"And I prefer to think that my niece and nephew will not ruin each other in their pursuit of my inheritance," he counters, steadfast where he lies, old eyes slanted. "But we both know better."

When he calls for his attendant, it is nearly as if the man materialises, light footed, of nothingness. "Please, see my guest away with a gift of fresh pears from the gardens. It is the tree's first fruit season. If I am not meant to witness a second, let this one be shared with friends."