Bernice crossed the room and knelt beside him. She touched his cheek gently and inspected his skin. She saw fresh marks. More than before. Marks that did not come from scratching or nightmares.
She stood and approached the bed. She ran her fingers across the pillow. It felt smooth. Cool. Harmless. She frowned and applied more pressure, pushing down as a head would press during sleep. The pain hit her instantly. A cluster of sharp points drove into her palm. She jerked her hand away with a strangled gasp. Bright drops of blood bloomed in her skin like red petals.
Bernice stared at her palm, then at the pillow. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. This had not happened by accident. She lifted the pillow carefully at the corners and held it up to the lamplight.
She could see the faintest shadows beneath the satin. Slivers of metal. They caught the light like stars in a cruel constellation. She dropped the pillow onto the bed and sprinted to the hallway.
“Preston. Preston, get up. Get in here right now. You need to see this. Your son is in danger.” Her voice echoed through the mansion with the weight of an alarm bell.