Page 116 of One Secret

'She wasn't,' I laugh, then have to pause as he dabs at my cut lip. When he pulls away, there's a metallic, overly-sterile taste in my mouth. 'But growing up with someone you struggle to respect... You only get two options. Learn to understand where they're coming from and accept that your emotions, however valid, are a separate issue. Or react solely on emotion and eject them from your life entirely.'

Cyrus is quiet for a while, musing to himself as he rummages inside the first aid box. He applies a few steri-strips to my eyebrow and wraps a nasty little cut on my knuckle with gauze.

'I took the opposite route,' he finally says with a tone of thoughtful consideration.

'How'd you mean?'

'With my mother,' he says, then snorts. 'And my father, actually.'

"If you ever want to tell me, you'll do it only when you're ready..." I remember promising him that on the island. Was that truly only yesterday? It feels like a million years since he held me in that lagoon.

'You said you were with her 'til you were four?' I probe gently, opening the conversational door.

'Yeah...' Cyrus says, inching a toe over the threshold. It takes more time than should be necessary for him to tidy up the first aid box and snap shut the lid. 'She... wasn't ever particularly strong. Every headache was a migraine, every cold pneumonia. I believed her as a kid, thinking my mum was just sickly or fragile. I thought I needed to look after her. Looking back, I wonder if it was all in her head. If she just didn't know how to take care of herself, so every little challenge became enormous in her mind. Either way... raising a kid was more than she could handle.'

'Your'—I've never heard him use the word "Dad" when talking of his sire so I follow suit—'father came to get you?'

Cyrus nods.

'He'd been ill. After the treatment, he couldn't have any more kids but my old man was Italian to his core. Legacy and lineage were important to him. He'd had no need for me before but after he got sick...' Cyrus shrugs. 'Suddenly he had use for the kid he'd left in Munich. Ma didn't even put up a fight.'

Cyrus absently scratches at the back of his shoulder and I recall the long slashing scars across his back. Being allowed only one child had clearly made Cyrus's father harsh in bringing his only son up to "standard".

My impulse is to reach out and take Cyrus's fingers in mine. But something tells me, for a man of his stoicism, that holding his hand would feel condescending. Instead, we just sit there. Close but not touching. Just listening.

When Cyrus falls quiet, I decide that the most sensitive topics don't always need to be put into words. So I ask:

'That's where you're from? Munich?'

'More or less,' he says, pursing together those shapely lips of his. 'A small town a little ways east of the city.'

Finished with the medi-kit, Cyrus dumps the little plastic box onto the floor and leans back on the bed. Just flops there onto his back as if all the tension from the day has seeped out, allowing his strings to droop and the puppet to rest.

I lay down next to him, one elbow stuffed into the pillow, one hand supporting my head. I can't resist playing with the edge of the steri-strip that presses against my fingertip.

'Don't do that,' Cyrus admonishes, plucking at my finger. I smile and ignore him, resting my other hand on his chest.

'Have you ever gone back?' I ask. 'To your hometown, I mean?'

Cyrus doesn't answer right away. His eyes stare into nothing for a moment, half-fixed on the ceiling. A tendon in front of his ear jolts beneath the skin.

'I didn't mean to pry,' I apologize, backing off.

'You didn't.' Cyrus clears his throat. 'It's fine. I'm just...' He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. I like the way his arm flexes and muscles work along his bicep. 'I'm just not used to talking about myself so much…’

'I did go back once. But not for years. Whilst I was with the Machellis, I was like any other kid, seeking acceptance, I guess. So, going back to the woman who handed me over, not only without regret but with relief, just didn't seem that important to me.

'But a few years back, I...' Cyrus takes a moment to swallow and roll out his neck. Memories are glazing his stare and darkening his features. 'I took a hiatus from the family. Something had happened and I... I needed some time to get my head on straight. I thought then that perhaps I'd left something significant, some clue to myself, back home.'

'Had you?' I whisper.

Cyrus sniggers coldly.

'Nope.' He shakes his head. 'Two decades on and I didn't recognize much of the town. No one I'd known back then still lived there—my mother included. It wasn't my home, it was just... a town. Like any other on a map.'

'I'm sorry,' I whisper.

Cyrus exhales in a little puff of air. He takes the hand on his chest and starts playing with my fingers. Interlocking them. Gently twisting them.

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