Page 113 of The Mercy of Dawn

“Does it bother me?” she mused, like she hadn’t heard what he just said. Her eyes were turned absently ahead. “Sometimes, I guess. Depends on who, or why. People get some weird fucking enjoyment out of telling me I have my father’s temperament, like it isn’t a backhanded comment. Or, fuck—”

A dry, bitter laugh left her.

“They love to tell me how much I look like my mother. And it’s usually just creepy old men like what’s-his-fucking-name”—she threw a hand back towards the palace—“telling me I inherited my mother’s best assets like that means fucking anything. I don’t know what she looked like.”

Cyril’s entire body sagged as she sighed.

In hindsight, that was more of a loaded question than he had any right asking her, especially this deep into solstice night. Mikael wasn’t sure he had enough wits about him still to manage this conversation with tact, and he knew woefully little about Cyril in the grand scheme of things.

A smarter man would have worked on that first.

Would she prefer he ply her with some dark humor? Get her laughing, take her mind off the uncomfortable topic he broached. Or was she the type to look for words of reassurance and comfort? Hells, did she want a fucking hug?

Physical contact seemed like the last thing he should even think about with Cyril, even if that urge was an undeniable thing.

“You’ve never seen a painting of her?” he asked because it felt safe. The Rhodea family seemed to be one of no shortage of means. They must have had a portrait or two at least…

“There was a fire. My father, he, uh—” Cyril shook her head. “We have nothing of hers.”

This was getting worse by the minute.

That starry shine to her eyes turned into something dull and sad, and some inarguable beast in his blood demanded he fix it. So, naturally, Mikael asked her another question with catastrophic potential.

“Would you even want to see what she looked like, if you could?”

A wistful look settled on her face, and she nodded.

“Gods, more than anything. My father too, I…I don’t remember much about him honestly, other than I think he looked kind of like Dion. But to find a weaver that met both of them?” Cyril’s laugh was dry, pained. She tipped her face up to the stars, hair slipping over her shoulders like threads of silk. “Talk about abysmal odds. I’d be a fool to get my hopes up about something like that.”

Well, shit. She didn’t know.

Or the liquor in her system was preventing her from connecting the dots that Mikael thought someone had to have told her about by now. Either way, it wasn’t his place to inform her those odds weren’t anywhere as abysmal as she thought.

“Ah, good point.” He nodded slowly, and Cyril said nothing.

She just stared up at the stars with something uncomfortably neutral on her face. He’d gone and made her sad on fucking solstice night, like the absolute moron that he was.

And Mikael?

He couldn’t fathom what it would be like to be in her situation, to not even have memories of the people who brought her into this world. For better or worse, he’d never spent more than a couple of months away from his parents. They were just these stationary figures in his life, always there, even in moments when he wished they weren't.

But that was a luxury Cyril never had.

No nurturing, warm hug of a mother to turn to with any and all worldly woes. No rough-around-the-edges father to, well…Mikael didn’t proactively go to his father about anything, truthfully. But the option was always there if things became dire.

All Cyril had was Dion and, based on what Mikael had experienced so far, that said little. The sort of molten-hot volatility he exuded had no place in a parental figure. It was no wonder his mother seemed so keen to take Cyril under her wing and forge a relationship with her.

“I’m going to bed,” Cyril declared, already half pushed off the ground by the time Mikael blinked up at her.

That was probably for the best. Things were beyond salvaging, and he was bound to ask more stupid questions if they kept at this.

“I’ll walk you back?” he asked, like he wouldn’t be walking in the same direction to the same place anyway.

Gods. Damned. Lockmead.

But Cyril just stood there.

She blinked at the pathway with her hands fisted at her sides.