Wylan kept his eyes on the tiled floor. “What? What is that?”
Jesper read, “This document, witnessed in the full sight of Ghezen and in keeping with the honest dealings of men, made binding by the courts of Kerch and its Merchant Council, signifies the transfer of all property, estates, and legal holdings from Marya Hendriks to Jan Van Eck, to be managed by him until Marya Hendriks is once again competent to conduct her own affairs. ”
“‘The transfer of all property,’” Wylan repeated. What am I doing here? What am I doing here? What is she doing here?
The key turned in the lock of the pale blue door and the woman—a nurse , Wylan realized—sailed back through, smoothing the apron of her smock.
“We’re ready for you,” she said. “She’s quite docile today. Are you all right?”
“My friend’s feeling a bit faint. Too much sun after all those hours in Mister Smeet’s office. Could we trouble you for a glass of water?”
“Certainly!” said the nurse. “Oh, you do look a bit done under.”
She disappeared behind the door again, following the same routine of unlocking and locking it. She’s making sure the patients don’t get out.
Jesper squatted in front of Wylan and put his hands on his shoulders.
“Wy, listen to me. You have to pull yourself together. Can you do this? We can leave. I can tell her you’re not up to it, or I can just go in myself. We can try to come back some—”
Wylan took a deep, shuddering breath through his nose. He couldn’t fathom what was happening, couldn’t understand the scope of it. So just do one thing at a time. It was a technique one of his tutors had taught him to try to keep him from getting overwhelmed by the page. It hadn’t worked, particularly not when his father was looming over him, but Wylan had managed to apply it elsewhere. One thing at a time. Stand up. He stood up. You’re fine. “I’m fine,” he said. “We are not leaving.” It was the one thing he was certain of.
When the nurse returned, he accepted the water glass, thanked her, drank. Then he and Jesper followed her through the pale blue door. He couldn’t bring himself to gather the wilting wildflowers scattered on the desk. One thing at a time.
They walked past locked doors, some kind of exercise room. From somewhere, he heard moaning. In a wide parlor, two women were playing what looked like a game of ridderspel.
My mother is dead. She’s dead. But nothing in him believed it. Not anymore.
Finally the nurse led them to a glassed-in porch that had been located on the west side of the building so it would capture all the warmth of the sun’s setting rays. One full wall was composed of windows, and through them the green spill of the hospital’s lawn was visible, the graveyard in the distance. It was a pretty room, the tiled floor spotless. A canvas with the beginnings of a landscape emerging from it leaned on an easel by the window. A memory returned to Wylan: his mother standing at an easel in the back garden of the house on Geldstraat, the smell of linseed oil, clean brushes in an empty glass, her thoughtful gaze assessing the lines of the boathouse and the canal beyond.
“She paints,” Wylan said flatly.
“All the time,” the nurse said cheerily. “Quite the artist is our Marya.”
A woman sat in a wheeled chair, head dipping as if she was fighting not to doze off, blankets piled up around her narrow shoulders. Her face was lined, her hair a faded amber, shot through with gray. The color of my hair , Wylan realized, if it had been left out in the sun to fade . He felt a surge of relief. This woman was far too old to be his mother. But then her chin lifted and her eyes opened. They were a clear, pure hazel, unchanged, undiminished.
“You have some visitors, Miss Hendriks.”
His mother’s lips moved, but Wylan couldn’t hear what she said.
She looked at them with sharp eyes. Then her expression wavered, became vague and questioning as the certainty left her face. “Should I … should I know you?”
Wylan’s throat ached. Would you know me , he wondered, if I still looked like your son? He managed a shake of his head.
“We met … we met long ago,” he said. “When I was just a child.”
She made a humming noise and looked out at the lawn.
Wylan turned helplessly to Jesper. He was not ready for this. His mother was a body long buried, dust in the ground.
Gently, Jesper led him to the chair in front of Marya. “We have an hour before we have to start the walk back,” he said quietly. “Talk to her.”
“About what?”
“Remember what you said to Kaz? We don’t know what may happen next. This is all we’ve got.” Then he rose and crossed to where the nurse was tidying up the paints. “Tell me, Miss … I’m ashamed to say I didn’t catch your name.”
The nurse smiled, her cheeks round and red as candied apples. “Betje.”
“A charming name for a charming girl. Mister Smeet asked that I have a look at all the facilities while we’re here. Would you mind giving me a quick tour?”
She hesitated, glancing over at Wylan.
“We’ll be fine here,” Wylan managed in a voice that sounded too loud and too hearty to his ears. “I’ll just run through some routine questions. All part of the new policy.”
The nurse twinkled at Jesper. “Well then, I think we might have a quick look around.”
Wylan studied his mother, his thoughts a jangle of misplayed chords. They’d cut her hair short. He tried to picture her younger, in the fine black wool gown of a mercher’s wife, white lace gathered at her collar, her curls thick and vibrant, arranged by a lady’s maid into a nautilus of braids.
“Hello,” he managed.
“Did you come for my money? I don’t have any money.”
“I don’t either,” Wylan said faintly.
She was not familiar, exactly, but there was something in the way she tilted her head, the way she sat, her spine still straight. As if she was at the piano.
“Do you like music?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yes, but there isn’t much here.”
He pulled the flute from his shirt. He’d traveled the whole day with it tucked up against his chest like some kind of secret, and it was still warm from his body. He’d planned to play it beside her grave like some kind of idiot. How Kaz would have laughed at him.
The first few notes were wobbly, but then he got control of his breath. He found the melody, a simple song, one of the first he’d learned. For a moment, she looked as if she was trying to remember where she might have heard it. Then she simply closed her eyes and listened.
When he was finished, she said, “Play something cheerful.”
So he played a Kaelish reel and then a Kerch sea shanty that was better suited to the tin whistle. He played every song that came into his head, but nothing mournful, nothing sad. She didn’t speak, though occasionally, he saw her tap her toe to the music, and her lips would move as if she knew the words.
At last he put the flute down in his lap. “How long have you been here?”
She stayed silent.
He leaned forward, seeking some answer in those vague hazel eyes. “What did they do to you?”
She laid a gentle hand on his cheek. Her palm felt cool and dry. “What did they do to you?” He couldn’t tell if it was a challenge or if she was just repeating his words.
Wylan felt the painful press of tears in his throat and fought to swallow them.
The door banged open. “Well now, did we have a good visit?” said the nurse as she entered.
Hastily, Wylan tucked the flute back into his shirt. “Indeed,” he said. “Everything seems to be in order.”
“You two seem awfully young for this type of work,” she said, dimpling at Jesper.
“I might say the same for you,” he replied. “But you know how it is, the new clerks get stuck with the most menial tasks.”
“Will you be back again soon?”
Jesper winked. “You never do know.” He nodded at Wylan. “We have a boat to catch.”
“Say goodbye, Miss Hendriks!” urged the nurse.
Marya’s lips moved, but this time Wylan was close enough to hear what she muttered. Van Eck.