[He's had a long time to learn how to hide his tells, and it's not as though her question about his mother comes unexpected; it's the obvious thing to ask him in return, after he'd all but opened the door by asking after hers. But he's still quiet for a little too long anyway, regarding the lay of the billiard balls a little too long, thumb rubbing idly against the cue he holds between both hands as he seems to dwell over how he wants to answer that question under the guise of evaluating his next shot.]

Similar. A car accident when I was young.

[And yet the memory of the punishment room in the resort's basement comes back to him, the lamplit elevator, Mummy knows best, you still need your mother —

No. That was nothing but phantoms and tricks. He doesn't even remember the sound of her voice, so any sort of charade could easily pass.]

I'm told I look like her, from people who knew her firsthand. She was responsible for me until I was about eight, and then after she died, tutors took over.

[He pauses, then seems to shrug his mood off and glances up, smiling wryly.]

She had me learn piano, too. That must just be a habit of mothers.