I had to hide a wince when I saw Sebastian seated at the table. The boy slouched in his seat, a far-away expression on his smudged face, still wearing the stained clothing he’d been in the prior night. Nothing leaves stains quite like blood. Lucrecia had pushed a bowl of porridge in front of him and was doing her best to make him smile, but she might as well have been talking to a wall.
I could hear the agony in him, and wished very much I could not. Children haven’t the emotional restraint adults do. Give a grieving child the right outlet and his pain would murder cities.
Breakfast was cheerless. Sebastian and I ate little. Raniero, who entered the dining room a few minutes after me, was less reserved. His bowl was empty in minutes. Bernardo was nowhere to be seen, but I was confident he was about somewhere in the house.
“Lucrecia,” I said, after watching her try to get Sebastian to eat for the third time, “let it be.”
My maid looked up at me wearing an expression just shy of a glare. “He needs t’eat,” she insisted. “He’s a growing boy.”
	I gave her a hard look, but my maid was a spirited sort and she had rather more spine in her than to quiver before a lukewarm glare. So I sighed and spread my hands helplessly. “I’m sorry, Sebastian; she runs the house. I just live here.”
	“I’m not hungry,” the boy lied. (He lied because he was a young boy, who are always hungry, but perhaps in his grief he made himself believe he wasn’t.)
	“Starvin’ yeself won’t make things better,” Lucrecia said sharply. She glared at me, then back at Sebastian. “Listen t’sense. See the man there? He’s gone and cleaned his bowl while ye two sit there moping.”
	I threw up my hands and spooned another blob into my mouth, exchanging a long-suffering glance with Sebastian. The boy smiled wanly. When the two of us had eaten enough to satisfy our domestic tyrant, I pushed the chair back and approached the boy.
	“I’m sorry, Sebastian,” I said. “You’ve been very brave.”
	“A real man,” Raniero added firmly.
	The boy sniffled. “I want to go home,” he admitted in a very small voice. “I don’t want to be brave anymore. I don’t think I have any courage left.”
	It was almost a whimper, and it twisted something unpleasantly in my chest. The other Little Gallants had been my family of choice, and Sebastian’s plaintive voice brought back memories of the night the thugs had taken them from me. I had been a growing girl, half on the way to becoming a woman. He was not quite twelve years old.
I did my best to mask the sense of vertigo the old memories inspired. I tried not to remember feeling like I was drowning beneath rising tides. Instead I bent down to his level and tentatively wrapped him in an awkward hug before I could stop myself. It went against all my instincts, and I wasn’t sure what he would do. Children aren’t exactly my forte.
He tensed, and then the strength bled out of him until it felt like I was supporting all his weight. He sagged into the hug, buried his face against my chest, and sobbed.
	It was a strange moment. I didn’t know what to say to make things right. “It’s all right,” I murmured, feeling stupid and helpless and altogether unsuited for the role of caretaker. “We understand. You don’t need to be brave for us.”
	Sebastian cried for a while. I held him close, and even after his tears had ceased he seemed to need another’s support. Raniero came to my rescue. He walked over and nodded to me, then took the boy by the hand with astonishing gentleness for a professional thief and cutthroat.
	“Don’t worry, ragazzo,” Raniero said firmly. “Anyone tries to lay a hand on you; I’ll show you how to open his guts. I owe your father no less.”