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The wrongness woke her at 2:47 AM.
Signora sat up in bed, flames already dancing along her fingertips before conscious thought caught up. No intruders. No alarms. The palace was quiet.
Something was wrong.
She'd learned to trust these instincts over five hundred years of existence. The Crimson Witch didn't wake for nothing. She rose, pulling on her robe, and followed the feeling like a thread pulled taut.
It led her to the east entrance, the one used for covert returns. And there, leaving a trail of red across white marble, was Tartaglia.
He was upright, barely. One hand pressed against the wall for balance, the other clutching his side where blood seeped between his fingers. His Harbinger coat was in tatters, and ice crystals clung to his hair and skin. Frostbite, in Snezhnaya, which meant the cold had been unnatural.
"Childe." Her voice cut through the silence.
He looked up, and his attempt at a grin was more grimace. "Signora. Didn't mean to wake anyone. Just heading to-"
His knees buckled.
Signora moved without thinking, catching him before he hit the ground. He was heavier than he looked, solid muscle and teenage growth spurts, but she'd lifted corpses from battlefields. She could manage one stupid boy.
"Medical bay," she said curtly. "Now."
"'M fine. Just need to-"
"You're leaving a blood trail across the palace and you can barely stand. You are categorically not fine." She adjusted her grip, and he hissed. "What happened?"
"Mission went sideways. Treasure hoarders had a Fatui defector with them. Cryo specialist." His words were slurring slightly. "Should've been prepared, but he knew our tactics, and I..."
"Save it for the report." Signora's jaw was tight as she half-carried, half-dragged him down the corridor. "Right now, just try not to bleed out on me."
The medical bay was mercifully close. She shoved the door open with her shoulder, depositing Tartaglia onto the nearest cot with less gentleness than she'd intended. He groaned in pain.
"Sorry," she muttered, then caught herself. When had she started apologizing?
She moved with practiced efficiency. Five centuries left one very familiar with field medicine. Coat off first, revealing the extent of the damage. Deep laceration across his ribs, frostbite on his hands and face, and what looked like the beginning of hypothermia despite Snezhnayan natives natural resistance.
"Unnatural cold," she confirmed, examining the ice crystals. "A Delusion?"
"His own Delusion," Tartaglia managed through gritted teeth. "Stole it when he defected. Knew exactly how to turn it against me."
Signora said nothing, just grabbed the supplies. Antiseptic first, leaving Tartaglia swearing so colorfully she had half a mind to scold him before she thought better of it. The frostbite required salve, carefully applied. She worked in silence, and he was smart enough not to interrupt.
It wasn't until she was wrapping his ribs that the feeling hit her.
A surge of something warm and fierce and aching in her chest. Looking down at this boy- seventeen and bleeding and trying so hard to be brave- and feeling the overwhelming need to protect. To gather him up and hide him away from every danger in Teyvat and beyond.
Maternal instinct, she realized with cold shock. After all these years, after the flames had burned away everything soft, it was still there. Dormant. Waiting.
No. Absolutely not. She'd made her peace with never having children when she'd died five hundred years ago. Rosalyne-Kruzchka Lohefalter was gone. The Crimson Witch of Flames didn't have such instincts.
And yet her hands were gentle as she finished the bandaging.
"You'll live," she said, more harshly than necessary. "Though you'll be useless for a week."
"I can't afford a week! There's another mission."
"You have nothing. I'll speak to Pierro." Signora began cleaning up the supplies, keeping her back to him. "You're benched until the frostbite heals."
"But-"
"This is not a negotiation, Childe."
Silence. Then, quietly: "Thank you. For this. You didn't have to."
"Someone had to stop you from bleeding on the marble." She turned, arms crossed. "Consider it self-interest. Blood is difficult to clean."
He smiled. Genuine this time, if exhausted. "Right. Self-interest."
Signora moved to dispose of the bloodied bandages, trying to ignore the way his eyes tracked her movements. Trying to ignore the strange tightness in her chest.
This was absurd. She was the Eighth Harbinger. The Fair Lady. She'd burned cities and ended bloodlines. She didn't play nursemaid to foolish boys who couldn't handle their missions.
But her hands had been so gentle with the bandages.
"You should rest," she said, still not looking at him. "The hypothermia will take time to fully recede."
"'M not really tired."
"Liar."
A soft huff of laughter. "Maybe a little tired."
Signora finally faced him.
He looked impossibly young like this. Hair damp with melted ice, face pale, bandages white against his skin. Seventeen and trying so hard to pretend he wasn't hurting.
Maybe if things had gone the way she planned, she would've seen a child of her own at this age.
The thought came unbidden and unwelcome. Signora pushed it down viciously.
"Sleep," she ordered. "I'll monitor you for the next few hours. Make sure the hypothermia doesn't worsen."
