Archive of Our Own ^beta

In the days following her return to Vorbarr Sultana, Helena found herself drawn to the historical district. Every afternoon, while Will was in school and David was teaching, she put Anna in her stroller and took her walking through the narrow, winding streets lined with trees and grand old houses, most of which still belonged to the same families who had owned them in the Time of Isolation. A few of them, she knew, had been sold to some of the recently wealthy non-Vor – one of the many signs, David informed her, that their lifetime would see the Vor system either abolished or obsolete.

Helena never knew what to say when her husband said these things, nor how to react to his self-satisfied tone. She'd told him once that it wouldn't change a thing for Komarr; with or without the Vor, Barrayar had no choice but to control its wormhole, and therefore Komarr. They had both wisely left it at that, but Helena knew what David thought, that even if she weren't Vor, she had bought into it, into the entirety of what she had always thought of as the Vor pageant, and which he referred to as mass psychosis.

It was the one sore point, really, in what was otherwise a very strong marriage, and they knew each other's limits well enough. But Helena had to admit that they had never been tested quite so frequently during their eight years together on Komarr as they had in the few short weeks since they had moved to Barrayar.

And perhaps, she thought, pausing with the stroller in the shade of an ancient tree of some indeterminate Earth variety, David wasn't entirely wrong about her. She found it disturbing how much had changed on Barrayar in the years of her absence. Perhaps, she thought, she was drawn to the historical district because it had not changed; everything, right down to the cobblestones, looked exactly the same as when she'd left.

Or maybe, she thought on her fifth day out, when she found herself standing, as if by magic, in front of the Imperial Residence for the first time, it was somewhat more . . . obvious.

"Mama is being an idiot," she told Anna, who was, as always, asleep by this time in their walk and would have only sucked her thumb at Helena even if she hadn't been. Helena turned the stroller around at once and started back home with a great deal of resolve.

But then it happened again. And again. Even if she started out the walk in the opposite direction, she always seemed to end up in the shadow of the great building, tilting her head back to peer up at the topmost windows. It was as though the streets were twisting, rearranging themselves, conspiring against her. A week and a half of this – this ridiculousness went by, and the only people Helena had seen were the palace guards, who had started to eye both her and Anna's stroller with suspicion, as though she might have a bomb hidden in among the stuffed animals and teething toys.

And then, one bright spring late morning, very like the day she had left the Residence for good, the gates swung open and a groundcar, nearly silent, armored, and black, slid out. She stopped dead, staring, though she could see nothing through the tinted windows. A guard appeared at her elbow.

"Madame," he said, politely, but with unmistakable authority, "if you please." He started to draw her away.

"Yes, of course," she meant to say, but never got much beyond the first syllable, because suddenly one of the groundcar's doors swung open – the vehicle wasn't even stopped all the way – and the Emperor emerged.

He . . . had not changed much at all, she thought dimly. Less than she had, she feared. He was still very lean, and the gray hair made him only more distinguished. His guards were rushing toward him, clearly alarmed by their liege's apparently arbitrary decision to expose himself to this random woman who had been seen lurking suspiciously in front of the Residence every morning for the last ten days.

He stopped them all with a wave of his hand. "Helena?" he said, disbelievingly.

Years of training asserted themselves immediately, thank God, and she dropped into a curtsy. "Sire," she said.

"My God," he said, taking a step forward. The pack of guards shifted with him, nervously. "I never thought – will you join me for lunch?"

"Oh –" she replied uncertainly.

"Sire," one of his aides said, "you have the Minister of –"

"Cancel it for me, please," the Emperor said. "That is," he added to Helena, "if you are agreeable?"

How could she not be? She had brought something for Anna with them – they often stopped at the park and she gave her daughter her lunch while they watched the ducks. "Yes, of course," she said at last. David will kill me if he finds out. Lunch with the Vor of Vors . . .

Her husband had no idea, of course, that there might be any other reason to be upset. He knew only she had once been the Imperial Nanny, and that had been bad enough. Ultimately it hadn't mattered – so little had in those heady first days of their relationship, when he had been so enamored of her that he had somehow won past her own reservations about him – but it had almost ended before it began on account of her former employer.

