Confused, frustrated, and still somewhat nauseous—though nauseous, she realized, was not quite the word she needed—Makalaurë huffed and leaned into her mother’s hand. As loving as her atya could be, it was Ammë who solved problems.
Even if problems, it turned out, did not involve poisonings.
(But then why the blood?)
She released her braid and instead tried to grasp her mother’s hand. “Yes, Ammë,” the girl agreed, and fidgeted in anticipation of where they might go. “I—I hid the cushion on the bench in the library, if it needs to be washed.”
"I will get it and clean it once I have handled this," Fëanárë promised her, catching Makalaurë's hand and holding the dainty, soft hand in her own rough one.
She waited till they were out of earshot of Ingwion, not actually back into the house yet before addressing the issue again. "Are you sore at all, or nauseous?" she asked, shouldering the door open and leading her daughter straight for the laundry.
