Stroking her fingers through Gwenaelle's hair, she sighs quiet enough the air doesn't dare to be disturbed by it. This part she can do, quiet noises until the girl (in this moment she is a girl, not a young woman, because there is a chance to be a girl when someone else allows it, Morrigan knows that keenly through the lack of what she had herself) can find her knees to sit up with her. Morrigan knows her son, and when Gwenaelle has no suggestion, she raises her voice just enough that he might know he's wanted in here too.

"Kieran?" The door opens, her son hesitating, hovering, and she extends a hand to help him decide to come in with a blanket streaming behind him like a sail. He curls by Gwenaelle, tucks himself next to her so that some of the blanket is draped around her too. "Will you sit with Lady Gwenaelle while I make tea? Look after her for me?"

"Of course mother," he replies in a voice that's more solemn than usual where one of his very favourites is involved but she's never seemed so-- well he doesn't know what the word is, he's only ten, it just feels-- "jagged," is what he murmurs, then tucks himself against her while Morrigan extracts herself to make tea. (A benefit of magic; boil water in a moment, you always have herbs at the ready, you know what is needed at what time. This isn't a moment for wine either.)