Since the moment she picked their son up from his cradle and realized his tiny chest was no longer rising and falling, Betrys has been stomping down the desire to fall to pieces. There were healers to be shouted for, Josephine had to go for Cullen, and she had to watch Cai and beg him to breathe, please breathe, Maker, why isn't he breathing? And then, when it was clear that the healers couldn't do anything to change the Maker's mind, she couldn't seem to do anything but nod mutely and sit down at the edge of the bed.

But seeing Cullen--more than anything, hearing his voice--changes that. She rushes to him, throwing herself into his arms, muffling her sob into his armored chest as best she can. It rips out of her, a jagged, hateful sound, more animal than human.

She'll answer his question as soon as she can get hold of herself, but all she can do at this moment is weep, fingers clinging to the fur at his shoulders.