The next time Wylan saw Marya, she was painting. He suppressed a wince at the bruises on her wrists. She was out of bed, that was what mattered most. She was doing better.
"You have a visitor, Marya," the nurse chirped.
She looked up from her painting. As soon as she saw Wylan, she recognized him and smiled. "My Wylan."
It was a simple thing, for someone's mother to recognize them and hug them, but to Wylan it was everything. He held her tightly.
"It's good to see you again."
He would have asked what she was painting, but he knew.
"Is that the lake house?"
"It is," Marya confirmed.
The boy in front of it was Wylan. She was still painting him as a child. He wasn't sure what to think about that. It was easier not to think about, just like how he was going to explain about Alys. Hopefully her parents would decide on divorce before things became too complicated.
"Mama, are you feeling well today?"
"Much better," she said.
Wylan nodded. He wound his fingers together to keep from pulling at the loose thread on his cuff.
"Mama… I… Mama, please don't be upset."
He had serious reservations about telling her this; he was afraid if she became upset, they would restrain her again. But it had to be done sooner or later, and he hoped, he hoped so much, that she would understand.
"A few days ago, someone visited you from Cornelis Smeet, do you remember?"
Marya's jaw had gone tight. So had her grip on her paintbrush.
She remembered.
"That was—that was my friends. They lied to you. I'm sorry they lied. They don't work for Smeet, not at all, I couldn't come and I had to know that you were well. You spoke to my friend Kuwei, do you remember? The Shu boy?"
He couldn't tell the truth. It was too much—he couldn't. Since Kuwei was in Ravka and wouldn't need to confirm the story, Wylan reasoned it was a safe enough explanation. He hated lying to his mother, but… but what could he say?
Marya gave a slow nod.
"The other boy who visited was Zemeni, remember?"
She did.
"His name's Jesper. He…"
How exactly did one describe Jesper? That was the trouble, he was so much more than Wylan could put into words. He was a sparking bundle of life and love and cleverness wrapped up in beauty and bright plaid.
Marya met Wylan's eyes. She regarded him for a moment. Softly, she asked, "Is he good to you?"
"Yes." A shiver went through the word, fear and tension cracking as he realized that she knew. His mother had recognized not only him but something in him.
"People should be good to you."
His throat felt tight and raw, like he had just finished crying or was trying not to start. For so long Wylan hadn't heard from a parent that he was worth… anything. He was still getting used to the feeling.
"He is. He makes me smile every day."
They had only had a few normal days, but, whether he knew it or not, Jesper had been making Wylan smile since the Ice Court. Those nights on the Ferolind, when Kaz said visibility was low enough that Wylan could go and stand with Jesper a bit as long as he kept his mouth shut. Those nights had felt like they were saving his life sometimes. He knew Jesper was perplexed and a bit annoyed, but being close helped Wylan breathe—helped him forget about the strange face in the mirror, about the growing fears he harbored over seeing his father again.
The days on Black Veil, when a smile felt like a betrayal of Inej, Wylan knowing better than anyone how far from well she would be, and of Kaz, who was terrifying but clearly suffering too. But Jesper was irresistible.
"I'd like you to meet him. He's here today if you're ready—you don't have to."
He wanted her to meet Jesper, to approve of him, and there was a spark of fear that had Wylan's fingers so tightly wound together his knuckles were white.
Wylan had woken up from a nightmare early that morning. In his dream, Jan had talked his way out of incarceration and come home to find Wylan in bed with a farmer's son who couldn't walk away from a wager. In the dream, Jan had curled his lip in disgust before hauling Wylan out of bed and down the hall to the office, where the Merchant Council was waiting to confirm that Wylan couldn't read. The last thing he remembered was knowing the house guard had removed Jesper from the premises and Jan saying they were never going to see one another again before hurling Wylan to the ground.
He had no reason to believe his mother felt the same way as the bad dream of his father had, but he had no reason to believe she felt otherwise, either. Maybe she would meet Jesper and see that they were good for one another, the way Colm had. At the very least, it couldn't be worse than when Jesper met Jan... right?
Jesper had been so understanding about this, and Wylan couldn't have been happier than he was when he told Jesper that Marya wanted to meet him. That didn't stop him just about strangling Jesper's hand as they approached his mother. This moment was perfect. But what about the next one? He needed so badly for Marya and Jesper to like one another—they were the two most important people in his life. He didn't know what he would do if they didn't get along.
"Mama, this is Jesper. Jes, my mother, Marya Van Eck."
"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Van Eck," Jesper said, in what Wylan guessed was a copy of his own manners.
Marya looked him over, then said, "My son says you make him happy."
