Wren opened her eyes. Her body ached all over, and the memories came rushing back — the desperate search for Hazel, finding her, and the helpless fury when she couldn't ease her pain.
In a burst of anger she slammed her fist against the mirror. It shattered. Her hand tore open. Blood ran down until it reached the floor, but the pain didn't make her feel better.
Moments later Irene, who had heard the commotion, came in panting. "Wren, you're awake."
"Mm." Wren answered casually.
Irene stepped closer, saw the bloodied fist, flinched, and hurried away. She returned with an aid kit, grabbed Wren's hand, and they sat down together.
"What did you do to yourself?" Irene exclaimed. Caressing the palm"Poor miss hand."
"Will you stop it already? It's barely a scratch." Wren snapped.
"Your body is too precious to get hurt, why can't you be more considerate sometimes." Irene fretted.
"Good grief," Wren sneered.
