Page 127 of The Mercy of Dawn

When she woke for the second time, filtered beams of morning light were forcing themselves through the gaps in her curtains, and Mikael was gone.

He’d been busy before he left though.

The fire in the hearth was freshly tended to and roaring.

Every trace of cake and tea, and their late-night conversation, cleared away.

All that remained was a small, cream-colored envelope she recognized from the stationery set on her desk. A neat, but hurried Wrath Incarnate was written on the outside.

Her cheeks flushed, and she wasn’t sure if the second blanket he’d piled on her or the fire was to blame. There was a third option there too, but she tossed that aside with her blankets.

She tugged the card out with care and opened it up.

Come see me at the barracks before dinner.

-M.

After letting her eyes dart over it three or four times, Cyril tucked the card back in its envelope with shaky hands and went to find somewhere in her wardrobe to hide it.

A grin never left her face.

Chapter 30

Going to the barracks— alone—with the sole purpose of seeking Mikael may have been the most nerve-wracking thing Cyril had ever done, and she’d been thinking about his unassuming invitation all damn day.

During her quiet breakfast, and the much-needed ride she took with Attie afterward? Nothing but the question of why bounced around in her brain. Thankfully, no one else was in the dining room when she knocked over her tea. Twice.

When she’d spent an indulgent couple of hours bathing and trying to make herself presentable? Her thoughts went wandering right back to solstice night, and her hand went wandering with them. As murky as they were with lockmead haze, Mikael left her with just enough memories to sate that ever-growing itch.

And when Cyril went down to the archives, in a last-ditch effort to distract herself for a few hours before dinner? She got through precisely half a page of The Dark History of Purism in Reykr before her mind started rolling through every damn possible reason Mikael would want her to come to the barracks that early—not good reasons, either.

The scribes must have noticed her just stewing away in that chair by the stained glass, or the timing of Isa’s invitation to help re-shelve a few carts of tomes was the perfect coincidence. Not quite enough of a distraction to halt her spiraling thoughts completely, but they slowed to a less panic-inducing speed.

Now, though? Cyril was fucked.

Not quite twenty feet separated her from the propped-open barracks doors, and her palms were clammy. The silky, charcoal gray fabric of her blouse clung to her back too, and the muggy afternoon heat wasn’t entirely to blame for that.

She was grateful, now, that she’d persisted through the struggle of braiding her hair into the crown style Sebille taught her last summer. It wasn’t perfect by any means, but at least it was up and out of the way.

Cyril realized her momentary distraction had evolved into a full-on delay tactic as she stood there on the path, adjusting her blouse and pressing her hands along her hairline far more times than she needed to. Embarrassing, really, that she’d let herself get this flustered over something she had so little information on.

To hells with what Bron said about them never being disappointed in her, Cyril had let her hold on her faculties slip to an abysmal degree.

She forced a slow breath in and out of her lungs, pulled her shoulders back, and walked straight into the barracks.

Two steps past the threshold and the panic came back in full swing.

People were everywhere.

Some she recognized, sort of, but most she didn’t. And she realized then that the barracks were huge, and she didn’t know where Mikael would be, or where he even wanted her to go. She started scanning from one end of the room to the other, looking from table to group to—

“Good afternoon, beautiful!”

Cyril whipped around to where that familiar, feminine voice came from—Kaia.

What a fucking relief.

She strode over with a grin plastered on her face, and Cyril felt an immediate twinge of guilt.