See a quiver rise in Thisbe’s throat now, on her lips, as she glances back at the glassy bash’house, where generations shared the family duty, loving grandba’pas working side by side with the bright new generation, but where now Ockham, not yet thirty-one, is master of the house. There are many empty rooms upstairs. It was a rafting accident that claimed the Saneer-Weeksbooth elders—Humanists and their heroic risks. Ganymede knew, Romanova knew, the powers that be, they were informed at the time, but there was no obituary, no honors for these brave servants of the world, not one, not when all Hives hover hungry for an excuse to take away this all-powerful family business. I think the hardest kind of mourning is when you have to lie.
Thisbe hid her feelings with a laugh. “Makes sense. Cato does need it. I didn’t think of it.” Another defensive chuckle. “No insult intended, but a fluffy little Cousin doesn’t seem the type for such a grim specialty.”
“It was because of Mycroft Canner.” Carlyle can sound grim, in his light, icy way.
Thisbe stared. Thisbe sighed. “You wanted to be the one to make sure it never happens again?” She took a deep breath. “Wow. This … was handled very badly for you, I’m sorry. I had no idea the Canner Murders were such an important thing for you, more than for most people.” Deep breath. “I’m sorry.”
With an expression something between a wince and a slight smile, Carlyle nodded. “It’s all right. I didn’t tell you my specialty. You couldn’t have known.”
Julia craned her neck to make Carlyle meet her gaze, warm, earnest, condescending. “I’m sorry too that it worked out this way. Hmm?” She fixed a sweet little pout on Carlyle until he offered up a smile. “But, honestly, I didn’t expect you to run across Mycroft so soon, they aren’t around that much. You may be my most enthusiastic student, but I didn’t think you’d be here every single day; you only had two appointments this week. I got a call from your bash’ that they’ve hardly seen you the past three days, they were wondering where you were, and I hear you stood up Jamussa yesterday.” She held up a scolding finger. “I shouldn’t have better track of your dating life than you do.”
In better light one might have seen the pale-skinned Cousin blush.
“Good. Now,” Julia continued, “while it’s very poetic meeting under the moonlight, I’m sure poor Thisbe—may I call you Thisbe?”
“Whatever.”
“Then you must call me Julia. I’m sure poor Thisbe would like to get to bed. I will escort Carlyle home, we’ll talk on the way, they’ll get a good night’s sleep, they’ll spend some time at their bash’ tomorrow, rest, and stay out of your hair,” she smiled at Thisbe.
A smile of relief touched Thisbe’s cheeks, then faded. “No. I can’t let you go like this. Carlyle still thinks Mycroft is a danger, and they voiced explicit intent to tell people; that’s a threat to my bash’ and to the system. I’m a security officer, I cannot let you go until I have confidence that Carlyle is not going to take any destructive action.”
“Oh?” Julia chirruped, peering up again, her dark eyes into Carlyle’s blue. “You haven’t noticed Mycroft’s nonuniform shoes?”
Carlyle bit his lip in thought. “No…?”
“They’re Ahimsa shoes.”
Brightness flooded Carlyle’s face, as when dark shutters open to the cheer of noon. “Really?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Oh, Mycroft’s weird brushy-on-the-bottom shoes?” Thisbe asked. “I thought those were a Servicer thing, to scrub when you walk.”
Julia chuckled. “Fun guess. No, it’s a philosophical thing, extreme pacifists wear them. It’s named for an old Buddhist practice, but people do it for all reasons. The soles are soft bristles on the bottom, like a toothbrush, so they don’t kill insects if you step on them. Preservation of all life.”
“That’s…” The last shadows left Carlyle’s face. “Mycroft said death was too light a punishment for them, that they have to pay more.”
“Exactly.” Julia pushed back a stray chocolate curl. “Mycroft Canner is doing a very deep and dedicated social penance, and if their parole officers and I keep an extra-strict watch on them, it’s mostly because they have a bad habit of skipping meals, and overdoing anti-sleeps, and working themself to exhaustion.”
“Ahimsa shoes…” Carlyle ran his fingers through his hair, his voice gaining that nervous tenderness that edges upon awe. The earlier arguments had been the wrong ones for him: Bridger’s loyalty, Ockham’s duty, Thisbe’s good sense; what Carlyle needed was a sensayer.
“Mycroft Canner has had a very difficult path,” Julia continued, “and has very difficult things to live with, more difficult than anyone in the world. I’ve been working with them a long time. I’d love to look over the case together with a bash’ loss specialist.”
Carlyle took a deep breath, smiling at last. “I owe you an apology, Thisbe. I … reacted very extremely, and it was unfair to you. This was an unfair situation, and it wasn’t your fault.”
Thisbe pursed her lips. “Thank you.”
“You don’t need to worry about me going public.”
Again she pursed her lips. “I believe you. Thank you.”
Julia made a little victory gesture with her small fists, as when one successfully plays matchmaker, or scores a goal. “And now, since you’re satisfied, Thisbe, I prescribe, in the name of sanity, bed.”
Their eyes met here, Thisbe and Julia, the Humanist and European, a long, contemplative gaze exchanged between the pair who had both, until now, thought themselves unrivaled as the most important (living) woman in Mycroft Canner’s life. Each must have known in the abstract that the other existed, but neither had, I think, expected their first encounter to be quite so symmetrical. “Agreed,” Thisbe concluded. “This was very helpful, and I’m glad to see Mycroft and Carlyle both in good hands.” She offered a smile. “Europeans really are so sensible.” The addendum ‘compared to Cousins’ passed unsaid.
Julia gave a gratified nod. “I can put you on a waiting list for an appropriate Humanist sensayer if you like.”
“Thank you, but Carlyle’s excellent. A perfect choice.”
Both sensayers smiled.
Thisbe nodded. “Good night, Carlyle. I hope you get good rest.”
“Thank you. Good night, Thisbe. And I hope you’re not on duty too early tomorrow.”
An unhappy groan confessed she was.
The car was ready, and Julia had a thermos of soothing herbal tea. And now, reader, a conversation of a different kind, and a face of things that I myself was unaware of until later days.
Julia: “How’s progress?”
Carlyle: “Slow. Having this investigation on top of us is a big problem.”
Julia: “They’re accepting you?”
Carlyle: “Yes, though it was scary just now when Thisbe called you on the no-Humanists-available thing. But Thisbe seems happy with me.”
Julia: “Any access to Sniper yet?”
Carlyle: “No, nor Ockham. I did make inroads with Lesley Saneer, we’re starting off well. And I had a tough but productive little talk with one of the set-sets.”
Julia: “Have you seen the twins yet?”
Carlyle: “Not hide nor hair. I get the feeling they’re actually more unstable than Cato Weeksbooth, but nobody wants to talk about it.”
Julia: “They’ll be in good hands with you.”