"Mama."
Marya was still restrained, but disengaged today. Wylan reached for her hand. The soft wrappings had not prevented bruises from forming on her wrists, and he noted to himself that he needed to speak with the nurses before leaving. He understood she might be a danger to herself, but being in bed for days at a time carried its own risks.
His fingers brushed Marya's, and his heart stung when she pulled her hand away, but he didn't reach out again. If she didn't want him holding her hand, he wouldn't.
"It's Wylan again. I'm sorry things went so badly yesterday, I…" What? What could he say? How much could he explain? "I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry I didn't come before, that it took me so long to grow up."
He should have figured this out a long time ago. Why didn't he come looking for his mother's grave? He never stopped missing her. Her 'death', her absence never stopped hurting. Why had he not come to find her?
Of course Wylan knew. He had mentioned it a few times when he was younger, but his father said no. Before he was "sent to study music in Belendt", Wylan never would have defied his father. He skirted the rules sometimes, would do things he knew he wasn't supposed to do but hadn't been forbidden from, but did not defy. Looking for, let alone visiting Marya's grave would have been defiance.
For all the good that did her now.
Wylan sat in a chair beside her bed, watching Marya as she stared away from him, at the window. He looked, he thought, a little closer to the son she would remember. He had genuinely tried to comb his hair, and his clothes fit less poorly. His flute was out rather than stored in its case. There was nothing he could do about the fact that he was bruised and scrawny and still forgot sometimes to take his eyes off his feet, but he was trying. And… then there was his satchel. For months he barely went anywhere without it. Yesterday had dented his courage enough that Wylan once more felt it was better having it near, so it rested at his feet, the strap looped around his knee.
None of which seemed to matter to Marya, since she kept her attention fixed on the window. She did not want to see Wylan.
He stayed anyway.
"Why won't you so much as look at me?"
He knew his father had been disappointed, and then disgusted by him, and he knew why. Even when they would argue about him, though, Wylan didn't recall his mother ever seeming disappointed.
Maybe he was misremembering. He had been young.
It hurt.
"Because," Marya said, her voice low, "you are not my son."
Well that hit like a frying pan, a sudden, dull thwack of pain across his chest.
"I am your son."
"You're a monster."
Wylan swallowed painfully. Not her, too. His mind whirred, making vows to Ghezen: he would be dutiful, he would tithe every week, he wouldn't use the office as a place to play games or think inappropriate thoughts. He could only try on that last one and it wouldn't be easy working with Jesper—easy, or fair, everything about Jesper being so perfect—but he would try.
"Whatever I did," Wylan said, picking his words carefully, "tell me how to make it up to you."
He would do anything.
"Coming here," she muttered, "pretending to be him. My Wylan is dead."
His eyes widened. Dead? What must Jan have told her? It must have come from him. Maybe he had come to taunt her when he paid to have Wylan killed. That seemed especially cruel, as Marya could shout the crime to anyone in earshot and no one would listen. Not to a mad woman.
I'm so sorry.
If he visited before, would Jan maybe have been impressed? Thought there was something of value in Wylan? Jan could appreciate spirit. "Spirited" was a positive observation at Caryeva, maybe if Wylan had… but he hadn't, had he? He hadn't done much of anything for most of his life.
"I'm not dead."
"You're not my Wylan."
"We used to paint together. You played the piano."
Marya said nothing.
That didn't prove much, Wylan realized. He could have been anyone off of Geldstraat and known those things.
He looked at her hand on the blanket. He supposed it looked familiar, but wished he had spent more time as a child memorizing everything about her. That she might die hadn't occurred to him. What eight-year-old expected their mother to die? Or to be taken from them?
"We played a game in church," he said, trying to recall exactly. "We took turns picking the word for that day, and every time we heard it we would race to be the first to squeeze each other's hands. You weren't pious like… like he was." Their game made church services less boring, while simultaneously encouraging Wylan to pay better attention.
He tried to remember now, tried to find more in his memory that might help prove himself. These were the sorts of memories that followed a sick churn in his stomach, memories of things he had lost and times he spent as an innocent, dumb kid who didn't know anything about anything.
"There was a sweet shop."
Vaguely he remembered. He had been small—five? Six? Less?
"We would go to the university to eat ice cream and look at the Boeksplein." 'Supposed to' scarcely entered his mind at the time. Was the place meant for students? Yes. Did that stop Marya Van Eck from taking her son to look at the gargoyles? It did not. "I was frightened the first time. The monsters. I—got ice cream on your gown," which was embarrassing to admit to now, "but you said it was okay. You told me they were good monsters."
