The Vyšehrad Drowned

19. Mother

A woman in a long, wolf fur coat that almost dragged the floor and a hat with a wide, sweeping brim decorated with a spray of green feathers stood observing them with a look of mild interest on her mature, handsome face.

"Mother Veles!" Libuše cried, instantly leaving off attempting to kick him for attempting to rise. He let her push him away, then propped himself up into a sitting position and watched as she scampered, dressing gown open and hanging off one shoulder, into the woman's open arms.

Mother?

"There, there, Libuše. It's alright. I'm here now." Mother Veles made soft clucking noises as she stroked Libuše's head. The diamond rings on her slim hands glittered in the gas light. "I'm sure he didn't mean whatever it was. Did you, Perun? Tell your sweetheart you didn't mean it, and everything is fine."

"She knows it is," he said. "How did you get in here, Mother?"

"The door was open."

That was a lie, and they both knew it. The silent visual exchange that took place over Libuše's head warned him to keep silent and he seemed only too happy to oblige. He was as emotionally exhausted as he was wound up as tight as a watch spring. All he wanted to do was drop himself in a corner and cry himself to sleep.

Before, he'd thought he could simply load her into a carriage and take her to a clinic when she'd taken her powder and was dead to the world, but had feared what would happen when she woke up. The raging, screaming and accusations he'd expected, but the doctors who didn't know her might have deemed she was mentally unstable and refused to keep her, recommending instead an asylum. She needed scrubbed of the powder's influence that was all. She wasn't insane.

But who could tell the difference when she was in one of her rages? Only he could. Only he could take care of her. Now that her supplier was gone and she'd fought her rage out, perhaps it would be better. Perhaps they'd be able to make their life together work. Without the powder.

Distantly, Perun could feel himself clenching his fists. You still think you've got a chance, don't you? You still think you can bend the situation into what you want. Is she going to force you into disaster before you open your eyes?

Smacking the fog out his former self's head would have been a pleasure, but he realised that it wouldn't have done much good. He was too far into his own version of reality to see any other. It was starting to dawn on Perun how he easily could have slipped off the rails himself.

He crawled to his feet and ran both hands back through his hair to make it presentable, and ordered his clothing.

Mother Veles watched him with an inscrutable expression. A flush of embarrassment heated his cheeks.

"Perun, you're greatly needed tonight in the second warehouse. I've come to collect you," his mother said, still hugging Libuše who was sniffling into the fur of the coat like a lost child, her shoulders trembling. "I'm sorry if you had other plans for tonight."

No, she wasn't but he gave a weary nod anyway. Of course, why else would his mother be here if it didn't have something to do with business? He was only irritated that she'd entered his flat without knocking or ringing the bell, showing up like a ghost and catching him in a compromising situation. She wouldn't say anything now, but she'd have questions for him later. Direct, difficult to answer questions. He knew she always did when anything didn't fit the established order of things. Under no circumstances could she find out about Libuše's condition; she'd order him to break off the relationship and that he'd never do. He'd have to think up some plausible lie before they were alone together.

Somewhere, Perun had always known he'd had a mother, he'd been born at some point, but he had assumed he was an orphan with no living relatives. No one had told him any differently. He'd always lived as if it was he, the Hammerfist alone, who ruled the roost, answerable to no one but himself. And now here she was, his mother, dressed in a hat and coat fit for a duchess.