"To reproduce oneself is to disappear... Those who reproduce themselves do not die if, by death, we understand the passage from life to decomposition, but he who was, by reproducing himself, ceases to be what he was – because he doubles himself."

"Literature and Evil" Georges Bataille

There was a certain defensiveness that seemed to pervade Mother's demeanour when something bothered her — Artemis had seen her act like this before she'd asked Father to abandon his less-than-legal business pursuits. Whatever had been weighing on her had put her on edge for the past week, and Artemis, likewise, had felt a similar unease seep into his being. When he'd first asked what was bothering her, she'd waved him off, assuring him she was merely tired. To Artemis, this only confirmed that her agitation was connected to him, and although he was loath to do so, he knew the only option that remained was to bide his time until she revealed her feelings.

It took nearly a week — a tortuously slow week — before she cracked.

The living room was quiet. The twins were off with their father, and Butler was occupied with phoning Juliet for their weekly chat. When Artemis had wandered downstairs to put on the kettle, he'd spied his mother sitting on the chaise longue, contemplative. Though he wouldn't have been able to identify exactly what he'd glimpsed in her mien, Artemis suspected that whatever had been troubling her would make itself known today.

Angeline spotted him and beckoned for him to join her. Wordlessly, he entered the living room. The afternoon light filtered in through the windows, giving her hair the appearance of being spun from gold.

Briefly, he wondered if he ought to tell her this. Perhaps it would pull whatever sadness he'd caused her from her grasp, leaving her unhappiness nothing more than a distant memory.

Angeline pursed her lips, the silence stretching on as she mulled over how to phrase her thoughts.

"Could we talk, Arty?" she finally asked.

He nodded, and she clasped her hands together in her lap.

"I do not want to offend you," she began, speaking slowly. "But it is my responsibility as your mother to let you know when I see certain things that… worry me."

Forcing his expression to remain stoic, Artemis listened.

Angeline sighed. "I see so much cynicism in you. When I watch you look at the world around you, I cannot help but see that. And I — I do not know if I taught you that, or if that cynicism made its home within you when I wasn't looking. But once I noticed it, Artemis, it's like I couldn't stop seeing it."

Her eyes shone, and she looked away.

"It's such a silly thing, I know," she exhaled noisily, the release somewhere between a breath and a nervous laugh. "I just want us to be happy. We've been through so much, and it's more than overdue.

"I just want you to be happy," she amended. "I know I can't force you to, but God, do I wish I could."

The surprise that washed over Artemis was enough to delay, if only momentarily, the discontentment that rose to replace it.

Were this anybody else, perhaps he would have asked: How can you not see all the love I have let flow freely to you like water?

Or perhaps he would have asked: How can you mistake the infinite tenderness reserved only for you as hardness?

In a different life, he could have asked: How can you see the fields I have sowed out of a desire to provide for you and see only salted earth?

Forcing the tremor from his voice, Artemis' tone was controlled when he finally brought himself to reply. "I apologize for worrying you."

Angeline studied his face. Reaching for his hand, she clasped it, letting her thumb rub circles into the curve of his wrist. Artemis tensed, toying with the idea of wresting free from her grasp. Ultimately, he let the tension fade from his posture. Anger was all too quick to make its home in his heart when he was wounded, of this he was aware.

Carefully so as not to reveal anything in his movements, he pulled away.

"Thank you for letting me know, Mother," he stressed. "I know it mustn't have been easy."

She hesitated, unsure of the sincerity of his words. Smiling weakly, Angeline nodded, and Artemis felt the monstrous petulance that resided in his heart crow, victorious.

He swallowed thickly, disgusted with himself.

"I am afraid I have work to which I must attend," he said, moving to leave.

"Will I see you at dinner?" she called after him, and Artemis paused in the doorway.

"Yes," he promised, shooting her a strained smile.