Roderick was a man well-versed in reading expressions. The moment he saw the physician's dark look, he knew something was terribly wrong.
"Physician Finch, what affliction has taken my daughter?"
The old healer hesitated, but ultimately chose to speak the brutal truth.
"Lady Eleonora is fourteen?"
"Yes." Lady Forrester nodded anxiously.
What was wrong? Was there some terrible danger in being that age?
"Yet her body is failing, her breath is shallow, and her pulse matches that of an old woman past her sixtieth winter."
And her hands—they were truly the hands of an old crone.
"What did you say?"
Lady Forrester gasped, nearly collapsing to the floor. Roderick caught her firmly in his arms.
"Physician, what do you mean by this?"
Finch furrowed his brow. "She is aging at a terrifying rate. Her pulse indicates that her body is now equivalent to a frail, dying elder. There is no life force left in her."
A fourteen-year-old child should have had a strong pulse, a steady heartbeat, and vibrant blood flow. Her skin and veins should have felt resilient and full of youth.
But from what he had just felt, Eleonora's body—from the inside out—no longer belonged to a young maid.
Finch pointed to her fingernails. "Look at her nails. A person's vigor can often be judged by them."
Eleonora's nails had lost all their luster. They were utterly bloodless, a sickly white tinged with a grayish-purple hue, covered in deep vertical ridges. The edges were a diseased color, looking so brittle they might snap at the slightest touch.
"They were never like this before she fell ill! They used to be pink and healthy, I swear it!"
Lady Forrester wept, reaching out to grab the physician's sleeve. "So this must be an illness! Once you cure it, she will return to normal, won't she?"

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