The chamber was larger than their usual quarters, Damon's consolidation having upgraded their accommodations to something defensible and visible.
Reginald stood near the window, his posture suggesting he had been pacing. Gertrude sat on a stool, her hands clasped so tightly that the knuckles showed white, her eyes finding her mother with something that was not relief.
And Jove… Jove lay on the bed, propped on pillows, his face pale, his eyes open and aware in ways that made Vera's practiced expression falter.
"Mother." Reginald greeted.
"My darlings." She moved toward them, arms opening. "My poor darlings, I have been so worried—"
She reached for Gertrude first, the daughter who had always been receptive and whose need for maternal approval had been her leverage. But Gertrude flinched.
"Mother." The word emerged strange. "You should not be here. The guards said—"
