Guilt laced through him. If he were a better son, he’d take a deck of cards upstairs to at least attempt to play with her, or even bring along a book and read to her. But he’d hired people to do that in his stead. It seemed like a good choice but he wondered if his true intentions were to avoid her. Resolved, he took a final sip of tea and set the cup back in its saucer. He could very easily take tea with his mother, rather than sit in solitude in his study. Leaving the quiet of his sanctuary, he took the stairs to the second floor and then turned right to take the hall that would lead to his mother’s rooms.

Mrs. Owens, his mother’s second nurse, was sitting outside the room knitting. She stood and curtsied as Rowles approached. “Aye, Your Grace. Your mother is well this morn.”

“Good, good.” He paused, tucking his hands behind his back. “Would you have tea sent up for us?”

Mrs. Owens blinked, then nodded. “You wish to have tea with yer mother? Of course, Your Grace. I’ll see to it directly.” She curtsied once more.

Rowles turned the brass knob on the door and took a deep breath. The room was dark, thick with warm and stagnant air that carried the tang of medicine. His clothes felt constricting, as if suffocating him as he made his way inside. Candles flickered, and the fire in the hearth cast its cheery glow on the otherwise silent room.

“Yes?” His mother’s voice was little more than a frog’s croak, as if rusty from disuse.

He cleared his throat delicately. “Hello, Mother.” Rowles spoke in a gentle tone as he approached her bedside.

“Son? Ah, come here, let me see my beautiful boy,” she whispered, and the rustling of bedcovers followed as she shifted.

Rowles stood beside the bed, his attention on the shadow of the woman his mother had once been. Her skin hung loosely over her limbs, and he noted she’d lost more weight. It was difficult to convince her to eat, her malady making her suspicious of all food, convinced it was poisoned. He’d asked one of his mother’s maids to taste the food in front of his mother before serving it, but that tactic must not be working as well as it had been last week.

He released a soft sigh of hopelessness, even as he continued to force a peaceful expression for his mother’s benefit.

“So beautiful, you were always such a beautiful boy.” She tried to smile, her dry lips stretching across her teeth.

“I take after my mother,” Rowles replied, grasping her hand and squeezing it gently.

“Where’s Rowles?” his mother asked suddenly, and looked behind him as if searching.

“Pardon?” Rowles gave a start, then eased out a slow breath. Ah. She had forgotten. Again.