Cecelia shook her head. “No, thank you, my dear. Everyone thinks of me as a thoroughly horse-besotted old woman, but one prerogative of old women is to surprise young ones occasionally. I shall go stroll in your gardens, if I may.”
“Well, then, I’m for the pool. See you at dinner.”
At the Mahoney house, a uniformed nurse met Cecelia at the door. “Ser Mahoney is in the study, madam, but he is . . . not really himself.”
Cecelia thought of asking who he was instead—she had a lingering distaste for medical euphemisms—but resisted the temptation. She followed the nurse down the familiar wide passage to the double doors that led into Kevil’s home office, steeling herself for what she would see. At the same time, she wondered where the security was. If Kevil was a security risk, shouldn’t there be more protection around him? She had seen no guards at all.
“Ser George Mahoney is at the university,” the nurse said, over his shoulder. “He won’t be back until this evening.”
Cecelia frowned. No security, one nurse all day . . . something wrong here.
In the study, Kevil lay awkwardly in one of the big leather chairs. His face looked strange, twisted; she realized that regen had not been able to repair all the physical damage, that part of his jaw was missing, and the skin over it rumpled oddly. In his eyes, Cecelia saw no recognition, just anxiety. Then, slowly, a spark . . . as if he were walking through a dark corridor with a candle, closer and closer.
“Cecelia . . .”
“Yes. ”
“You look . . . younger. Dye your hair?”
Cecelia’s heart sank. Of course she looked younger; she had rejuved several years before, to a nominal forty. He had known that. They had slept together after that. “Rejuv, Kevil,” she said briskly. It was hard to look at him, but she knew she must. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you were hurt,” she said.
“Me . . . too. I can’t . . . remember . . . all.”
Was the slurred voice from the injury, or from drugs? Cecelia glanced around, but saw no litter of pillboxes.
“I’ve been to visit Ronnie and Raffaele,” she said. To her delight, the spark in his eyes brightened.
“How are . . . they?”
“They’re fine, except that the developer’s done something foul with the colony they’re on.” She told him about it, gauging his attention span by his expression. For a few minutes at a time, he seemed the old Kevil—his eyes bright, his face intent. Then he would blink, and the expression slacken. She stopped, and waited, and when he seemed focussed again she went on.
“You’re . . . really . . . talking to me.” He smiled, a genuine smile this time.
“Yes, of course.”
“You . . . understand . . .”
“Not completely, Kevil. But I know you need something to chew on.”
“Yes. They keep asking me . . . questions . . . tests . . . can’t remember. . . .”
“I hated those,” Cecelia said, remembering her own convalescence, the idiocy of the questions in the standard tests.
“Name three vegetables, name five fruits . . .”
“Name the CEO of Excet Environmental Group,” Cecelia said, as if it were another on the list.
“Silvester Conselline,” Kevil said instantly, then looked blank. “What was that?”
“A reasonable question,” Cecelia said. “And one I wanted the answer to. Ronnie and Raffa are, as I said, practically marooned on Excet-24, and Brun says that’s an Excet Group colony planet. I want to know who’s responsible for shorting the colony of its startup supplies and staff.”
“Probably not Silvester,” Kevil said, sounding even more awake now. “He’s been spending most of his time trying to convince the universe he’s a great composer. But he does tend to sign anything anyone puts in front of him.”
A tap at the door. The nurse looked in, his expression exactly the one Cecelia least liked to see. “Ser Mahoney needs his rest, madam. Perhaps another time?”
“Go on—take a break,” Cecelia said to the nurse. “I’m experienced with this—I’ve been a convalescent myself.”
“But his lunch . . . his diet—”
“And I can cook. Go on now.”
Finally he left, protesting and warning and muttering. Cecelia watched through the scan pickup until she had seen him go all the way down the street and board a tram.
“Officious,” she said to Kevil, when she came back to him.
“You think . . . he’s up to something,” Kevil said.
“Nurses are always up to something,” Cecelia said. “But in addition to that, yes. Now.” She pulled the scrambler she carried out of her bag and turned it on. Kevil gave her a puzzled look. “Remnant of my times with Heris Serrano and those Fleet refugees she foisted on me as crew. Oblo whatever-his-name-was. Good advice, I realized after awhile. Always carry a means of tapping someone else’s data, and always protect your own conversations.”
Kevil grinned. “You always were smarter . . . than people thought.”
“Yes, and so were you. Kevil—what’s happened? Why only one nurse? Why haven’t you had a proper limb replacement?”
“No money.”
Cecelia stared at him, shocked. “But Kevil—you’ve always had money, pots of it.”
“No more. It . . . isn’t there.”
“But—what happened?”
“I don’t know. One day there, then—it wasn’t. George tried—couldn’t find out—”
“Someone fiddled the databases? But—people would notice—”
“Not unless it was their account. The people who normally handled my accounts would notice, unless they’d been transferred.”
“And that’s not hard at all . . .” Cecelia mused. “And there are new Ministers in the relevant Ministries, and a huge muddle all over . . .”
“Yes. I think . . . it happened . . . when Bunny died.”
If that were true, it would mean—no, could mean—that it was related. That the same person or persons planned the attack on Bunny’s life, and Kevil’s fortunes.
“I know . . . something . . . I know it’s because I know something . . . but Cece, I can’t remember what it is I’m supposed to know. I can’t remember. I can’t think—” A muscle in his face twitched; his hand shook.
“Kevil . . . relax. Please. Let me fix you lunch—yes, you come with me into the kitchen—and we’ll talk some more. I know I can help.”
It took a struggle to get Kevil up, and Cecelia fought down her fury when she saw his unbalanced, lurching gait. But in the kitchen, he seemed more comfortable in the chair, his good arm propped on the wide wooden table, than he had in the study.
“I’m assuming you don’t have a cook because of the money—”
“Yes.”
She fixed him fruit, bread, cheese. There were custards in the refrigerator, but she didn’t trust them—custards could conceal drugs. He ate, clumsily, with his left hand.
“Kevil, do you remember giving me your access codes?”
A blank look. “Access codes?”
“The second night. After we decided it wouldn’t work. You said, ‘If I’m ever in the state you were in, I want to know you’re on my side.’ And you gave them to me. You’ve forgotten, but I haven’t.”
“Cecelia—”
“When George gets home, we’ll get to work. Tonight. There’s no time to waste.”
“I can’t . . . help much.”
“You did that, years ago. We’ll take care of it.” Somehow. Cecelia scolded herself internally—she was turning into everyone’s helpful old aunt again. Well, if she was going to take her turn being civic-minded, helpful, and useful, she might as well make a thorough job of it. She’d had another brilliant idea.
Waltraude Meyerson, tenured professor of antique studies on loan to the Regular Space Service as a consultant on Texan history and culture, sat quietly in the corner of the room with her recorder on, watching the NewTex women argue about religion and education without getting involved. She hoped. This was the first conflict she’d seen among the women who had fled Our Texas, and she was fascinated.