Eris was still looking at the grey light on the window, but the glass seemed small, like she was looking through the wrong end of a spyglass.
The pain was moving through her ribs in long, steady waves, and with every wave that went out, it took a piece of her breath with it, leaving her smaller and emptier than she had been a second before.
Not yet, she thought, her fingers curling into the wool of Mira's sleeve. Not yet. Please.
Whether she was talking to the god or the three lives moving beneath her ribs, she couldn't tell.
The dark came in from the edges of the corridor, and the frost on the glass was the last thing she saw before the floor disappeared.
The stone chambers of the northern palace were quiet when the fit finally passed. Eris lay propped against the linen pillows, her skin the color of snow, her breath rattling like dry leaves in her throat.
