“Don’t pretend you love him,” the Count said. “If you loved him, you would have kept him.”

Whirry looked at him, shocked. “Love the Baby? Of course I always loved—”

“You had a fine house, wealth, everything a person could desire, and you gave him up,” Dooku said. “The Jedi arrived like beggars on your doorstep and asked for your firstborn, your heir, your precious Baby…and you gave him up.” The Count’s face was white. His traitorous hand was shaking and shaking. “You sent him away to a distant planet, never a letter or a message, sent him from the only home he had ever known and let them lock him up in the Temple and steal everything that should rightfully have been his, and now you have the impudence to come here and say you loved him? Loved him?” the Count shouted.

Whirry and her fox were backing from the room, frightened. Dooku mastered his voice. “Mother? Son? Love?” he said wearily. “You don’t know the meaning of the words.” He waved at her with his hand. “Leave us.”