She lit Thierry’s bedroom fire with a taper from downstairs, made sure it was drawing. From by the bed she looked down at him sleeping and smiled a mother’s smile. He’d had his hair cut and beard trimmed. She liked this look. He was neater, more distinguished, less of a…tavern man. Even with the tonsure, he looked very young, which he was. She left him to sleep.

He came home often, still. To eat, sleep, talk to her, and to Ambroise. She didn’t ask where he slept on other nights. There had been a woman a year ago, the de Charette daughter. A class well above them, and not a good person, Adelie had been told.

Ambroise had had to work very hard to keep Thierry from the Châtelet that time, when the woman had caused so much trouble. Thierry had been stabbed, and had stabbed the other man! It was hard for her to even imagine. She didn’t want to, really. Thierry’s was not a virtuous life, she knew that much. Boys grew into men, had companions who were not always decent people, but men could change, too. She prayed, and held to her hopes.

Downstairs, she looked again at the note he’d left her. It asked her to wake him before midday because he had to meet someone. She was proud of being able to read. Between Ambroise and young Thierry (her quick, clever boy) she’d learned. Not something she could do when she’d arrived here with a small child, having buried a husband in their village. She had come to Orane as a last hope, to a distant relative of her husband’s. More than twenty years ago now.

She knew they were both proud of her, about her reading. They called her clever, but she also knew that pride was frowned upon. She was proud of her son, however, for all his faults and transgressions. She prayed the god to forgive him, and her. Heartache and joy, children. Some people believed Jad had had a mortal son who died because of pride. Falling from the sky. Heladikos. It was a heresy, of course.

She took up her knitting in her chair beside the fire. The two cats, grey and gold, slept next to her on the hearth. It was an unusual morning for Thierry to be sleeping late, she thought, with chaos engulfing the city.

The Duke de Montereau was dead, people were saying. The poor king’s brother, murdered? Adelie could scarcely believe it. Didn’t want to. What she wanted was a quiet, safe life, as much as that was ever possible. Simple pleasures. Shelter and food and prayer, perhaps some music? Ambroise staying healthy, the sanctuary doing well enough to continue. Then sheltered in light with the god when her days and nights were done.

Her son the poet? For him she wanted joy.

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