Poll's throat tightened and he finally dared a glance at the still figure in the great bed. Iris lay bundled in quilts until only her pale face was visible amidst a cloud of wavy silver hair. She looked like a wax figurine of the real Iris, the creation by some not so talented sculptor with little gift for capturing his subject's spirit.

"May I?"

Cas stepped away from the chair and waved Poll into his place.

"I need tea. And Philpot was supposed to bring soup. Poor old thing is spent. I'd better go down."

Poll felt his brother's presence leave the room and his shoulders relaxed a fraction in relief. That was a skirmish for another time.

He bent forward with his elbows on his knees and took his mother's limp hand into his own. Iris's hands.

Poll couldn't think of a time when Iris's hands had not been in motion. Fluttering scarves, dabbling paintbrushes, gesturing theatrically to emphasize her poetic ramblings. Poll felt the lack of her greeting him home most severely. She should come sailing down the stairs, cooing and trailing diaphanous clothing, speaking fine nonsense and touching his cheeks with her warm hands.

Poll opened his mother's hand and pressed her palm against his cheek. He closed his eyes and imagined what she might've said.

My beautiful boy. Oh what wondrous fortune has bestowed upon us your dearest presence!

Iris always sounded as if she were reciting a play, whether she was teasing the Prince Regent or telling a joke to a potted palm. She treated everyone with fond endearments and forced them to brutal independence with her complete lack of maternal supervision.

She was Iris to every single one of them. She always had been, even before she had slipped so far away from reality. He could recall tiny Attie screaming for Iris "Iris! I fell down, Iris! I need a kiss, Iris!"

An unconventional mother she might be, yet she was his mother still. He could not bear the thought of the world with an Iris-shaped hole in it. He curled her fingers in his and kissed them. "If you please, my darling Iris, I would very much like it if you would sit up and speak to me. Better yet, I'd like to see you back at your easel. You must finish that painting of Shakespeare and the hedgehog."

"Thistle."

The word was faint. Poll doubted his own hearing for a moment. He opened his eyes and peered at his mother's still face. "What? Did you say something? Iris?"

She lay still as ever, only the slight rise and fall of her chest telling him that she was still with him, still with all of them in Worthington house.

Poll heard a step. He would recognize his brother's tread anywhere and anytime. He laid Iris's hand back down on the coverlet and smoothed her limp fingers straight before he stood and turned to face his brother.

"Did you say something?"