Neither Violette nor the boy answered him. The only sound in the cellar was the soft rustling of fabric as Violette searched the dead man's pockets and the muffled sobbing of a child whose world had just collapsed around him.
Symond thought about the wooden bird with its broken wing and wondered idly if anyone would bother to fix it.
Violette finally found what she was looking for—a small leather journal and a folded parchment sealed with wax the color of dried blood. She tucked them into her vest without examining them, her attention already shifting to the boy who had curled himself against his father's side, small fingers clutching the fabric of the dead man's coat.
She knelt beside the child, her movements suddenly gentle in a way Symond hadn't seen before. Interesting how people could contain such different versions of themselves, all those contradictions packed into a single skin.
"My name is Violette. What’s your name?"
The boy flinched away from her outstretched hand, pressing himself more firmly against his father's cooling body. His sobs had quieted to hiccupping breaths that sounded painful.
"I want my papa," he whispered, eyes squeezed shut.
"I know you do," Violette said, her hand hovering uncertainly before withdrawing. "I'm so sorry. So very sorry. This wasn’t supposed to happen. But you can't stay here. It isn't safe."
"Why did you hurt him?" The question came out broken.
Violette glanced back at Symond, her eyes hard with something that looked suspiciously like blame. He shrugged in response. Not his fault the kid was asking questions with complicated answers.
"We need to go," she said, turning back to the boy. "You can come with us. I'll keep you safe, I promise."
"Come with you?" His eyes flew open, red-rimmed and filled with a hatred that seemed too big for his small face. "You killed my papa!"
"We can find you somewhere nice to stay," Violette continued, ignoring the accusation. "Somewhere with other children, with people who will take care of you. You don't have to be alone."
Symond leaned against the wall, watching this strange performance unfold. Violette was using a voice he'd never heard before, softer around the edges, almost musical. Like she was trying to coax a wild animal into accepting food from her hand. Motherly, maybe, though he had only the vaguest memory of what that might sound like.
"This is taking forever," he observed, checking his nails for blood. Finding some, he wiped them absently on his shirt. "We should probably go before more of his friends show up."
Violette ignored him, still focused on the boy. "I know you're angry and scared. But I won't force you to come with us. That's your choice. I just want you to be safe."
"Just leave him," Symond said with a yawn. "He's old enough to find his way. Or someone will find him, eventually. Either way, not really our problem, is it?"
"Not our problem?" Violette's head snapped around, her eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. "Not our problem?" she repeated.
"Well, no," Symond replied, genuinely confused by her reaction. "We came for him—" he nodded toward Rylok's body, "—and now we have him. Mission accomplished. The kid wasn't part of the deal."
Violette rose slowly to her feet, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "You just made this boy an orphan, Symond. You killed his father right in front of him. And now you're suggesting we just... what? Leave him here with the corpse?"
Symond blinked at her, trying to parse the intensity of her response. "I mean, yes? Unless you have a better idea. It's not like we can take him with us to the Hive."
"What is wrong with you?" Violette's voice had risen to something just below a shout. "What is he supposed to do now? Where is he supposed to go? He's a child!"
Symond considered this question with mild interest, tapping his finger against his chin. The boy had stopped crying to watch, his eyes moving back and forth between them.
"Well," Symond said after a moment's consideration, "he could always go to the Institute. That's where orphans go, isn't it? For a better life, or so they say. For a chance to be someone important." Something bitter crept into his voice, though he wasn't entirely sure why. "That's what my parents told me when they gave me up to the recruiters. A great opportunity, they called it."
Violette stared at him, the color draining from her face. "The Institute? You're suggesting sending him to the Institute? After everything that happened to you there?"
Symond frowned, puzzled by the horror in her voice. "What do you mean, everything that happened? They taught me enchanting. And combat, I suppose." He scratched the side of his head, trying to recall details that should have been there. "I don't remember much else, actually. Just a... a sort of void where memories should be."
"Symond," Violette said slowly, as if speaking to someone very young or very old, "you told me the Institute was where they broke you." She glanced at the boy, who was watching them with the wary alertness of a child who has learned that adult conversations can determine fate. "You said they hurt you, Symond."
"Did I?" He searched his memory and found nothing. Just blank spaces, comfortably empty. "That doesn't sound right. I think I'd remember something like that."
"You wake up screaming," Violette said, her voice softer now but no less intense. "You thrash and fight anyone who tries to touch you. You once broke Dorn's nose when he tried to shake you awake."
Symond laughed, the sound strangely hollow even to his own ears. "Well, I sleep like the dead now."