"You don't have to-"
"I said I'll monitor you. Do you have to argue with everything?"
Tartaglia settled back against the pillows, still watching her with those too-bright eyes. "Thank you," he said again. "Really."
Signora waved dismissively, taking a seat in the chair beside the cot. She picked up a medical chart- someone's old records- and pretended to read it.
Minutes passed. Tartaglia's breathing began to even out, exhaustion finally winning over stubbornness. The medical bay was quiet save for the soft hiss of heating vents and the distant sound of wind against windows.
And then, without meaning to, Signora began to hum.
It was an old melody. Ancient, really. From before the flames, before the Witch, before everything. A lullaby her own mother had sung, one she'd planned to sing to her children someday.
She didn't realize she was doing it until she noticed Tartaglia's eyes had closed.
Signora stopped abruptly, but his eyes didn't open. His breathing had deepened, sleep taking hold.
The humming had put him to sleep.
She stared at him, something like panic fluttering in her chest. She hadn't meant- she didn't- this wasn't supposed to happen.
What did one do with a sleeping teenage boy?
Her immediate instinct was to leave. She'd done her duty, gotten him to medical, ensured he wouldn't die. That was enough. She didn't need to stay and watch over him like some sort of-
Like a mother.
Signora stood abruptly, ready to flee.
Tartaglia shifted in his sleep, a small sound of pain escaping him. His hand clutched at his side, even unconscious, and his face creased with discomfort.
She froze.
He settled after a moment, but the damage was done. She couldn't leave. Not when he was hurting, even in sleep. Not when he'd trusted her enough to let his guard down completely.
"Damn you," she whispered to the empty room.
Signora sat back down.
She told herself it was practical. Someone needed to monitor him, and she was already here. It would be inefficient to wake someone else. That was all.
She found herself humming again, so softly she could barely hear it herself.
And Tartaglia slept on, peaceful now.
------
The eastern windows were showing the first hints of dawn when Tartaglia finally stirred.
Signora had spent the hours watching the sky lighten, counting the minutes, trying very hard not to think about the boy in the cot beside her. She'd stopped humming when she'd caught herself doing it the third time.
"Signora?" His voice was rough with sleep.
"You're awake." She kept her tone neutral. "How do you feel?"
"Like I got flash-frozen and stabbed." He tried to sit up, winced, gave up. "But 'm alive. Thanks to you."
She looked away. "The medical supplies deserve the credit."
"The medical supplies didn't carry me here. Or stay all night." He turned his head to look at her properly. "You didn't have to do that."
"You've said that already."
"Because it's true." His gaze was too knowing for someone who'd just woken up. "And because I don't think you believe it."
Signora stood, brushing imaginary dust from her robe. "Your injuries are stable. I'll inform Pierro of your status and have someone bring you breakfast. Stay in bed for at least forty-eight hours."
"Signora-"
"That's an order, Childe."
She turned to leave, desperate for escape, for the safety of her chambers where she could rebuild her walls.
"You were humming," Tartaglia said softly.
Signora stopped, hand on the door. "You were supposed to be asleep."
"I was. Mostly, but I heard it. Before I went under." A pause. "It was pretty. Sad, but pretty."
She should deny it. Should make some cutting remark about his imagination. Should leave.
Instead, she found herself saying, "My mother used to sing it. A very long time ago."
"It helped. The humming. Made everything quieter."
Signora closed her eyes. Of course it had helped. Because some part of her, buried deep beneath ash and flame and five hundred years of grief, still remembered how to comfort. Still wanted to comfort.
"Get some rest," she said, not looking back. "Someone will check on you in a few hours."
"Will it be you?"
The question was so hopeful, so young. Like a child asking if their mother would tuck them in.
"No," Signora said, and hated how much it sounded like a lie. "I have other duties."
She left before he could respond.
------
Signora did not check on him.
She told herself this very firmly as she paced her chambers. She had reports to review, intelligence to analyze, her own missions to plan. She was the Eighth Harbinger. She had more important things to do than nursemaid a teenager who'd gotten himself injured through his own recklessness.
At noon, she sent Ekaterina to check on him. The girl reported back that he was awake, eating, complaining about being bedridden. So at least she knew he was stable.
At three, she sent another subordinate with fresh bandages and instructions for the medical staff.
At six, she received a report that he was sleeping again, vitals decent.
She did not go to the medical bay herself.
At eight in the evening, there was a knock on her door.
Signora opened it to find Columbina, smiling that unreadable smile.
"He's asking for you," the Third said simply.
"I'm busy."
"Are you?" Columbina tilted her head. "Or are you afraid?"
"I fear nothing."
"Not even yourself?" Columbina's smile softened. "He said you hummed to him. That it helped him sleep. He wanted to thank you properly."
"He already thanked me," she said dismissively.
