I rush to her, skidding underneath her frail body before it cracks onto the wood. I catch her head in my hands and she lets out a choked sound. There’s blood. Too much blood. Every time I blink, it seems to pool farther and farther until the entire right side of her dress is soaked through. I lay my hand on her rib and press down. She’s right: it’s not warm. Lira’s blood is like melted ice running between my fingers. The harder I press, the more she shudders. Convulsing as I try to stop any more of the cold seeping from her.
