But before I reached the door, a heavy thud echoed from inside the room.
Like something had hit the floor.
My heart lurched. A terror I'd never known before seized my throat.
"Lily?"
I shoved the door open and called forth a dim glow from the wall sconces.
My daughter—who should have been curled asleep in her nest—was crumpled on the stone floor. Her tiny body convulsed violently, her face mottled purple, foam frothing at her lips. Her eyes had rolled back, and her throat produced a horrible rasping wheeze, like broken bellows struggling for air.
A breath-crash from her lung-curse.
Lily had been born with the condition—a weakness in her chest that made breathing difficult when cold or panic struck. The pack healers had warned me over and over—no major stress, no intense crying.
"Lily! Don't scare Mama! Lily!"
I lunged forward and scooped her up, my hands shaking uncontrollably.
Her body was burning hot beneath her fur-lined sleeping gown. Her breathing had faded to almost nothing.
Raw terror shattered every rational thought.
I scrambled for the healing herbs and tinctures in the medicine chest—the special blend the healers had prepared for emergencies like this.