood-filled drain skewers her stomach, and crimson fluid seeps through a white adhesive bandage at her lower abdomen.
She gazes up at me, all sunshine gone from her eyes. “They took it all.” Her voice breaks. “All the parts I won’t need now that I am to be Queen of The Cradle.”