"Mother?"
Maravelle's gaze hardened. "You are not to call me that, child."
The young woman's shoulders stiffened. "What do you want? The last time we spoke, I told you I didn't want to see you anymore."
Maravelle lifted an eyebrow. "And sometimes," she said evenly, "what you want is irrelevant."
The young woman stepped back reluctantly, letting her in. "You shouldn't be here."
"And yet," Maravelle replied, moving past her, "here I am."
Her eyes swept the small room — the modest table, the pot on the fire, and turned to her.
"You look well," said. "Why do you insist on staying here. I got you a much better place."
The young woman turned away without answering.
Maravelle exhales slowly, as if bracing herself.
"I need something from you," she says plainly.
The young woman gave a dry smile. "You always do."
"This time," Maravelle replies, "it is not optional."
"State what you want and leave," Iselle snapped.
"Such hostility toward your own mother?" Maravelle asked quietly.
