She unlocked the door slowly. The hinges groaned. She stepped inside. Milo sat huddled at the foot of the bed, knees pulled to his chest. His face was tearstained and blotchy from crying. He flinched when the light caught him, but relaxed a fraction when he saw who it was.
“Bernice,” he whispered. His voice trembled like a candle flame in a storm. “It hurts. The bed hurts me. It bites.”
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.
Preston stumbled from his room wearing a wrinkled robe. His eyes were foggy from medication. Tessa followed, face pinched with annoyance rather than concern.
“What on earth is going on. It is the middle of the night. Have you lost your mind,” Tessa snapped.
Bernice gestured at the bed. “Look. Please. Just look.”
Preston stepped closer. His confusion deepened. He watched as Bernice pulled a pair of embroidery scissors from her apron. With a firm motion, she cut the satin open. Feathers spilled out and floated through the air.
Then something heavier hit the mattress. Pins. Dozens of them. Shining like a metallic garden of thorns. They had been arranged beneath the outer layer of fabric with meticulous precision. They lay flat but pointed upward. Invisible until pressure exposed them.
Preston stared. His breath caught in his throat. The blood drained from his face.