"Mama," Wylan objected weakly, pink flooding his cheeks. He hadn't counted on her repeating that. He was right there!
"I try," Jesper said. "He makes me happy, too."
"You're from Novyi Zem," Marya surmised, likely—Wylan reasoned—from Jesper's accent. Ketterdam was central to enough trade routes that being brown-skinned didn't always mean foreign-born.
"I came to Ketterdam to study at the university," Jesper said, "but I had to take a semester off for financial reasons."
That was both true and not true. Jesper had dropped out of university because of his troubles, which caused financial difficulties—but Wylan wasn't going to say anything. He appreciated Jesper being so direct about it.
Marya looked at her painting, then at Wylan, then said, "There isn't much to do here. They have cards."
"No!" Wylan blurted. They couldn't play cards—Jesper hadn't played a hand in weeks except Club Cumulus, and that had been awful. Some of it enforced by the Fjerda job, but there had been excitement there. Now he was in a quieter, less exciting life and Wylan hadn't figured out yet how to keep Jesper happy.
Judging from the looks they gave him, Jesper knew exactly what he meant, and Marya was unpleasantly puzzled.
"What if we go for a walk?" he suggested, trying to redirect everyone's attention.
"They don't like that," Marya said.
"Do you want to, though?"
"It would be nice. But they don't like that."
"Well—I'm paying, and I say we're going for a walk."
There was, as expected, some objection to the idea, but Wylan was resolved. The windows were nice, but they were no substitution for freedom and fresh air, and he knew his mother wasn't dangerous.
She wasn't always sensible, either. Most of what she said seemed logical enough, but occasionally she would comment on something they spotted, say something that Wylan didn't understand. She came back, though.
He wasn't sure what had happened when her mood took a downturn.
"Mama?"
She began to cry softly. Wylan was torn, and he hated being torn: between wanting to comfort her and fearing this would be spotted and they would think she was ill again. After a frozen second and a half, Jesper nudged Wylan's arm and offered him a handkerchief.
Thank you, Wylan mouthed.
"Mama, what is it? You can tell me," he said, offering her Jesper's handkerchief. He appreciated not only that Jesper happened to have a handkerchief, but that he let Wylan be the one to give it to Marya.
She shook her head, drying her eyes while she continued crying softly.
"Your birthday."
The words startled him. He had forgotten…
"Maybe we'll have you home by then," he said.
She nodded. "That would be nice."
"What do you think we should do?"
"We used to go to the harbor."
"We could go to the harbor again this year. Would you like that?"
Now that she mentioned it, Wylan thought he could remember that, watching the last rays of his birthday sunshine sinking over the horizon. He hadn't looked forward to birthdays for a long time. Even before his mother went away, birthdays had become a mark of his failure.
He still couldn't read.
He was 7 and he still couldn't read or write his own name. That was a bit behind schedule. It was time to get serious, wasn't it, Wylan?
He was 8 and he still couldn't read or write his own name. This was becoming an indication of something larger that was amiss with him.
He was 10 and he still couldn't read or write his own name. Double digits was quite serious, wasn't it? The end of the last lingering shreds of childhood. If ever he was going to show any capacity, this would be the time to do so.
He was 12 and he still couldn't read or write his own name. Should the depth of his failure escape him, he was becoming a man, wasn't he? (He had been sitting in his father's office, struggling not to squirm to hear the strange changes his body was going through referred to that way. Or at all.) Did he understand that part of being a man was creating children? (He had felt his face blistering.) Did he understand that he was unsuited to that endeavor, that his defect rendered him insufficient?
Wylan batted away the memories, instead focusing on his upcoming birthday. His mother would be home well before it, he promised himself, and they would do whatever she wanted. She had done the hard work after all. Carried him. Given him birth. He had just showed up and cried. It was her day really.
"Mama?" She hadn't responded. "We'll do anything you want for my birthday, anything, whatever makes you happy."
Gently, like she was breaking bad news to a child, "My sweet boy. No. Your papa will never allow it."
Wylan had stopped thinking of him as Papa years ago. He was Father. A biological fact. But he realized his mother hadn't known that, had never heard him call Jan by that name. Wylan had been too little when she left, too innocent.
He swallowed nervously. What he needed to tell his mother would be startling news. He hadn't mentioned it before—because he was afraid. What if she was too upset by it? What if he promised she could home and she couldn't? Now how to tell her mixed with another question: how to refer to the man.
"Pa…"
He couldn't.
He couldn't.
