The woman lying motionless in the bed was obviously her mother. She had the same small nose, the same rounded chin, the same striking beauty, but she was deathly thin, almost withered. Her eyes were closed. She didn’t respond to the people gathering in the room. Her daughter clung to her hand as if desperately trying to anchor her to this world. Charlotte gave the girl’s shoulders a reassuring squeeze. Her name was Siena Lowe. Her mother’s name was Shondra.
