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was excellent, although dry for her taste. "You do this every day?"
"God, no." He shuddered. "Two or three times a week at most. One day drinking,
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the next day being ill-a hangover is quite as good as being drunk for taking
your mind off other things-the next day running errands and such for my
father. He's slowed down a great deal in the last few years."
He was gradually pulling himself into better focus, as his initial awkward
terror of being repellant to her ebbed. He sat up and rubbed his hand over his
face in the familiar gesture, as if to scrub away the numbness, and made a
stab at light conversation. "That's a pretty dress. A great improvement over
those orange things."
"Thanks," she said, falling in immediately with his lead. "I'm sorry I
can't say the same for your shirt-does that represent your own taste, by
chance?"
"No, it was a gift."
"I'm relieved."
"Something of a joke. Some of my officers got together and purchased it on the
occasion of my first promotion to admiral, before Komarr. I always think of
them, when I wear it."
"Well, that's nice. In that case I guess I can get used to it."
"Three of the four are dead, now. Two died at Escobar."
"I see." So much for light chitchat. She swirled her wine around in the bottom
of her glass. "You look like hell, you know. Pasty."
"Yes, I stopped exercising. Bothari's quite offended."
"I'm glad Bothari didn't get in too much trouble over Vorrutyer."
"It was touch and go, but I got him off. Illyan's testimony helped."
"Yet they discharged him."
"Honorably. On a medical."
"Did you put your father up to hiring him?"
"Yes. It seemed like the right thing to do. He'll never be normal, as we think
of it, but at least he has a uniform, and a weapon, and regulations of a sort
to follow. It seems to give him an anchor." He ran a finger slowly around the
rim of the brandy tumbler. "He was Vorrutyer's batman for four years, you see.
He was not too well, when he was first assigned to the General Vorkraft.
On the verge of a split personality-separating memories, the works. Rather
scary. Being a soldier seems to be about the only human role he can meet the
demands of. It allows him a kind of self-respect." He smiled at her. "You, on
the other hand, look like heaven. Can you, ah-stay long?"
There was a hesitant hunger in his face, soundless desire suppressed by
uncertainty. We have hesitated so long, she thought, it's become a habit. Then
it dawned on her that he feared she might only be visiting. Hell of a long
trip for a chat, my love. You are drunk.
"As long as you like. I discovered, when I went home- it was changed. Or I
was changed. Nothing fit anymore.
I offended nearly everybody, and left one step ahead of, um, a whole lot of
trouble. I can't go back. I resigned my commission-mailed it in from
Escobar-and everything I own is in the back of that flyer down there."
She savored the delight that ignited his eyes during this speech, as it
finally penetrated that she was here to stay. It contented her.
"I would get up," he said, sliding to the side of his chair, "but for some
reason my legs go first and my tongue last. I'd rather fall at your feet in
some more controlled fashion. I'll improve shortly. Meantime, will you come
sit here?"
"Gladly." She changed chairs. "But won't I squash you? I'm kind of tall."
"Not a bit. I loathe tiny women. Ah, that's better."
"Yes." She nestled down with him, arms around his chest, resting her head on
his shoulder, and hooking one leg over him as well, to emphatically complete
his capture. The captive emitted something between a sigh and a laugh. She
wished they might sit like that forever.
"You'll have to give up this suicide-by-alcohol thing, you know."
He cocked his head. "I thought I was being subtle."
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"Not noticeably."
"Well, it suits me. It's extraordinarily uncomfortable."
"Yes, you've worried your father. He gave me the funniest look."
"Not his glare, I hope. He has a very withering glare. Perfected over a
lifetime."
"Not at all. He smiled."
"Good God." A grin crinkled the corners of his eyes.
She laughed, and craned her neck for a look at his face. That was better.
. . .
"I'll shave, too," he promised in a burst of enthusiasm.
"Don't go overboard on my account. I came to retire, too. A separate peace, as
they say."
"Peace, indeed." He nuzzled her hair, breathing its scent. His muscles unwound
beneath her like an overtaut bow unstrung.
**************************
A few weeks after their marriage they took their first trip together, Cordelia
accompanying Vorkosigan on his periodic pilgrimmage to the Imperial
Military Hospital in Vorbarr Sultana. They traveled in a groundcar borrowed
from the Count, Bothari taking what was evidently his usual role as
combination driver and bodyguard. To Cordelia, who was just beginning to know
him well enough to see through his taciturn facade, he seemed on edge. He
glanced uncertainly over her head, seated between him and Vorkosigan.
"Did you tell her, sir?"
"Yes, everything. It's all right, Sergeant."
Cordelia added encouragingly, "I think you're doing the right thing, Sergeant.
I'm, um, very pleased."
He relaxed a little, and almost smiled. "Thank you, Milady."
She studied his profile covertly, her mind ranging over the array of
difficulties he would be taking back to the hired village woman at Vorkosigan
Surleau this day, gravely doubtful of his ability to handle them. She risked
probing a little.
"Have you thought about-what you're going to tell her about her mother, as she
grows older? She's bound to want to know eventually."
He nodded, was silent, then spoke. "Going to tell her she's dead. Tell her we
were married. It's not a good thing to be a bastard here." His hand tightened
on the controls. "So she won't be. No one must call her that."
"I see." Good luck, she thought. She turned to a lighter question. "Do you
know what you're going to name her?"
"Elena."
"That's pretty. Elena Bothari."
"It was her mother's name."
Cordelia was surprised into an unguarded remark. "I thought you couldn't
remember Escobar!"
A little time went by, and he said, "You can beat the memory drugs, some, if
you know how."
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