Taura made a face. "And you accuse her of having wedding heebie-jeebies! Miles, listen. You know how the recruits got pre-combat nerves, before they went out on a mission the first time?"
"Oh, yes."
"Now. Do you remember how they got pre-combat nerves before they had to go out on a big drop for the second time?"
After a long pause, m'lord said, "Oh." Another silence. "I hadn't thought of it like that. I thought it was me."
"That's because you're an egotist. I only met the woman for one hour, but even I could see that you're the delight of her eyes. At least consider, for five consecutive seconds, the possibility that it might be him. The late Vorsoisson, whoever he was."
"Oh, he was something else, all right. I've cursed him before for the scars he left on her soul."
"I don't think you have to say anything, much. Just be there. And be not him."
M'lord drummed his fingers on the banister. "Yes. Maybe. God. Pray God. Dammit..." He glanced across at Roic, ignored like Vorkosigan House furniture, a rack to hold coats. A dummy. "Roic, scrape up a vehicle; meet me back here in a few minutes. I want you to drive me over to Ekaterin's aunt's and uncle's house. I'm going to run up and change out of this armor-plating first, though." He ran his fingers across the elaborate silver embroidery upon his sleeve. He turned away, and his boot-steps scuffed up the stairs.
This was way too alarming. "What in t' world's going on?" Roic dared to ask Taura.
"Ekaterin's aunt called him. I gather Ekaterin lives at her house—"
"With Lord Auditor and Professora Vorthys, yes. She's been going to University from there."
"Anyway, the bride-to-be seems to be having some sort of awful nervous breakdown, or something." She frowned. "Or something ... Miles isn't sure if he should go over and sit with her or not. I think he should."
That didn't sound good. In fact, it sounded about as not-good as it could be.
"Roic..." Taura's brows knotted. "Do you happen to know ... could I find any commercial pharmaceutical laboratories open at this time of night in Vorbarr Sultana?"
"Pharmaceutical labs?" Roic repeated blankly. "Why, do you feel sick too? I can call out the Vorkosigans' personal physician for you, or one of the medtechs who ride herd on the Count and Countess..." Would she need some kind of off-world specialist? No matter, the Vorkosigan name could access one, he was sure. Even on Bonfire Night.
"No, no, I feel fine. I was just wondering."
"Nothing much is open tonight. It's a holiday. Everyone's out to the parties and bonfires and the fireworks. Tomorrow, too. It'll be the first day of the new year here, by the Barrayaran calendar."
She smiled briefly. "It would be. A new start all round; I'll bet he liked the symbolism of that."
"I suppose hospital labs are open all night. Their emergency treatment intakes will be. Busy as hell, too. We used to bring the ones in Hassadar all kinds of customers on Bonfire Night."
"Hospitals, yes, of course! I should have thought of them at once."
"Why do you want one?" he asked again.
She hesitated. "I'm not sure that I do. It was just a train of thought I had earlier this evening, when that aunt-lady called Miles. Not sure I like its destination, though...." She turned away and swung up the stairs, taking them two at a time without effort. Roic frowned, and went off to scare up a vehicle from whatever remained in the sub-basement garage. With so many signed out to transport the household and its guests already, this might take some rapid extemporizing.
But Taura had spoken to him, almost normally. Maybe ... maybe there were such things as second chances. If a fellow was brave enough to take them...
Lord Auditor and Professora Vorthys's home was a tall, old, colorfully-tiled structure close to the District University. The street was quiet when Roic pulled the car—borrowed without notification, ultimately, from one of the armsmen off with the Count at the Residence—up to the front. From a distance, mainly in the direction of the university, drifted the sharp crackle of fireworks, harmonious singing, and blurred drunken singing. A rich, heady scent of wood smoke and black powder permeated the frosty night air.
The porch light was on. The Professora, an aging, smiling, neat Vor lady who intimidated Roic only slightly less than did Lady Alys, let them in herself. Her soft round face was tense with worry.
"Did you tell her I was coming?" m'lord asked in a low tone as he shed his coat. He stared anxiously up the stairs leading from the narrow, wood-paneled hallway.
"I didn't dare."
"Helen ... what should I do?" M'lord looked suddenly smaller, and scared, and younger and older all at the same time.
"Just go up, I think. This isn't something that's about talking, or words, or reason. I've run through all those."
He buttoned, then unbuttoned the gray tunic he'd thrown on over an old white shirt, pulled down his sleeves, took a deep breath, mounted the stairs and turned out of sight. After a minute or two, the Professora stopped picking nervously at her hands, gestured Roic to a straight chair beside a small table piled with books and flimsies, and tiptoed up after him.
Roic sat in the hall and listened to the old house creak. From the sitting room, visible through one archway, a glow from a fireplace gilded the air. Through the opposite archway, the Professora's study lay, lined with books; the light from the hall picked out an occasional bit of gold lettering on an ancient spine in the gloom. Roic wasn't bookish himself, but he liked the comfortable academic smell of this place. It occurred to him that back when he was a Hassadar guard, he'd never once gone into a house to clean up a bad scene, blood on the walls and evil smells in the air, where there were books like this.
After a long time, the Professora came back down to the hall.
Roic ducked his head respectfully. "Is she sick, ma'am?"
The tired-looking woman pursed her lips and let her breath run out. "She certainly was last night. Terrible headache, so bad she was crying and almost vomiting. But she thought she was much better this morning. Or she said she was. She wanted to be better. Maybe she was trying too hard."
Roic peered anxiously up the staircase. "Would she see him?"
The tension in her face eased a little. "Yes."
"Is it going to be all right?"
"I think so, now." Her lips sought a smile. "Anyway, Miles says you are to go on home. That he expects to be a while, and that he'll call if he needs anything."
"Yes, ma'am." He rose, gave her a kind of vague salute copied from m'lord's own style, and let himself out.
The night duty guard at the gate kiosk reported no entries since Roic had left. The festivities at the Imperial residence would go on till dawn, although Roic didn't expect Vorkosigan House's attendees to stay that late, not with the grand party planned here for tomorrow afternoon and evening. He put the borrowed car away in the sub-basement garage, relieved that it hadn't acquired any hard-to-explain dings in its passage back through some of the rowdier crowds between here and the university.
He made his way softly up through the mostly-darkened great house. All was quiet now. The kitchen crew had at last retreated till tomorrow's onslaught. The maids and menservants had gone to roost. For all that he complained about missing the daytime excitements, Roic usually enjoyed these quiet night hours when the whole world seemed his personal property. Granted, by three hours before dawn, coffee would be a necessity little less urgent than oxygen. But by two hours before dawn, life would start trickling back, as those with early duties roused themselves and padded down to start work. He checked the security monitors in the basement HQ and started his physical rounds. Floor by floor, window and door, never in quite the same order or at quite the same hour.