"Mother—are you awake?"
The voice shredded the fog in my skull like a thrown stone. I blinked and the world rearranged itself: thin curtains, cracked clay walls, a blanket that smelled of sweat and starch. Hands—callused, too-large hands—grabbed my wrists.
"Forgive me," the younger voice pleaded. "Please forgive me, Ma."
I couldn't find my tongue. My throat felt full of cotton and old tobacco. The men at the bedside—two of them—were on their knees like supplicants. One shook like a boy. The other clasped my fingers so hard I felt the bones in my hand.
"Colette?" The taller one sounded broken. "Ma, please—say something."
I opened my mouth because the world demanded a sound. I made a harsh, surprised laugh. "I'm not anyone's mother to men this tall," I said, and the words felt wrong and sharp in the wrong voice.
The kneeling man's face went white. "Don't joke, Ma," he said. "You fainted. You—"
"Stand up." I snapped the single word and all movement stopped. Both men looked at each other, panicked framed their features. "Get up from the floor."
They obeyed. They moved like trained animals when the alpha showed teeth.
"No," Fitzgerald said under his breath. "We can't be rough with her. Doctor said—"
"Doctor's not here." I sat up, testing the weight of my limbs. My body obeyed; my hands gripped the thin sheet and slid it down. The room tilted, then
