CHAPTER sixty-five: I know who massacred my clan

　　Amelia was alone when her eyes creaked open. The spot beside hers where Conroy had usually lain was empty and the loose poultry feathers used for pillows felt as hard as stone beneath her head.

　　Her heart ached as she lay unyieldingly on the pallet.

　　She subconsciously took her hand to her almost flat belly. White strips of linen crisscrossed her abdomen and shoulder, the gauze almost as pale as her skin.

　　Her black hair was disheveled, her small, smooth cheeks streaked with tears while her eyes were gaunt. Her expression was the one of a deeply grieving soul who was nothing but a husk, a shell of who she used to be.

　　Tears prodded her eyes and she felt empty.

　　In truth, she was empty.

　　Ignoring the cutting pain on the knife wounds swathed by the linen, she cradled her belly and wept, “I am so sorry baby,” she drew in a shaky breath, “mother could not protect you.”