Marya turned her head away from the window to scrutinize the boy in front of her. Wylan wanted to shrink, afraid of what she might see. Afraid she might not recognize him. Afraid, worse, that she might, and reject him anyway.
Barely above a whisper, he said, "We stopped going to the Boeksplein because of me."
Her fingers were cold when they closed tight around his.
"Wylan."
He nodded. "Yes."
"My Wylan."
"Yes. I'm so sorry I didn't come before. I'm sorry."
He wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to tell her about his adventures in Fjerda (even though he knew it was better he didn't, since everyone would take it as more sign of madness if Marya Hendriks started saying her dead son and his friends stole a tank and blew a hole in the Ice Court). He wanted to tell her that he played the flute and the piano and was clever with maths and engineering even if he still couldn't, you know.
He wanted to tell her about Jesper.
"You're here," Marya observed, tears filling her eyes.
"I'm here," Wylan confirmed.
He wanted to tell her everything, but he didn't know if she was there to hear it.
But for now, she knew his name.
It was enough.
Wylan would have stayed for hours with his mother, he was so happy to see her looking more aware, to see the recognition in her eyes. It was clear, too, that her mind was no longer fully intact, but she was improving already. She would get better. She knew his name.
He left because a nurse chirpily asked him to leave, explaining it was time for them to get Marya cleaned up. He winced internally to hear his mother discussed like a child, but knew this wasn't the time to argue.
"I'll come back tomorrow, Mama," Wylan said. He kissed her hand. "I love you."
It felt like something tearing loose inside him. How long had he wanted to tell his mother that just one more time?
She smiled at him. "I love you, my Wylan."
Wylan couldn't remember the last time someone said they loved him. He didn't know who he wanted to hear it from more. For a moment he held on to her hand, not wanting to let this moment end, but the pleasant nurse cleared her throat and he remembered that it was time.
He would be back tomorrow.
He hoped she would still love him then.
They had agreed that Jesper would wait in the parlor, both so Wylan could have time alone with his mother and in case seeing Jesper, who had previously claimed to work for Smeet, might upset her. He was there. He was there beside a vase of flowers with half-shredded petals giving his revolvers a twirl, an activity he completed with a flourish when he spotted Wylan.
Beautiful show-off.
"How did it go?"
Wylan smiled. "She knew me."
My mama loves me.
He was too old for that thought, but it still warmed him through.
Jesper smiled back.
"There's something I'd like to clear up before we go. You don't have to come with me."
"You know me better than that, coppercurls," Jesper replied. Leaning close enough that no one would overhear, "I'll always come for you."
Wylan knew he was supposed to blush. Jesper was using his suggestive tone, and the feeling of his breath brushing against Wylan's ear prompted a hint of pink.
Jesper searched Wylan's face, and Wylan saw the moment when he reached the conclusion that Wylan just didn't know what Jesper was talking about.
"All the Saints and your Aunt Eva."
"I don't have an Aunt Eva," Wylan grumbled.
He needed to speak with someone in authority here. He did not, as his father would have done, demand an immediate meeting, but he made clear he expected one. Today.
They met with the same man who had tried to dissuade Wylan yesterday from seeing his mother. He invited Wylan and Jesper to have a seat in his office and, facing them across the desk, said, "Did you have further questions about your mother's condition?"
"Yes," Wylan said, "who told her I was dead?"
Jesper was surprised, but the administrator sadly shook his head.
"I didn't agree with that decision," he said. "Some years ago, Councilman Van Eck asked that to help her live peacefully and to protect you, she be told you had passed on."
"Why? How would that help her? How would it protect me?"
"When she first arrived, she was deeply agitated at being separated from her son—from you. She made multiple attempts to leave the facility, in one incident injuring herself. As for your safety, surely you've seen by now that your mother is mad."
Wylan's expression was controlled, but he clutched his own hands tightly as he imagined his mother trying to find him. Had she known what Jan was? No, silly question—of course she had, he had institutionalized her. At the same time: when he was alone, mourning, and silenced, someone had loved him. Someone wanted to help him.
He hurt to think of what Marya went through, but he was touched by it, too.
"She's not mad."
"Mister Van Eck, she may have had a good day but I've done this work longer than you've been alive. She will have good days, but it doesn't last."
"It will," Wylan insisted.
She wasn't mad. She was lost—and he would help her find herself. All that time she spent trying to protect him. It was Wylan's turn.
For the first time, he left Saint Hilde feeling hopeful. As he and Jesper walked back toward the boat, he enjoyed it. Where they were, what they were doing. Who he was with.
