[He knows he has to go - that they both have to go. His throat and lungs feel thick with the toxin, and he can't help but cough, too. But it's always so hard to let go of her hand.

At least he's well-aware of the fact that it's an illusion this time. The hand at his back and gentle words are enough to draw him away, and he gently sets his mother's hand over her chest and draws her eyelids shut.]

...Thank you, Mademoiselle Rosamund. Even after all these years, it's still... well. Some things don't go away with time, I guess.

[But he'll cough into his hand after that, give his mother's body one last stare, and then rise to stand. With his non-bloody hand, he'll reach back out for one of hers.]

Shall we see if that's enough to leave?