[ It turns out that Algric is the one who’s weeping. He’s hunched over in his chair, face in his hands as his shoulders shake miserably. His mother is still visible through a gap in the curtain; she’s clutching a blunt knife from her food tray so hard that her knuckles have turned white. ]

Please. I - I don’t care about being loved, or. Or even liked. That’s fine. Just - can’t you say one good thing? One nice thing about Jon? I love him, Mum.

[ Her grip only tightens. ]

“He doesn’t care. He’s just like everyone else you’ve ever told me about - ready to leave you as soon as he’s done with you. You’re just stupider this time round.”