115 – Daphne POV
It hurts.
I open my eyes, because I feel something wet on my cheek.
Wet?
My lashes flutter against the sting of light filtering through the carriage windows. I blink—and the blur sharpens into shape.
Evelyn.
She's lying beside me. On the floor of the carriage. Her face is pale, her hair loose from its pins, golden strands clinging to her damp cheeks. Her hands are shaking.
I glance down and see the glistening red in her palms.
Blood.
Is it mine?
The metallic scent hangs heavy in the enclosed space. Sharp. Too familiar.
I try to sit up, but my body protests—white-hot pain flaring along my side.
"Don't," Evelyn says, her voice low, tight. She presses her hand gently to my shoulder, coaxing me back down.
"Please. Just lie still."
Her touch is warm, trembling.
So I obey.
Not because I'm afraid of the pain—though I am—but because of the way she says it.
Soft. Frightened. Like I'm something fragile she might break if she presses too hard.
