His mother coughed.
The sound went through James harder than any of the screaming had. He was off the leader and at her side before the cough finished, one knee in the broken glass, his hand under her shoulder.
She came halfway awake, eyes unfocused, face creasing at the pain in her head and her arm. Her lips moved before they made sound.
"Nyra," she said. "Is she— is she safe—"
That was her first question. Not where she was, not what had happened to her, not who the men were. Nyra.
It broke the child more than the men had.
Nyra came down out of the air in an awkward rush, wings shuddering, and landed badly and crying harder, because Nana was awake and still asking about her.
"She's safe." James kept his hand under his mother's shoulder. "Nyra's safe. She's right here. You're both safe."
His mother's eyes slipped closed again, but her face eased.
"Nyra." James turned his head. "Come here."
