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“How the years fly by,” she said. “It seems only yesterday you were toddling about the nursery.”
This was unlike Mama.
“There was such rejoicing when you were born healthy,” she continued. “We had lost four infants before that, you know.”
He had heard whispers of this, but it had never been mentioned directly before.
She heaved a great sigh. That was unlike Mama as well.
“Fingal’s sire guarded your cradle, you know. He wouldn’t let any stranger near you. It was as if he sensed how precious this living child was. Dogs are loyal creatures, aren’t they?”
His mother never had much to do with the hounds. In fact, Kenver had sometimes thought that Fingal wasn’t at all fond of her.
“You and your father have such a bond with them,” she said as if reading his thoughts.
“So does Sarah,” Kenver dared.
She blinked, and her lips tightened briefly. Almost before he could notice, the reaction was gone. “You used to ride on one of them when you were very small,” she said.
He hadn’t thought she remembered such things. “Fianna,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Papa named her for the old Irish war bands because she was fearless.”
“Yes,” Mama repeated.
Mention of Fianna brought back a host of memories. “We went on so many adventures together, chasing villains and pirates.”
“You always had a great deal of imagination.” She smiled.
“You gave me those books of ancient legends. One at every birthday for years.” There had been good times with Mama, Kenver thought. Not rollicking fun, but solid satisfactions. He’d worked so hard to impress her, and when she praised him, it had felt like such a triumph. She didn’t deal in empty compliments.
“Yes.”
Something in the way she said it this time made Kenver wonder if she really remembered those gifts. She had always handed them over, tied with ribbons. He realized he couldn’t quite see her tying those bows. The picture wouldn’t come.
Mama shifted in her chair, straightened a bit. Kenver recognized the movements and understood that the conversation so far had been preliminaries. Now they were over. Some of the cordiality drained out of him.
“You know, Kenver, your father’s illness made me realize that it is important for us think about the future.”
Kenver simply looked inquiring.
“It seemed for a time that we would lose him.”
He nodded.
“And the sickness weakened him so. Indeed, I fear it may have affected his wits.”
This was a surprise. “I’ve seen no sign of that.”
His mother gave him a sympathetic smile. “I know him better than you. I expect he hides it in your presence so that you will not lose respect for him. That would wound him deeply.”
The picture she’d begun to paint was affecting. But it wasn’t right. “There’s no danger of that. We just had a long talk. He seemed very sharp.”
Mama frowned. She shifted in her chair again. “I worry that his constitution has been irretrievably shaken. And that he will soon be ill again.”
“We must take good care of him.”