It was the name he used when he was still a stupid little kid who tried and tried to be a better son, when he thought he and… and that man were on the same side against bad circumstance and that he could be enough. When he thought he could be what brought back the papa who loved him, smiled at him, had a gentle hand and kind words. It hurt, remembering now, in a dull, broad sort of pain: once Wylan didn't realize he was the problem and believed he could be the solution.
"Jan is in prison."
Yes—that felt better.
"He entered negotiations in bad faith. I control the company now."
After everything Jan Van Eck had done, Wylan didn't like that he had been arrested for that, for bad faith negotiations. What about Inej? Wylan didn't know what happened, but he didn't have to know details. He understood his father. Why was a man allowed to kidnap her, to take someone so strong and wise and good, and to hurt them, and that wasn't as bad as bad faith negotiations? Why was he allowed to say his wife was mad, to take her land and money and void their marriage, and no one even spoke to her about it, and that wasn't as bad as bad faith negotiations?
Why hadn't he said it was Wylan? The question nipped at his heels. Why couldn't he have just told people Wylan died and sent him to this place instead? Why punish his mother?
"I know you're not mad," Wylan said. He promised. "I want you to come home. If that's what you want. Do you want to come home?"
She stared at him for a moment, then glanced around, furtive. Her eyes landed too long on Jesper, suspicious, and Wylan wished he didn't understand. The lie they told once would be hard to overcome.
Hesitant, she nodded.
Overall, Wylan thought it was a good visit. His mama mostly knew what was happening around her. She had recognized Wylan. They talked about the future and she believed it would be better, which left him newly resolved to ensure that it was. The very least he owed her was making good on that promise.
And yet…
And yet, as they walked back to the docks, Jesper was scowling and running his hands over his revolvers. Wylan registered his mood—was it because Marya was suspicious of him? He registered his hands and felt a brief flash of envy. Hands on his revolvers. Wylan would have preferred them on him—he was ashamed of the thought almost immediately.
"Jes, slow down."
He was walking too quickly, taking long, brisk strides that Wylan's shorter legs could only keep up with at a jog.
He didn't slow down.
"Jesper."
Jesper kept his pace, frowning at something in the middle distance. Wylan raised his hand to his mouth but caught himself before he bit his thumb again.
"Are you punishing me?" The words came out smaller than Wylan intended.
Jesper stopped and turned abruptly. It was an easy move for him, but Wylan had been at a different gait, and awkward. He tried to stop, but his heels skidded and he fell. The right thing to do was to pick himself up. Wylan was just… confused. He didn't understand the sudden shift like the way the sun was too much in his eyes now and blinked, trying to sort through it all.
Jesper's expression softened as he pulled Wylan out of the dirt.
"I'm not your father, Wy. I'm not going to hit you."
"I know," Wylan said, resettling his satchel.
"Normal people don't do that."
"I know. I was—the sun was in my eyes." And he had been on the ground, and Jesper was just so tall standing over him and it made him feel little and—it was the sun. The sun got in his eyes. He was at such a bad angle, looking almost straight up.
"And I wasn't going to lose my shirt gambling with your mother."
Oh.
"I know," Wylan said, "and I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said it that way. It isn't just about today though. I don't think someone… someone like you, someone…"
"Someone so perfect?" Jesper prompted. "So delightful? So handsome?"
Wylan laughed and shook his head, appreciative of the levity even if there was a note of bitterness in it. "But that's just it, Jes. You can't just be good, you're great. You can't be nice to look at, you're so handsome a man could go blind from it. I don't think it'll ever be just one hand of cards."
It was hard to say because he knew it would be hard for Jesper to hear—and for the same reason, it was necessary for Jesper to hear. Wylan felt he had neglected Jesper's needs the past few days. Everything going on with his mother and learning about the empire and the indentured Grisha, they had just been busy. It wasn't an excuse. It was something Wylan needed to recognize and amend.
Jesper sighed. "Maybe," he allowed. "I don't want to go down that road again, so why don't you tell me more about how handsome I am?"
"Well—let's start with your hands."
"My hands?"
"Mmm. You have great hands."
"Because they're so strong?"
"Partly."
"What do you mean, partly?"
"They're also warm. Calloused, but in a nice way, that emphasizes how gentle you can be. You are. Gentle, I mean, you're always gentle with me."
"I didn't know you were paying such close attention, merchling."
Wylan laughed. "Yes you did."
"I did," Jesper admitted. "Come on. Tell me something else about my hands."
"Are you sure? I can move on to your wrists if you like, or tell you more about those nice callouses."
"Nice, huh?"
Wylan looked around. No one but the two of them. He looked at Jesper briefly—his face, his hands—then the ground. Blushing and staring at the ground, he said, "They're sexy."