Page 206 of The Mercy of Dawn

The next morning though, she woke up fully dressed and curled up on top of Mikael’s bedding. The prince was sprawled out on his stomach beside her, still in his uniform.

For the first time in weeks, Cyril got out of bed before Mikael even stirred.

As she padded over to Mikael’s wardrobe, where more and more of her things seemed to live now, the first traces of morning light painted the room’s dark surfaces in a warm glow.

Despite the way her back and feet both ached, Cyril found herself smiling.

She couldn’t wait to go back to the barracks and feel that sliver of purpose again.

Chapter 50

Day four of being the honorary barracks mother, and Cyril wasn’t sure if guards or rogues were worse at following the most basic of instructions.

“No! No no no. Not there! Just— Oh fucking hells, just give them here. I’ll deal with them,” Cyril groaned as she pried an armful of freshly laundered uniforms from a bewildered trainee and dumped them on a table in the mess hall.

Her office, as Mikael liked to call it.

“Those”—she waved wildly towards crates of dirty uniforms the trainee almost dumped them into—“are dirty, filthy, to go to the palace. Clean? Here.” She pointed at the three tables that became a makeshift folding area for the dozens upon dozens of uniforms that came back from the laundress every day.

Cyril had no idea why they changed their uniforms so often, but she had vastly underestimated how many guards were in rotation with the royal service.

“Should I, uh, get more?” The poor doe-eyed man just blinked at Cyril.

Apparently, he’d been part of the recruits in the most recent round of basic training. But as a moon-fae man with short blonde hair and honey-brown eyes, the same as a half-dozen others in that group, Cyril didn’t remember him.

She pretended, though.

“Yes.” Cyril plastered on a smile. “You, back and forth, get everything clean from the laundress and put it on these tables. I will fold and put it away.”

“Right. Okay.” He nodded, looking like he mostly understood, she hoped. “Thank you, Miss Cyril.”

Miss, because he insisted on a title, and Lady sure as fuck wasn’t going to be it.

Cyril waited until he cleared the mess hall doors before she sunk her face into the pile of fresh laundry, nearly as tall as she was on the table, and she groaned.

She had grossly underestimated the physical toll running the barracks like this was going to take.

Her feet throbbed in her boots. Her neck had a wicked kink in it. Her hands were so damn dry and cracked from cleaning and organizing and touching so many damn rough things they bled in some spots.

“You can fold while sitting down, you know.”

Cyril swore and straightened up. She leveled an unimpressed stare over her shoulder at Mikael, leaning insufferably in the doorframe.

He had tea though, and something wrapped in parchment in his other hand.

“You can also sit to eat lunch, which I was told you didn’t bother doing today.” He sighed. “We talked about this…”

Gods, had they ever, and she didn’t want to talk about it again.

Either the prince himself or one of any number of the guards were all over her about eating, multiple times a day at that. Did she eat? Did she eat enough? What did she have to eat? Was she drinking enough water?

It was exhausting.

“I missed a single meal, Mika,” she groaned. “And it was Gunner’s fault. No one else would throw darts with him.”

Her excuse was pretty pathetic, but it was the truth. Of all the guards, Gunner was the only one trying to still uphold some semblance of normal.

Mikael’s displeasure was palpable as he strode over to her and slid a chair out with his foot, jerking his chin at it. “Sit. Eat. I’ll fold.”