Iulius didn’t move, amazed at the young woman’s arrogance and insensitivity. “Your mother is unwell, my lady.”
Julia blinked. “Unwell? What do you mean ‘unwell’?”
He wondered if she was concerned about her mother or simply annoyed with the inconvenience to her. “She cannot move or speak, Lady Julia.”
Julia glanced up the stairway in alarm. “I want to see her. Now!”
“Of course,” he said, gesturing for her to proceed up the stairs as she wished. “She’s on the balcony that faces the harbor. I will show you the way in case you don’t remember.”
Sensing a reprimand, she glared at him. She wanted no reminders of how long it had been since she had entered this house. “I know where it is.”
Julia entered her mother’s bedchamber and saw her mother outside on the balcony. She was sitting in the sunshine near the railing. Julia crossed the room quickly and went out through the archways. “Mother? I’m here,” she said. Her mother didn’t turn to her in happy greeting, but sat unmoving. Nervous at such a lack of welcome, Julia came around in front of her.
Julia stared, stunned at how her mother looked. How was it possible for anyone to change so much in only a few weeks? Her hair had gone white, and her hands were veined. Her face sagged on one side, and her mouth hung slightly open. Despite all this, someone had taken great care to comb her hair and dress her in a white palus. She looked so pitifully dignified.
Fear filled Julia. What would she do without her mother? She glanced at the servant. “How long has she been like this?”
“The seizure came upon her forty-six days ago.”
“Why wasn’t word sent to me?”
“It was, my lady. Twice.”
Julia blinked and tried to remember when she had last received an epistle from her mother. Hadn’t someone come one evening several weeks ago? She had sent them away. Of course, she had been drunk—understandably so, for she had just learned the full details of her financial situation and Primus’ perfidy. Another messenger had come a week later, but she had been ill that time and not emotionally able to receive words that might rouse intense feelings of guilt. Calabah had always said guilt was self-defeating.
“I don’t remember any messengers.”
Iulius knew she was lying. Lady Julia had never been a good liar. Her face became pinched, and she would look away as the words were uttered. He felt sorry for her, for she looked frightened and distressed. He wanted to believe her concern was for Phoebe, but he was almost certain it was for herself. “She knows you’re here, my lady.”
“Does she?”
“I’m sure she’s happy you’ve come.”
“Happy?” She gave a bleak laugh. “How can you tell?”
Iulius didn’t answer. His mouth tightened. Why had the girl come? Had she no deep feelings for her mother? She stood staring down at her. The look on Julia Valerian’s face annoyed him. He thought what a delight it would be to pitch her off the balcony into the street below. But knowing Julia Valerian, she would, like a cat, land on her feet and have him sent to the arena.
He hunkered down beside Phoebe’s chair. “My lady,” he said gently, wishing heartily that he had better news for her. “Your daughter Julia has come to visit with you.”
Phoebe’s hand moved slightly. She tried to speak, but the sound that came from her lips was little more than a deep garbled groaning. A drop of saliva glistened on her lips.
Julia drew back, repulsed. “What’s been done for her?”
He glanced up and saw the look of disgust on Julia’s face. He rose, standing between the girl and her mother. “All that can be done.”
“Will she improve?”
“Only God knows.”
“Meaning she won’t.” Julia released a soft, defeated breath and turned away, staring out across the city toward the harbor. “Now what will I do?”
Phoebe tried to speak again. Julia closed her eyes tightly, hunching her shoulders at the pathetic sound of it. She wanted to press her hands over her ears and shut out the sound completely.
Iulius understood what Phoebe wanted.
“I will leave you alone with her, my lady,” he said grimly. “It would be kind of you to speak to her,” he told Julia and left the balcony.
Julia kept staring out across the city through eyes now blurred with tears. Speak to her, he had said. Not that her mother could possibly understand anything in her condition. Not now.
“You were my last hope, Mother.” She turned and looked down at her sadly. “Oh, Mother . . .” With a soft cry, she went down on her knees, put her head in her mother’s lap, and wept. She clutched the soft linen of her mother’s palus. “It’s not fair! It’s not fair all the things that’ve happened to me. And no one’s even left to care anymore what suffering I have to endure. And now, you, like this. I tell you, the gods are against me.”