"Flattered," he repeated, as if savoring the taste of the word. "But really… what was that? How did you get to this level of… um… family civil war?"
Morgana looked away first, crossing her arms. It wasn't shame—Morgana didn't have that. It was… irritation. Old exasperation.
And weariness.
"…She's not my mother," she said, her voice low, firm, practical. "She's my stepmother."
Damon blinked.
Ah.
That explained a lot.
"I understand," he murmured. Then: "And your real mother…?"
"She died when I was very young," Morgana answered without hesitation. It was a truth she carried as part of herself, without excessive sentimentality. "And, to be honest, I think she always hated the Duchess. Sometimes I think that if she could come back from the grave just to haunt her, she would come back laughing." Damon chuckled softly.
"Looks like a lively family."
