I had no choice. I stuck out my tongue and began to lick the floor, searching for needles by taste.
Half an hour later, I cupped a handful of bloodied needles and looked up at the doctor. When I spoke, blood kept welling from my mouth, spilling down my chin.
"They're all here. Please... save my daughter..."
The words left me, and so did consciousness. I collapsed.
When I woke, the sharp tang of disinfectant filled my nose.
Instinctively, I reached out—but my arms found only empty sheets. No warm little body. No soft breath against my skin.
"Nora..."
I staggered out of bed and lurched toward the Doctor's Office, bare feet slapping against cold linoleum. Through the window, I spotted her—my daughter, cradled in the arms of the female doctor who had treated her last night.
Dr. Hazel Grant rocked Nora gently, feeding her from a bottle. Her eyes were soft with pity.
"What a sin," she murmured. "Born a legitimate heiress, and yet because of that sister's jealousy, she can't even have her own mother's milk. The poor little thing."
Her colleague leaned in, voice dropping low.