He picks out the letter, addressed to him, and begins to straighten it. The scrawl is smooth, flowing and feminine. It's the hand of his mother. His mother...

He looks up, however, at his father's comment (feeling such a rush of gratitude for the other man), suddenly unsure what to say. All his life he'd think his mother loved him less for some reason he could never fathom. And once he'd discovered his true birth, he thought he knew then, why she favoured his sister over him ...

Turning his attention back to the letter, he clears his throat.

"Dear Tristran," he begins to read.