The house was settled as the heavy drapes dimmed the light, the carpets softened every footfall, the grandfather clock marking time. Camilla paused outside Robert's suite, smoothed her dress, and lifted the latch.
He was where he always was in the afternoons: by the window, shoulders propped, blanket across his knees. The stroke had narrowed his world to slow blinks, small sounds, a hand that sometimes obeyed. But his eyes, those were still sharp. They followed her as she crossed the room.
"Nurse?" she asked without looking away from him.
"Tea's on the tray, ma'am. I'll be just outside," the nurse said, and slipped out.
Camilla poured two cups, because no one in this family drank alone even when they did. She set one on the table near his chair. "Julian is planning a dinner," she began. "Family. Both sides."
Robert made a sound low in his throat, half grunt, half question.
"Yes," she said. "That face. Mine too."
