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"Not at all."

"Yes, you do. My father did not want me and disappeared, my mother did not want me so she died, and you had to have me because nobody else would."

"Catherine, you know perfectly well that that is untrue. I took you in because the moment I saw you I knew you would be happy with me, and that I would love nothing more than a companion. That is what happened to us, is it not?"

She softened, the anger in her face leaving her. She was a child, and she was frightened and confused but Morgan loved her and he knew that would be enough to keep her happy.

"You are a good friend," she nodded slowly, "and a very good uncle."

"Then we are perfectly fine the way we are, yes?"

"I suppose," she said softly.

She remained still for a moment. Morgan wanted to reach out to her, but he did not want to distract her from whatever she was thinking. He hoped that, when she was ready, she would speak her mind.

"Is my mother buried?" she asked at last.

"Of course. As is your father."

"Where?"

Morgan had to think back as to what had become of her mother. Thomas had been buried with the rest of his family, but her mother… To his recollection, she had been cast out by her family and forced to live elsewhere in one of their old and abandoned estates. He did not know where that was, but he was quite certain that he could find out.

"I know of your father's resting place, but your mother's escapes me. I will find it, though."

"All right. When you do, may I visit them?"

"Catherine, you know how I feel about you going outside."

"That it is forbidden, but this is important. I have to see them."

Her voice was rising again, and Morgan thought about how sound echoed in his household. He could not allow Dorothy to hear her.

"Very well," he said quickly, "I shall take you to see them once I learn where your mother is."

At last, she seemed content, and embraced him tightly before sitting beside him again.

"I am pleased that I am good enough for you," she said gently, "though I do wish that I was not so unwell."

"You will recover. You have come so far."

"It has been five years since I came to you. I should be better by now. When you have a cold, it lasts only a week."

"Yes, but you were only very small when you had yours. It might take a long time to rid yourself of it."

She huffed, but she was half-smiling. They had had the very same conversation many times, and she was always annoyed that she would not recover quickly but pleased that she could do most things.

They remained together until it was time for her to sleep, and when he went to leave, he heard her bedding rustle as she sat up.

"You will not leave me, will you?"

"Never," he promised, "although I must leave for a week if I am to find your mother."

"Very well. I suppose that a week will be all right."

He chuckled, leaving the room.

It had been a difficult conversation, but she had taken it well. He had always been proud of how adaptable she was, but he had never thought that it would go as far as it did. He hoped that she had believed him when he said her mother loved her, because he had never doubted that. When she had walked into the lake, it was because she thought that she was saving herself and Catherin from a difficult, almost impossible life, and even though she was wrong he could not deny that he pitied the woman greatly.