The early morning mist still clung to the windows of the West Wing when the light tap of slippers approached the lattice doors.
Inside the bedchamber, Sylaris—currently lay motionless under a mound of embroidered silk quilts. Her chubby arms were pinned to her sides, her eyes squeezed shut so tightly her small brow creased.
The door slid open, revealing two maidservants carrying silver basins of warm water and fresh hand towels.
"Young Mistress Xia?" Cisca, called softly, stepping into the dim room. She approached the bed, setting the basin on the tea table before leaning over the child.
"She isn't moving, Cisca," the second maid, Zora, whispered nervously, poking Cisca's shoulder. "Look at her! Her face is so white"
Cisca bent closer, her eyes widening as she pressed two fingers to the little girl's wrist. "Zora... I don't feel a pulse! Oh heavens, she's not breathing. Is she dead?!"
