The closet door opened.
The girl stepped out.
She was trembling. Her whole body was shaking. Her green eyes were wide. Her face was white. Her emerald hair was sticking to her cheeks— wet with tears she did not know she had been crying.
She walked to the bed.
Her bare feet on the silk. Her small toes in the wet, ruined sheets. She felt the fluid— the seed, the wine, the milk— between her toes. She did not care. She walked to the head of the bed. To her mother's face.
"Mother?" she whispered. "Mother, are you all right?"
Viviana did not move.
Her eyes were open. Rolled back. The whites showing. Her mouth was open. Her tongue was out. Her face was purple. Her neck was bruised— the finger marks dark against the pale skin.
"Mother?" the girl said again. Louder. Her voice was cracking. The high, bright voice of a child was breaking. "Mother, wake up. Mother, please. The men are gone. You can wake up now. Mother?"
She touched her mother's face.
