“I care to discuss it,” he said. “Not just fo’ myself. Fo’ our parents, you sisters, for Mandy.”
She opened her mouth to reply, then hesitated. The look on his face was enough to bring her out of self-absorption, with a prickle of feeling that it took a moment for her to recognize. Danger. This was the wrong context, the wrong person; this was her brother, Johnnie . . . and a very dangerous man, an extremely angry one. A cold-water feeling, a draft of rationality through the hot, tight obsession these rooms had come to represent.
“All right,” she said, impatiently. “Say you say.”
“Not here. In there.”
Yolande blinked, conscious of her lips peeling back. Unconscious of her hand dropping to the butt of her sidearm, until she saw him copy her motion with flat wariness.
“If that’s the way you want to discuss it, ’Landa.”
“I—gods, Johnnie!” She shook her hand loose. “All right, then.” Her back went rigid at the thought of another seeing this with her. She pushed open the door.
The American serf had been sitting at a table, picking listlessly at the wood. She looked up at the sound of the door opening, and scuttled to the far corner of the room; her hands caught up the tablecloth in passing, held it tented out in front of her as she scrabbled to push herself back into the stone.
“Noo,” she said. They could see her mouth through the thin fabric, open in an O as round as her eyes. “Nooo. Ahhhhh. Nooo.” The serf’s face looked fallen in, as if something had been subtracted from it, and her arms were wasted.
Yolande swallowed and turned her back, it was different seeing it with John there. Suddenly she felt herself seized, the back of her neck taken in a grip as irresistible as a machine, turning her about.
“Look at that!” John said. “That is what I wanted to . . . This can’t go on, ’Landa, it cannot. I will not allow it. None of us will.”
The serf was making a thin whine, clutching the tablecloth to her with arms and legs, rocking. Yolande reached back, used a breakhold on the thumb to free herself, spun to face her brother, panting.
“You disputin’ my right to do as I will with my own?” she grated.
“Not on my land!” he roared, the sound shockingly loud. “Not in my family’s home!” John reached over and pulled her pistol free, grabbed her hand, pressed it into her palm.
“Kill her, if that’s what you want. Or get rid of her. Or if you want to keep actin’ like a hyena, get you gone.”
Yolande looked at the weapon, up at her brother, her eyes hunting for a chink in his rage. “Are—” She fumbled the weapon back into its holster. “Are you tellin’ me I’m not welcome in my family’s home?” she said, in a small high voice.
“My sister Yolande is always welcome here,” he said flatly. “My sister wouldn’t do that”—he jerked his head at the moaning serf—“to a mad dog. It’s your property . . . Don’t you understand, ’Landa, you doin’ this to youself. Every time you think of Myfwany, you takes it out on that poor bitch. Does that ease you pain? Does it? Is that”—he pointed again—“what you want your memories attached to? You’ve got to start livin’ again. Not just goin’ through the motions.”
Yolande turned, braced her hands against the wall. Something inside her seemed to crumble, and she felt an overwhelming panic. Gods, he’s right. I’m poisoning all I have left. That couldn’t be right. It’s her fault . . . or is it my fault?
“All right,” she said dully. “All right.” His hand touched her shoulder gently, and she turned into his embrace. “All right.” Her neck muscles were quivering-rigid, but her eyes stayed dry.
“You want me to handle gettin’ rid of her?” he asked.
She straightened, wiped her hands down her trouser legs, looked over at the serf. Appraisingly, this time. “No,” she said calmly. “You’re right. I won’t use the controller on her any more. I’ll try and have her patched up . . . but I’m not lettin’ her go. Lettin’ go isn’t my strong point, brother. But thank you. Thank you all.” A nervous gesture smoothed back her hair. “If’n she recovers, I’ll . . . Oh, I don’t know. Find somethin’ else fo’ her to do. That enough.”
He nodded. “Welcome back.”
She laughed, quietly bitter. “Not yet. Just startin’, maybe.” A glance at the sunlight. “I’ve got the afternoon, befo’ I have to take the car in.” She was on short-leave. “See you at dinner.”
I am Marya.
“Oh, y’poor hurt thing.”
Gentle hands were lifting her, holding a glass to her lips. She recognized the hands, the scent; they were surcease from pain. Black hands, sweet voice.
I am Marya Lefarge.
“C’mon, honey, we gets y’ to the doctor. Give y’ somethin’ to sleep. Mistis isn’t goin’ do that no mo’, she was just crazy, honest, no more.”
I am Captain Marya Lefarge.
She was walking into a place that smelled half medicinal, half of country air, warmth. Children were playing outside, she could hear them. She was lifted into a soft bed; a pill was between her lips. Drowsy.
“No more painmaker, no mo’.”
I am Captain Marya Lefarge, and nothing can hurt me. Because beside that there was no pain. She had felt the worst thing in the world, and she was still alive. Nothing can hurt me. I will remake myself. However long it takes, I will.
“Ah, Myfwany.” The turf had healed over the grave, on the hill across from the manor. It was lonely here, not many graves in the Ingolfssons’ burying ground yet . . . She looked up to the next space, that would be hers.
“I wanted to die, Myfwany, for . . . it seemed like a long time. Or to go away, go away from it all. And I had to . . . keep goin’, keep on doin’ things. The things we talked about, the Astronautical Academy, qualifyin’. So . . . dry, it was like I was dead, dead on my feet and rottin’, and nobody could notice. They say it heals . . . oh, do I want it to?”
Yolande hugged her knees to her and laid her head on them; one hand smoothed the short damp grass. Somewhere she could feel a pair of warm green eyes open, somewhere in the back of her mind.
“Yes, love, I know. I takes things too much to heart.” A rough laugh. “You wouldn’t have gone . . . hog-wild with that Yankee, the way I did. It should’ve been you that lived that night, love.”
The Draka rose, dusting off her trousers. “I promise it’ll do bettah now, Myfwany-sweet. Somehow I’ll find a true revenge fo’ you. And . . . ” Her eyes rested on the far hills. 1 think it would be better if I could weep, at least alone, she thought. “I’ll live, as you’d have said. Make the memories live, somehow.” Her eyes closed, and she felt scar tissue inside herself. Scars don’t bleed, but they don’t feel as well, either. “Good-bye fo’ now, my love. Till we meet again.”
EUGENICS BOARD NATALITY CLINIC
FLORENCE
DISTRICT OF TUSCANY
PROVINCE OF ITALY
DOMINATION OF THE DRAKA
SEPTEMBER 1, 1976
“Now, shall we proceed, Citizen?” the doctor asked politely. He had glanced at the medal ribbons as she came into the office, and Yolande suspected he would look up her record again as soon as she left. A tall thin wiry man with cropped graying dark hair and brown eyes, with a Ground Command thumb ring. Technical Section, she decided.