The Fox sobered, staring more closely at Cazaril. “I am sorry for your affliction, Castillar. It is no laughing matter. Bergon’s mother died of a tumor in her breast, taken untimely young—just thirty-six, she was. All the grief she married in me could not daunt her, but at the end…ah, well.” “I’m thirty-six,” Cazaril couldn’t help observing rather sadly. The Fox blinked. “You don’t look well, then.”
