That original message on the crystals had landed like one last bomb set off in the Gallows, and Stephen’s been delicately walking around in order to not step on any subsequent land mines. He sees others in Riftwatch weather that blow, a tightness in their jaws and around their eyes and their small clustered conversations; he feels the helplessness of it, seeing it all from a distance and not having much of a reaction himself. Most of the names had meant nothing to him.

But it means he’s one of the steady ones; here, at least, maybe, is a thing he can try to patch up and hold those broken pieces together.

He’s downstairs sifting through some copies of damage reports when he hears it above him, that splintering crash. As if to emphasise the point, Small Yngvi comes streaking downstairs like a flash of lightning, tearing out of the room and away from their mistress. Stephen looks up, waiting for any further noises.

Nothing.

After a moment, he sets down his papers. Climbs the stairs, poking his head into her (their) bedroom, and finds Gwenaëlle sitting on the floor with the wreckage of that broken chair scattered around her. His heart twists in his chest, and he takes a breath in the doorway to simply look at her. (This tableau could be another painting: Lady in Mourning, Lady in Fury.)

Are you okay is the wrong question here. Not the right time for a joke about the cost of upholstery and the Gallows’ desperate need for scrapwood, either.

So, in the end, he just settles on a quiet: “Hey.”