“I wonder how Lady Cecelia is,” Sirkin said one day. “If Brun’s been able to do anything . . .”
“We all wonder,” Heris said. She knew someone would have let Cecelia know she’d run off with the ship; she hated that, knowing Cecelia would feel betrayed.
Lorenza had listened without interruption to the Crown Minister’s version of the theft of the yacht. Now she said, “So—it was that Serrano person after all, eh?”
“I suppose.” The Crown Minister seemed more interested in his ham with raisin sauce. “Suppose she got tired of waiting for the court to rule. Silly—it might have ruled in her favor. There are all sorts of precedents for enforcing quite stupid wills.”
“Berenice is sure they’d have ruled against her. Even if she didn’t poison Cecelia herself, it was clearly a matter of undue influence.”
He stopped to put maple-apple-walnut butter on a roll. “You women! I think you were convinced the captain did it just because she’s another woman, and one who wears a uniform.”
Lorenza raised her eyebrows at him, slowly. “Now, Piercy, you know that’s not fair. I have nothing against military women; I have the highest admiration for their courage and their dedication. But this woman was no longer military; she left under a cloud—”
“She was cleared,” the Crown Minister said. Lorenza wondered why he was being stubborn. Did he know something she should know?
“I understand that her own family—her own well-known family—didn’t stand behind her. That tells me something. Even if she was cleared, they may know something that never came out in court. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“True.” He was retreating; he had turned his attack to the ham, and then to the rice pilaf.
“Berenice says Bunny’s daughter Bubbles started acting odd after spending time with her on Sirialis. Wanted to change her name, or something.”
“Bubbles has been acting like a fool since she hit puberty,” the Crown Minister said, and took a long swallow of his wine. “It wouldn’t take a yacht captain to send her off on another tack.” That struck him as funny, and he laughed aloud. Lorenza didn’t smile, and he ran down finally. “Sorry—a nautical joke.”
“My point is that it’s now perfectly clear she did something underhanded to influence poor Cecelia. And now she’s stolen the yacht. Just what you’d expect.”
“Do you ever visit Cecelia?” the Crown Minister asked. She almost smiled at his transparent attempt to change the subject and make her feel guilty.
“Yes, occasionally. I’m going tomorrow, in fact.” She had not been able to resist, after all. Twice now she had sat beside the bed, her soft hand on Cecelia’s unresisting cheek, and murmured into her ear. I did it. I did it. That was alclass="underline" no name, only the whisper. It excited her so she could hardly conceal it all the way home. And now she could be the one to tell Cecelia that her precious yacht captain had stolen her yacht . . . that she had been abandoned once more. If she had had any hope left, that should finish it. Lorenza let herself imagine the depths of that despair . . . what it must be like to have one’s last hope snuffed out by a voice in the darkness. She was very glad she had specified that Cecelia’s auditory mechanisms should be left intact.
Chapter Ten
“This is the craziest idea I ever heard.” Ronnie glared at Brun. “You want to take a sick, paralyzed old lady up in a hot-air balloon, then bang around in a shuttle, then—and what are you going to do when you get to Rockhouse Major?”
“I’m not going to Rockhouse Major.” Brun glared back. “Dad’s yacht is at Minor; that’s all you need to know.”
“A balloon—dammit, you can’t fly a balloon like a plane. They just drift. How can you possibly be sure you’ll even get there—or do you expect me to chase you across country on foot with Aunt Cecelia over my shoulder?”
“No, of course not. And yes, I can aim a balloon—there are ways. They’re clumsier than planes, but quieter and much more difficult to find on scans designed for planes and shuttles. I can be there within fifteen minutes of a set time, and close enough that you won’t have to run any races.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“You visit her—you have a regular pass.”
“Yeah, but they’re still watching me.” Less warily since Serrano had run off with his aunt’s yacht, but still watching.
“That’s fine. They can watch you all they want. What’s your regular visiting day?”
“Saturday, of course, when I have a half-day off. You know this already—”
“Yes, but I’m checking my own plans. Your mother visits on Tuesdays, and your father on Thursdays, and you on Saturdays—and you almost never miss—”
“I liked her,” Ronnie said. He noticed the past tense, and wished he had said “like” even though it wasn’t true. No one could like that limp, unresponsive body in the bed. And he had only Brun’s conviction, formed in that one visit, that Cecelia—the-person still lived inside her inert shell, to give him hope.
“So while they watch you, and her, it’s just routine. They expect you.”
“I still can’t walk out with her—”
“You won’t have to. All you have to do is get her unhooked from the bed, and outside. Like this—” Brun flipped open her notecomp and showed him the plan. She had it all down, all the medical background, sketches of wires and tubes and things he didn’t want to look at. What to do in which order, what he would have to take with him. Suggestions for making sure the bothersome attendants didn’t interrupt—he thought of another way himself, and realized he was being drawn in. It still looked ridiculous, but Ronnie didn’t argue. He didn’t have anything better to offer. He didn’t have anything at all. And the longer they left Aunt Cecelia trapped in her helplessness, the worse for her . . . he could hardly believe anyone could stay sane month after month.
“When, then?”
“Festival of the Air, of course.” He felt himself flushing. He’d been so miserable he’d forgotten that annual celebration was almost upon them. “Plenty of confusion in the air—for some reason the wilder sorts are thinking of dropping in on the starchier resorts and sanctuaries in the area. Can’t think why.” She grinned. “And no, it’s not traceable to me. Now—let’s get busy. You’ll have to practice getting a flight suit on me when I’m lying limp.”
Oblo had managed to load the yacht with a surprising number of amenities. Toiletries, leisure clothes, entertainment cubes, and a cube reader. Music disks and players. Despite the bare bulkheads and naked decks, the lack of furniture, ample bedding, and bright-colored pillows made comfortable nooks for lounging and sleeping. Heris asked about the pillows—she could not imagine Oblo sneaking through the docks with big puffy orange and puce and turquoise pillows under his arms—and he gave her his best innocent glare.
“Bare decks get cold, Captain. You know that.” Then a sheepish grin. “And besides, these pillows . . . they were sort of . . . lying about somewhere . . .”
“Somewhere?” She could feel her eyebrows rising.
Now he stared at the overhead. “To tell you the truth—” which meant it would be his fiction. “They belonged to someone Meharry and I kind of blame for that girl Amalie’s death.” Possibilities ran through Heris’s mind, and she settled on the obvious.
“That therapist?”
He grinned as if he was glad she’d figured it out. “Yeah. Had this big room with lots of pillows in it. Needed cleaning, they did. Cleaners picked them up, delivered them. We sort of . . . liberated them on the way back.” As a specimen of Oblo’s vengeance, this was mild. Heris decided to let it go.
“You know it was wrong,” she said.
“So was getting Amalie killed and Sirkin hurt,” he said, with no remorse. “Captain, it was the least we could do.” About what she’d expected; she managed not to laugh until he was out of her office.