And right now, I’d take it.

Assuming that I survived long enough, that was, which… yeah. I writhed some more, strangling the pillow and wadding up the already mangled sheets, but it didn’t help. Maybe because I couldn’t tell which pain was real and which was tortured memory, and I wasn’t sure that it mattered.

Either way, it hurt like hell.

Another spasm left me panting and wondering if there were any drugs around here. The Edwardians had the good stuff; they even dosed their babies up on morphine and alcohol when the poor things were teething. The Edwardians were hardcore.

So, there should be something—assuming I could find it.

Annnnnnd that would be a no, I decided, as I rolled off the bed and the room slung wildly around me. I hit the floor, crying out when my elbow smacked down, and took the brunt of the fall. Shit, shit, shit!

I cradled the throbbing joint, rocking back and forth for a moment, and feeling like an idiot. I was already hurt enough; I didn’t need to add to it! And then I felt something else.

Something… weird.

It was on my elbow, or rather, on the skin just above it, but it wasn’t the blood or bruised flesh I’d have expected. I pushed up the sleeve of my robe and took a look. And then just sat there, staring at what appeared to be a piece of lace imbedded into my skin.

I finally realized that it wasn’t lace itself I was looking at, but the impression of it, carved into my flesh. It was dark pink and looked like I’d been branded. It wasn’t large, and in the low light, it was hard to see in detail, something the location didn’t help with. But that was definitely lace under my fingertips.

What the hell?

The voices kept talking, but I couldn’t concentrate enough to make anything out. I didn’t understand what was wrong with me. I’d been in a fight; I knew that, but I hadn’t been badly hurt, had I? I thought I’d won. I thought—

A wave of agony hit, whiting out my mind, and ripping scream after scream from my lips. I had the vague impression of people running, of them crowding into the bedroom and being pushed back out again, of someone cutting the ruined gown off me, the cold metal of the scissors a small relief against my overheated body.

Only they weren’t making much progress.

“I can’t get it off,” someone said, in what might be Agnes’ voice. “What’s left is melted to her skin.”