"He also wants to know if you're alright. Apparently you seemed upset when you left." Columbina stepped closer. "Funny, isn't it? The boy you saved is worried about you."
Signora's flames flickered along her fingertips. "What do you want, Columbina?"
"I want you to stop torturing yourself." The Third's voice gentled. "You hummed a lullaby to an injured child. That doesn't make you weak, Rosalyne."
"I'm not-" Signora caught herself. "That name is dead."
"Is it?" Columbina turned to leave, pausing at the threshold. "He's in the medical bay. Alone. Still hurting, though he won't admit it. If you wanted to check on him for medical reasons, no one would think less of you."
She drifted away, leaving Signora alone with her thoughts and her memories.
And the lullaby she couldn't stop hearing in her head.
------
Signora found herself at the medical bay at midnight.
She told herself it was a final check. Ensuring her work hadn't been for nothing. Professional thoroughness.
The lies were getting easier.
Tartaglia was awake, staring at the ceiling. He turned when the door opened, and his face brightened.
"Signora?"
"You should be sleeping." She stayed near the door, maintaining distance.
"I tried. Couldn't." He shifted, trying to sit up. She crossed the room before thinking about it, helping adjust his pillows. "Thanks."
"Hm."
They sat in awkward silence for a long, lingering moment. Tartaglia seemed to be waiting for something. Signora had no idea what.
"I'm sorry," he said finally.
"For what?"
"Making you uncomfortable. I shouldn't have mentioned the humming. I just- it meant a lot. That you stayed. That you..." He trailed off, uncertain.
"That I what?" She prompted, already regretting it.
"That you cared. Even if you won't admit it." He smiled, tentative. "You're not as cold as you pretend to be, you know."
Signora's jaw tightened. "You're delirious from the injury."
"Maybe. Or maybe you're just scared of being kind." His eyes were too perceptive. "Columbina told me once that you lost someone. A long time ago. That it changed you."
"Columbina talks too much."
"She also said she thinks you used to be different." Tartaglia's voice was soft. "I think that person isn't as gone as you believe. I heard her. In the humming."
Signora felt something crack in her chest. "Stop that."
"Why?"
"Because that person is dead." The words came out fierce. "She died five hundred years ago. What remains is fire and ash. There is no softness left."
"Then why did you stay all night?" Tartaglia met her gaze steadily. "Why did you hum to me? Why are you here now, at midnight, checking on me?"
"I-" Signora faltered. Why was she here?
"It's okay to care," Tartaglia said quietly. "It doesn't make you weak. It just makes you, you."
"You don't know me."
"Maybe not, but I know what I felt last night." He smiled, sad and understanding. "Maybe someone who maybe wanted to be a mother once?"
The crack in Signora's chest split open.
"I can't be that," she whispered. "I can't. I'm not-"
"I'm not asking you to be." Tartaglia's voice was soft. "I have a mother. She's in Morepesok, probably worrying herself sick even though I send letters. I don't need another one."
"Then what do you want?"
"Just for you to know that it's okay." He reached out, hesitant, and took her hand. "It's okay to let yourself feel it."
Signora looked down at their joined hands. His was bandaged, still healing. Hers was cold, always cold now, the fire inside her banked but never gone.
"I wanted children," she heard herself say. "Before. I was going to marry a Knight. We'd planned it all." Her voice caught. "We'd planned everything. A house in the Port. Three children. I wanted boys, he wanted girls."
"And then he died?" Tartaglia asked quietly.
"And then I died." Signora pulled her hand back. "What you saw last night are ghosts. She doesn't exist anymore."
"Ghosts are still real," Tartaglia said. "Just because she's not the same doesn't mean she's completely gone." He settled back against the pillows. "And for what it's worth, I'm glad she came back. Even just for one night."
Signora stood abruptly. This was too much. Too raw. Too close to places she'd locked away centuries ago.
"I should go."
"Will you come back?" The question was tentative. "To check on me, I mean. Just until I'm cleared for duty."
She should say no. Should rebuild her walls and retreat behind ice and flame.
She thought about the way he'd slept when she hummed. The peace on his face. The feeling of being needed in a way she hadn't felt in five hundred years.
"Perhaps," she said. "If I have time."
His smile was brilliant. "I'll take it."
Signora made to leave before she could do something foolish like stay, and paused at the door. "The lullaby. If it... if it helps you sleep. I could..." She couldn't finish the sentence.
"I'd like that," Tartaglia said softly. "If you're willing."
She didn't answer. Just hummed a few bars of that old, ancient melody and watched his eyes grow heavy.
Then she was gone, slipping into the corridor like smoke.
Behind her, Tartaglia slept, a small smile on his face.
And in her chambers later, Signora sat by the window and hummed the lullaby to herself, tears she thought long burned away sliding down her face.
She'd never be a mother.
But perhaps, she could be this.