"Are you sure you want to head right back?" Wylan asked. "We could… do something exciting."
"The only exciting thing to do out here is me."
Wylan supposed he had the idea that there was more fun to be had out here than back at Geldstraat. Maybe something to distract Jesper—he was probably bored halfway out of his skull by now.
He didn't reply to that, though. He was too busy blushing.
A few minutes later and in a more serious tone, Jesper asked, "Wy, are you okay?"
Wylan nodded.
"I'm here if you're not."
"Thank you." Really—it meant a lot, not only that he was here but that he had offered to come. "But this is one of the happiest days I've had in… years. You're here. My mother is getting better. She… she said she loves me."
Someone loved him. He didn't recall whether Jan had stopped saying it or never said it to begin with. He thought he recalled his father saying he loved him, but—had he said it? Meant it?
Hearing that his mother loved him meant more than Wylan knew how to put into words and a fragile, fluttering feeling sparked in him. My mama loves me. He wouldn't have been surprised if Jesper made a joke about it, but didn't expect he would. Wylan had seen Jesper with his father. He knew Jesper understood the importance of parents. And love.
Jesper didn't say anything. He reached out to take Wylan's hand and they walked back to the dock together.
"Jes," Wylan said, keeping his voice low as they waited for the boat back to Ketterdam.
"I'm right here. It's difficult to lose me."
"Wouldn't know. I've never tried."
That wasn't strictly true. Before the Ice Court, before he saw another side of Jesper, Wylan found him attractive but extremely annoying. He had tried to avoid seeing Jesper sometimes. It was strange to think about, how differently he saw Jesper just a few weeks ago.
"I know what he did was despicable, but hating him won't make her better."
It was because of his mother that Wylan went to the kitchen that afternoon.
"May I interrupt your work for a moment, Miss Molenaar?"
He supposed the cook couldn't say no, but he wasn't certain who else to ask. She had been around for as long as Wylan could remember and had always been kind to him, limited though their interactions were.
"Yes, but you might've rung if you're hungry."
"I'm not hungry," Wylan said.
His stomach disagreed vocally.
Maybe he was hungry because he was at an always-growing age; maybe he was hungry because looking at the braids of garlic and bundles of herbs reminded him that food existed, and his body had forgotten how to take that for granted. Whatever the reason, before he could insist that he really wasn't, there was a glass of milk and a plate of buns in front of him.
"Thank you." He took a bite and realized—"These were my favorite." He hadn't eaten them in ages, but they tasted exactly the way he remembered, beaded with raisins and glazed with honey.
The first 'thank you' had been good manners.
This was a softer and more specific, "Thank you, Miss Molenaar."
"You're welcome, Mister Wylan. Now. What did you need?"
"Need? Um—yes." Distracting pastries. "I wanted to ask if you remembered much about my mother."
"The first Mrs. Van Eck—yes, I remember her. What did you want to know about her?"
"Anything, really. What she was like." Wylan fiddled with the glass of milk, swiping beads of condensation off the side.
"She loved you."
She still loves me.
"Mrs. Van Eck was… she was happy. She was quick with a joke. She liked to dance. Everyone loved her."
Wylan nodded, but there was a catch, something he heard in her voice. As he tried to put the question into words, Wylan heard a steady sound. He realized as he had been absorbed in speaking with Miss Molenaar, someone else had come into the kitchen. He glanced over.
"He doesn't—"
"He doesn't work here," the cook confirmed. The boy couldn't have been more than seven, if that, far too young to be working anywhere. Yet there he was, rolling a ball against the wall. "This is my nephew, Gavrie. He doesn't have anywhere else—the city's half shut from the plague. He's no harm."
"Of course not. Hello, Gavrie."
Gavrie gave a shy wave, but it wasn't hard to see where his attention really was. Wylan offered him a bun. The child smiled and grabbed it, then retreated.
"Thank you," Miss Molenaar supplied. Gavrie didn't look up from the bun. "My sister was… he was born in Ravka."
Wylan understood. If Miss Molenaar's sister was in Ravka and there was something she didn't want to say, her sister was probably Grisha. He heard rumors about what had happened during the civil war. A child living through that…
"He's lucky to have you caring for him," Wylan said.
There was something deeper in the look on her face, but Wylan couldn't discern what it was.
In a suddenly busier, more pragmatic tone, Miss Molenaar said, "Go on, drink up. You're a growing boy."
Wylan obediently picked up his glass and gulped the milk before he realized the conversation had been shut down and he didn't know why.