Page 168 of The Mercy of Dawn

“Hi, sweetheart.” Runa’s voice had that soft sort of gentleness to it that always reminded him of his childhood.

Cyril’s eyes drifted over slowly and her brows climbed in what looked like pleasant surprise as she said, “Hi, Runa.”

“Here, let me—” Mikael reached for the medkit his mother held, but she shook her head and stepped around him, taking a seat beside Cyril.

With practiced ease he had to assume all mothers had, she unrolled the leather pack across her lap, dipped some cloth into the bowl of water, and held her hand out to Cyril.

“May I?”

It took Cyril a lengthy moment to process what his mother was asking of her, but she eventually sat her hand in Runa’s and let her clean the wound. A task done in near silence, save for the occasional sharp breath from Cyril and quiet apologies from his mother.

Mikael had never felt so useless.

He paced behind the sofa until his mother cut him a sharp glance that quite explicitly said occupy yourself.

So, for probably the first time in his life, Mikael tidied.

He started near his point of entry first, sliding her writing desk back against the wall and picking up a scattered spread of stationery and books. Then it was pillows and bedding, hauled up off the floor before he turned his attention to the overturned armchair.

By the time he looped back to the seating area, his mother was already wrapping Cyril’s hand. Mikael had to give her credit—she knew what she was doing. And it wasn’t Astor that gave her years’ worth of experience in wrapping every sort of injury imaginable. No, that was all Mikael’s own doing.

As his mother moved all her supplies off to the side, Mikael settled back onto the arm of the sofa. He stiffened when she said, “Cyril, do you remember what happened yesterday morning?”

Right to it, then.

For as gentle and loving as his mother was, she was ruthless in equal measure.

He watched Cyril as silence swept in, uneasy and heavy. She looked away from Runa, running her fingers over the fresh wrap of bandages on her hand.

She nodded, slowly.

“Bron,” Cyril whispered. “He…”

The way her voice cracked…

Mikael wasn’t sure he could handle this.

“I’m so sorry, Cyril,” his mother said as she nodded. “And I didn’t want to assume either way, but…do you want to go to his pyre? They’ll be lighting it soon.”

Cyril looked at Runa and nodded with glassy, tear-rimmed eyes.

“Good. Mikael and I will just tidy up, get you a clean shirt, and then we’ll head down.”

His mother’s eyes met his, and she inclined her head towards where Cyril’s bathroom and wardrobes were. Despite the urge to never be more than a foot away from Cyril again in his entire damn life, he followed his mother.

“Well, that answers that,” Runa sighed when she nudged open the bathroom door. “I’ll have to get someone in to clean while we’re out.”

Mikael peered over her shoulder.

Broken and bloodied glass littered the floor in front of the vanity, and Cyril was going to need a new mirror.

“Were her knuckles cut?” he asked as he stepped past his mother and swept aside some of the shrapnel with his foot. He hadn’t noticed, but his mother shook her head. Not that it mattered. “Do you see what I mean though? She’s not…here.”

“Sometimes, Mikael,” Runa said slowly, “when someone goes through an event that is particularly…traumatic like she did yesterday, they can…detach from themselves, in a way.”

She moved past him and dumped the bowl of blood-tinged water into the sink.

“It’s the mind’s way of trying to keep you safe, and at arm’s length from whatever is happening. But when left unattended and isolated like this, it can consume people.”