Page 139 of The Mercy of Dawn

No vague note from the prince this time though, or any indication that he spent the night curled up on the sofa with her. She didn’t know if that was good or not.

It was safe to say she’d made a fucking fool of herself again in front of Mikael last night, and she owed him no shortage of apologies for dragging him into something she was wholly under-prepared for. Something that already felt like a mistake.

That striking, raven-haired woman haunted every fitful moment of Cyril’s sleep. Her smile. Her eyes. The soft warmth of her laughter.

The happiness she looked at everyone with.

All painful, aching reminders that Cyril single-handedly took her away from all the people who loved her. It didn’t matter what Mikael said to convince her otherwise, because it was her fault.

If Cyril wasn’t brought into existence, Malia would still be alive.

It was simple.

And her father? Gods. She still thought him a coward, for leaving her alone somewhere she wasn’t wanted.

But now?

Now he was a coward with a devastatingly clear face that every fiber of her being wanted to see again, with the sort of desperation that made her chest ache. Her cruel dreams tried to trick her into thinking it was his strong arms wrapped around her, not those of the prince trying to offer her silent comfort.

Safe to say, she was not well rested.

It took a concerted amount of effort for Cyril to get up off the couch and drag her ass to the bathroom to get ready. She didn’t want to spend all day in the archives, but she desperately needed something to focus on.

Her head felt like it was floating in a fucking storm cloud after the solstice, and the night before did nothing to help that. This was exactly why she avoided people and relationships, and the messy feelings that came with them.

Besides, Dion was bound to be back in a day or two, and she knew he’d have something to say if she hadn’t spent time there.

Not that he cared about what she read.

Or what she learned.

Or her theories and opinions about the murders.

Or her at all, for that matter.

He just wanted her quiet and occupied, tucked away somewhere safe.

Cyril sighed and raked her fingers through the stupid braid she’d spent so long working on the day before, reworking it into something low and loose. She didn’t think anyone even noticed she’d done something different and she…well. It’s not that she cared that no one noticed, but it might have been nice.

At least now the kitchen staff didn’t mind when she ventured in at odd hours of the day, on the hunt for tea and scraps of food. There was even a woman—who Cyril had been too afraid to ask for her name—that had taken it upon herself to give Cyril shit for not eating properly while she loaded up on odds and ends.

Her very own Sebille away from home.

Cyril ate as quickly as she could with a plate balanced on a ledge out in the servants’ hall, and washed down the bits of cured meat and bread with the dark, bitter tea she’d grown accustomed to drinking in Reykr.

Tobias was not overly fond of her bringing in any unsanctioned food or drink to the archives, and she couldn’t blame him. The rule just didn’t apply when Tobias found himself peckish.

She hovered her hand in front of the archive doors and they groaned petulantly at her as they swung in. No nausea, no dizziness, no hair standing up on the back of her neck. A welcome change.

Truthfully, she’d gotten so used to the magics of convenience they seemed fond of in the palace, that she had more than one embarrassing encounter with a regular door. She was sure Dion would never let her live those down.

A frazzled voice came from down a row of shelves.

“Just a minute, I’ll be right—”

Cyril smiled.

“Don’t worry, Isa, it’s just me.”