"You're one fine gentleman. Your mother would be proud of raising such an extraordinary young man," Aralyn said with a warm smile, giving the guard's shoulder a light, motherly pat.
The boy, no older than twenty, flushed under her praise, his earlier suspicion softening. He'd stopped her at the gates, insisting no outsiders were allowed into the Dowager's mansion without written permission. But Aralyn had talked to him, patiently, gently, like a mother who refused to be turned away from seeing her child.
"I'm only bringing supper for my boy," she'd said, eyes glistening just enough to stir his guilt. "He's a gardener here, my Bron. He works so hard, but I can never reach him during the day."
It took some convincing, but eventually, the guard sighed and stepped aside.
"Have a slice," she said kindly, offering him a small piece of the pie she carried.
