Her mouth was wet with the familiar smell of blood, and it was so incredibly hard to breathe.
Little Delia's small eyes opened slowly. The world was a blurry, painful haze. She saw maids rushing back and forth with bowls of water and clean cloths. She heard her father's voice, a desperate, broken sound.
"She is struggling to breathe, and she is losing so much blood!"
Augusta stood beside Henry, her own face a perfect cover of panic. "What do we do, Henry?" she cried, clutching his arm. "She's dying right in front of our eyes."
Henry turned to the doctor, a grim-faced man who was working over Delia's small, frail body. "What can be done about her?" he begged. "Please, Sir, I don't want my daughter to die."
