Page 42 of The Mercy of Dawn

“That’s alright,” Cyril replied, as casually as she could muster. Her knuckles had blanched from how tightly she clasped her sweating hands in her lap.

“We had a wonderful party with guests from all over, and it was Lars’ idea to do this guest book.” The queen looked at her a bit hesitantly. “I…I wasn’t sure if you had ever seen any of your mother’s handwriting. Dion said—”

“There was a fire,” Cyril said hoarsely. “I’ve never…”

“He said as much.”

Had Dion told the queen everything, though?

How a few months after Cyril’s birth and her mother’s death, her father was so lost in his grief that he went back to their home on the edge of the Rhodea estate and burned it to the ground?

How, because of a single, selfish act of a cowardly man, Cyril’s mother was as good as a myth to her? There were no paintings or letters, no books or clothes or belongings. He wiped every trace of her mother from existence.

Had Dion also told the queen that he never had the balls to tell Cyril any of that himself? That he let her find it all out second-hand when she was old enough to ask questions? She doubted that.

Runa turned back to the book and started flipping through page after page of scrawled well-wishes. She finally landed on one, a couple of neatly written sentences, and slid the book over to Cyril.

“That is why I thought you might like to see this.”

But Cyril didn’t want to look.

She wanted to push back from this stupid table and book and leave.

But Runa watched her, her eyes brimming with such softness and warmth that Cyril panicked and let her gaze flicker up to the book.

The first glance at a beautifully signed Malia & Hector Rhodea had her swallowing thickly. Bile burned at the back of her throat, her chest already tight and aching.

Above that signature, Cyril got through “And even on the hardest days, remember that your love—” before she had to take a slow breath to ground the nausea surging through her.

If Runa noticed, she gave no indication.

Not as she eased up from the table and ambled over to another cabinet at the far wall, rummaging through it with a sort of lightness that bordered on offensive.

“Understandably, your father preferred the company of Lars and Dion, so I admit I did not know him as well as I would’ve liked,” Runa said as she plucked out a leather sleeve and made her way back to the table, “but I spent plenty of time with your mother, and we wrote to each other often between their visits.”

Lithe tattooed fingers pulled out a stack of letters from within and spread them out in front of her. Cyril recognized the stationery right away, the same cream-colored parchment stamped with the family crest that they kept at the estate house.

It did nothing to help the unease clawing its way up her spine.

“I tend to keep things, the sentimental old fool that I am, but I’m especially glad that I kept these.” Runa gave the letters a thoughtful glance and picked up the fourth from last, holding it in front of Cyril. She took it cautiously. “This one in particular, I…well, truthfully, I wasn’t sure if I would ever meet you, but I always hoped you would see it someday.”

Even for the broad smile she wore, Cyril could see a flicker of sadness in the queen’s eyes.

For another moment she shoved down that budding urge to run, to get as far away from this room and this woman and these feelings as possible, and she let her gaze drop to the paper in her hands.

My dear Runa,

It is with overwhelming joy that I write you this letter.

After so many years of hoping, Hector and I are expecting our first child this fall. My sudden penchant for sweets and terrible sickness in the mornings means we are having a girl, or so the midwife said. I will be overjoyed if that is true.

I’ve convinced Hector to visit a seer in the city with me before I’m too round to travel. Perhaps they too will tell me I carry a daughter, and that she will grow to be a formidable force of nature.

My only disappointment is that I won’t be able to make the trip to see you for the foreseeable future. We had intended to visit this year, but that will have to wait. I will hold on to the hope that our next reunion will be a joyous one…

The letter continued for another few paragraphs, but Cyril had to set it down. Her hands were shaking and her vision blurred, and this was something she no longer wanted to be a part of.

Every bit of fond recollection Runa watched with fell from her face.