She looked down at the small piece still in her hand and gave it to him. "You eat it. I don't want it."
The finality in her tone must have convinced him that there was no point in insisting, and he took it.
Nibbling on what was left of the cookie, Tomek started slumping until his small body was almost folded in half over the table.
Some children reacted to excess sugar with hyperactivity, but it had the opposite effect on Tomek. He was already half asleep.
"Your boy looks like he is about to fall face down on the table," Burda said.
"I'm not." He sat up straighter and tried to look alert, but the effect was undermined by the chocolate ring around his mouth, the cookie crumbs on his chin, and his drooping eyelids.
"I'm not tired," he said.
"You look tired."
"I'm not."
"Bath and bed for you, my darling."
"I don't need a bath." He lifted his hands, which he had washed in the bathroom before dragging her to the kitchen. "You see? They are clean. I was careful not to get any chocolate on my fingers."
"You are dirty all over. You have sand in your hair and mud on your knees. You need a bath."
He considered protesting further, but the cumulative weight of the day and the milk and the cookies was working against him, and he subsided with a long, theatrical sigh.
"Okay."
Sullha rose and picked up the empty plate. Burda waved her off when she reached for the cups.
"I'll handle these. Go get the boy cleaned up and in bed."
"Thank you for the tea and cookies."
"Anytime."
Sullha took Tomek's hand in hers and walked him toward the dormitories. The night had deepened while they had been eating, the path lit only by the lanterns now, and the air had cooled.
In their room she collected his night clothes, his towel, and the bar of soap she kept in a dish on the shelf beside their bed. He followed her toward the bathroom with a trudging gait.
"My poor baby." She patted his slim shoulder. "You're exhausted."
"I'm not a baby," he said. "And I'm really not tired."
"And I really don't believe you."
He sighed theatrically again and let her lead him into the bathroom.
The big communal space was empty at this hour. The young children had been bathed before dinner, and the women who showered in the evenings had already finished and gone to their rooms. The tile floor was still damp in places, and the air was warm and steamy from the day's use, with the faint, clean smell of the soap they were provided with.
She filled a tub with warm water, tested it against her wrist, and helped Tomek out of his clothes. He stood on the tile, small and tired, and she lifted him into the tub.
He sat down in the warm water with a sound of pleasure that was almost a smack of the lips but not quite. He liked baths once he was actually in them. The resistance was always to the idea of the bath rather than the bath itself.
She knelt beside the tub and began to wash his hair.
The fog returned in the quiet of the bathroom, with the only sounds being the soft splash of water against tile and her son's steady breathing. Tomek leaned into her hands as she gently scrubbed his scalp, and his eyes closed.
The ache in her chest returned.
