Attie sniffled and rubbed her face against him. Poll suspected she had wiped her nose on his cravat. But he didn't care.

"Cas is in the sickroom. Callie and the scarred man she insisted on marrying came in just this morning and they're resting." Attie claimed not to like Callie's husband, Sir Ren Porter, although everyone knew that Ren was one of the few people Attie actually respected. "Archie's exhausted, as is Miranda. They won't let me in, so I look after Aurora mostly. Why won't they let me look after Iris? I can be very restful company."

"Of course you could, pet." Poll highly doubted the fact. Even on her good days, Attie was a complicated and splendid being but restful company she was not. "Come on then. Let's go look in on Iris."

Attie drew back and nodded. Her eyes were reddened but they were dry and her pointed little chin was firm. "Mrs. Philpot said I should call her mummy, since she is sick. I think that is a rotten idea."

"Oh, Philpot. No one listens to Philpot. Iris is Iris, and that's all. Nothing will change that."

Attie drew a deep breath. "I knew you'd know what I meant."

As they turned to walk side-by-side to the mistress's bedchamber, Poll felt Attie's bony little fingers clinch his. Good Lord, if Atalanta Worthington wanted cuddles, things were dire indeed.

POLL ENTERED HIS MOTHER'S bedchamber and stepped quietly across the carpet to the heavily curtained bed. The room was dim though it was midafternoon. A large wingback chair was pulled close to the side of the bed and Poll saw a male hand draped over the arm of it that looked very much like his own hand.

"Hello, Castor."

The hand twitched and a lean face looked around the high-back chair at him. A face very much like his own.

"It's about bloody time." Cas's tone was more weary than angry. He sounded husky with exhaustion but when he stood and turned to greet Poll, there was a slight smile on his face.

Poll considered his brother for a long moment. In the past many months he had thought about Cas with emotions ranging from betrayed hatred to boyish longing for his brother at his side. Perhaps it would never be simple between them again. Every feeling was barbed, ready to catch and hold another emotion until it was no better than a tangle of fishhooks.

"So, you are a father now. I got letters."

"Letters which you rarely answered," Cas said as he rubbed a hand over his weary face. "But you're here now. It's good that you're here now."