"Sire," one of the guards said significantly.

The Emperor glanced around. "Oh," he said, "quite. Shall we go in? They'll have to clear you, of course, and your," his voice faltered minutely, "daughter, but that shouldn't be a problem. What's her name?"

"Anna," Helena said fondly. She handed her ID to one of the aides, who dashed off with it.

"Is she your only child?" the Emperor asked. They were walking slowly up the long sweep of the driveway; the entrance to the gardens would be on her left, Helena remembered, but she didn't look.

"No," Helena replied. "She has an older brother, William – Will."

"Ah," he said. "I'm happy for you – I know how much you wanted children of your own."

She nodded her thanks. "And yours?" she asked. "How are the Princes?"

"Very well, thank you – and for the birthday cards as well, they always appreciate them."

"Oh," she said, "it was nothing. I can't imagine Aral remembers me very well, anyway."

"No, but Sasha does. He's at the Academy now, unfortunately. I'm sure he'd be thrilled to see you otherwise."

She felt the tips of her ears turn red. It was absurdly satisfying to find out that she had not been forgotten completely. Before she could reply – and what she might have said, she had no idea – the aide who had taken her ID came rushing back.

"Sire," he said, glancing toward her with a strange expression, "we have a problem."

"With her clearance?" The Emperor raised his eyebrows.

"Yes, Sire."

Oh hell. Helena had the sudden, absolutely dreadful feeling she knew where this was going. Her grip on her daughter's stroller tightened.

"What is it?" the Emperor asked.

"It's my husband," Helena said, before the aide could answer. "Isn't it?"

"Yes, madame." He glanced back toward the Emperor and said, "He's a known Komarran dissident."

"An intellectual dissident," Helena said, her face heating. "He doesn't – he writes things," she explained to the Emperor, "but he doesn't – he wouldn't –"

"I understand," the Emperor said. He looked considerably annoyed. "Perhaps I should remind ImpSec that some of my in-laws are known Komarran dissidents."

The aide looked extremely nervous. Helena knew it wasn't fair, he was just the messenger, but she was vengefully pleased by this. "Sire," was all he could manage.

The Emperor crossed his arms over his chest and pinched the bridge of his nose. "She raised my children for three years, I haven't seen her in ten, and ImpSec is going to make me have this conversation standing on the steps of the Residence?"

"I'm sorry, Sire," the aide said, and he did, in fact, sound very sorry – though Helena uncharitably thought that might be rather more for himself than anyone else, "but General Allegre would prefer you not have it at all."

"General Allegre knows her," the Emperor said in exasperation.

"Sire."

"Hell. I'm sorry," he said to Helena. "But give me a few days to sort this out. Sasha is actually coming home in three days for a school break, perhaps you could come for lunch then."

She nearly said yes. It was on the tip of her tongue, and then she thought of David. He needn't know; he was gone all day, and she need never tell him anything had happened at all. But spur of the moment was one thing – this had just happened, and she had been wholly unprepared for it. To arrange something, though, something she knew he would hate and then plan to lie to him about it – that was something else altogether. That had the taste of deception about it.

And that wasn't the only reason to say no.

"I'm sorry, too," she said, "but perhaps this isn't the best idea. Please give the Empress," she added, with just the slightest emphasis, "my fondest regards."

"I will," the Emperor promised, one corner of his mouth dipping wryly. "I'd ask you to give my best to your husband, and to tell him I said he's a lucky man, but I rather suspect he wouldn't appreciate it."

"Not very much, no," she replied dryly.

"It was good to see you again," he said, with very genuine warmth.

"Likewise, Sire," she said, and allowed herself to be escorted back down to the sidewalk. She took a deep breath and managed to turn away without glancing back, a feat she regarded as only mildly Herculean.

"Well, Anna," she said after some time; her daughter had, predictably, slept through the entire ordeal. "Shall we tell your Da that we got thrown out of the Imperial Residence for subversive political connections on our walk today?" David would probably be pleased, come to think of it. She could not be, though, and it would only raise her blood pressure to see that he was. It would be best to say nothing at all, and make sure it didn't happen again. Tomorrow they would have to find a new route.

Fin.