'That might have been wise.'
Mother places her hands gently on the table before her. 'There wasn't any time. I had to see you right away.'
'Oh, but you never come to the city, and it's so lovely this time of year, Mother,' says Silverdun, his mind wandering. 'Tomorrow night there's a mestina you simply must see, and-'
'I'm dying, Perrin. I came to say good-bye.'
Silverdun stops, words colliding on his tongue.
'Whatever does that mean?'
'It means that I am dying, and I intend to do so not at our family home, but at a convent in the South.'
'You. What?' Silverdun can't compose a proper question. 'You aren't dying,' he says stupidly.
'I can assure you that I am. Several well-paid physicians have confirmed it.'
'How long-?'
'A few months, possibly. Impossible to know.'
'But ...' Silverdun doesn't quite know. But what?
'So I came to say good-bye to you, Perrin.'
'No, no,' says Silverdun. 'You'll come stay with me. I know the queen's personal physician. She'll take care of this. We'll go to the mestina together.'
Tears are beginning to insinuate themselves across Silverdun's vision. 'You're going about this all wrong.'
'This would be much easier if you were sober,' says Mother.
Silverdun concentrates. Working Elements while drunk isn't wise, but Silverdun has no great reputation for wisdom. He hums a sobering cantrip that's come in handy more than once and is rewarded with a powerful headache for his efforts.
'Oh, hell!' he says. 'I'm sober now.'
He realizes now how pathetic he must look to his Arcadian mother. The wastrel Lord Silverdun at a cafe in the wrong part of the city, drinking with his wastrel friends. Sons and daughters of the gentry, all. One of them once joked to Silverdun that they should start a musical group and name it 'The Grave Disappointments.'
'I'm sorry,' he says.
Mother takes a deep breath, and Silverdun can now see that it is an effort for her to do so. He cringes.
She reaches up and touches his cheek. 'You have nothing to be sorry for, my sweet boy.'
'This isn't who I wanted to be,' he says.
'I know.'
'Why aren't you angry at me?' he asks.
'You're angry at yourself enough for both of us, I think. I'm finding that I'm too grateful for what is to worry about what might have been.'
'That does it,' says Silverdun. It's as though a dam has burst in him, but he doesn't know what the dam is or what it's been holding back. 'Tomorrow I'm going to call my solicitor and I'm going to take back Oarsbridge, and I'm going to give it all away to those bloody farmers once and for all.'
'I don't want you to do that anymore,' says Mother.
'Why not?'
'Because if you try, your uncle will have you killed. I'm certain of it.'
'I'm not frightened of Bresun,' says Silverdun, straightening his back.
'Whether you are or you aren't,' says Mother, 'he will not part with Oarsbridge. He believes he is Oarsbridge, and Lord Silverdun in all but name only. He'd rather die than give that up.'
'And what about those poor noblemen? The villagers and the farmers?'
'I'm a dying old woman, Perrin. If I want to prefer my son over all of them, then Aba can grouse to me about it himself when I see him.'
Silverdun sighs. 'What do you want from me?' he asks.
'To be happy, Perrin. What else?'
The next morning, he watches her carriage drive off through the city, feeling certain that he will never see her again. He's reassured her that he will let the matter between him and Bresun drop.
