Some deep protective instinct causes me to join with Air, so that the rubble and debris shooting toward me are deflected in a gust of wind. The dresses soften the blow as my back slams into the wall, my connection with Air broken. Sparks explode in front of my eyes, my ears ringing. For several seconds, or maybe minutes, I lie there, half-hidden by layers of satin and wool and brocade. My chest heaves as I struggle to breathe. My head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton. Everything is dull, muted. Slowly, my hearing returns. The first thing I notice is the screaming. One long sustained scream. I sit up, rubbing my left ear, and see the head attendant standing in the midst of the ruined shop, staring at her arm. Something sharp and white is poking out of her skin, thick lines of red dripping down her forearm into her hand. I swallow back the bile that rises in my throat as I realize it’s her bone. Her arm is shattered. Miss Mayfield’s dress is torn down one whole side and there is a large bruise blossoming under one eye.
