He is not alone in that.
We sit in silence for a while, until the aftershocks of the quake have subsided completely. When his breathing has evened out and his eyes have lost some of their bleakness, I get to my feet and pull him up after me.
“Come on. Get your boots on while I get dressed,” I say brusquely. “Neither of us will be sleeping anymore tonight. No use sitting around here when we can be of use to others.”
He nods, shoulders stiffening. “Okay, Rhya.”
“Let’s hope no more buildings collapsed under the tremors. The infirmary is finally clearing out. I’d like to see it remain that way for a few days before another disaster strikes. It would give us time to catch up on that pile of laundry in the storage room. If it grows any higher, it will rival the range.”
His amused snort chases me down the hallway.
In a matter of moments, we are walking the dark stretch of High Street. We pass by Carys’s dress shop. The windows are lit up, lanterns burning bright despite the late hour. If I strain my ears, I can hear the faint cries of a fussy baby being soothed back to sleep after an abrupt awakening. Longing ribbons through me. I wish I could knock on the door. Offer to make Carys a cup of tea and take a turn rocking Nevin back to sleep while she gets some rest. Perhaps begin to make things right…
“Are you okay?”
I glance over at Lestyn and find him watching me with concern. Wiping my expression clear, I force a smile. “I’m fine.”
“Right.” He shakes his head, muttering, “We’re all justfine.”
“Have you been tending Carys’s garden, as I asked?”
“Every other morning.”
“And bringing the care packages?”
He nods.
“Good lad.”
I can practically hear his eyes roll skyward. “I don’t know why you make me go there so often. I could just leave the packages on the stoop.”
“What about the garden? Who will tend it if you don’t?”
“I plucked all the weeds ages ago! And it will be months and months before anything’s ready to harvest. Besides, why can’t the lady who lives above the shop do it?”
How can I explain to a thirteen-year-old boy that my sending him there has nothing to do with the herb garden and everything to do with the woman who owns the courtyard in which it is planted? How can I tell him his visits are more about getting a set of eyes into a dear friend’s world without intruding where I am no longer wanted?
I cannot.
There are no words for such matters.
“Because,” I say stiffly. “The lady who lives there is…She’s…”
“Sad,” Lestyn finishes for me, exhibiting an insight beyond his years. “She’s so, so sad.”
I swallow hard. “How do you know that?”
“She doesn’t cry or anything. She even tries to smile at me, some days. And she shared some slices of the apples you sent last week when I was done with the watering. But her eyes…” Hisslim shoulders move up and down in a shrug. “You can see it in her eyes. They’re empty. Like a corpse at the infirmary after the fever’s won. Except when she’s looking at her baby—that’s the only time she seems alive.”
Gods.
My throat is so tight, it’s tough to speak. “You should know…Carys, like so many of us, lost someone during Fyremas.”
Lestyn glances at me sharply. He, more than anyone, understands the losses of that night.
“She’s not sad. She’s grieving,” I continue. “And though some people may say those are one and the same, they are not. Sadness is a fleeting reaction; grief is a state of existence. One it takes time to work through.”
The apple bobs in his throat. “Who did she lose?”