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She had always known that this is what it would come to. From the day she had first stepped onto Barrayaran soil, she had known that – barring some random act of chance – this is where she would be someday, in a wide, empty bed, arm stretched out to feel the cold sheets where he should have lain. She had looked ahead to it many times, in the depths of night when he was asleep and she had found herself unaccountably wakeful.

Widow.

She had thought it might be like stepping off the edge of a cliff, and falling and falling and falling forever because there was no one there to grab you and pull you back from the edge to begin with. She had thought it might be like being punched in the stomach, sudden and painful and disorienting, something that left you sore afterwards but able to eventually straighten up and go on. Or perhaps it would be like a sonic grenade tossed at your groundcar, muffling all sound and sensation and at the same time leaving you with an overwhelming sense of your own vulnerability.

She was entirely unsurprised to find that it wasn't even remotely like any of these things.

She didn't have a metaphor for it. It was as constant and cold as his side of the bed, and it was eating away at her slowly, in bits and pieces of herself and her sanity. She didn't think anyone had noticed yet, but she had. In the days before his death, watching how its approach had affected her grandchildren, she had wondered if it might not be best to stay after all. But then the end had come, with sudden, swift finality, and in its wake she had begun to realize some of the myriad of reasons that she could not. She was in her eighties; she might have as much as forty years left to her, and she could not spend them here, on this blighted planet with its blighted politics.

She thought Miles would understand. But she was almost certain she knew someone who wouldn't.

Gregor woke suddenly and with the certainty that Miles was awake as well, a warm, too-tense presence in the bed. A glance at the bedside chrono showed that it was still very early; no one would wake them for another hour and a half. Gregor rolled over and slid his hand down Miles's back, over his hip, and around to clasp his hand. Miles started slightly, and then turned onto his back to look at Gregor in the faint glowing green of the chrono's numbers.

"Did you sleep at all?" Gregor asked.

"Some. Not much."

"You should have taken a sleeptimer."

Miles closed his eyes and turned his head away, and Gregor didn't say anything more. Miles had been closed off to him during these past two days of interminable ceremony, silent and locked up in his own head. It had stung, though Gregor had tried not to let it. Gregor barely remembered the death of his own father, forty-five years earlier. What he did remember was mostly ensconced in a vague recollection of the medical smell of his grandfather's last years and the blur of vibrantly colored skirts and expensive, sweet perfume that were his memories of his mother. He had not cried at the funeral, and had been proud of himself. His mother had not cried either, as she had guided his hand to light the pyre.

He could not pretend, then, to know what it was like to lose a father when you were forty-five years old and had had your entire life to know him and love him. He could not understand what Miles felt when Gregor surprised a look of lost, frightened sadness in his eyes.

"Vasha's nervous about today," Miles said at last. His voice was heavy with exhaustion, the same wrung-out weariness that Gregor had seen on Cordelia's face last night.

"He'll do well."

"I know." More silence. Gregor pressed his face into the back of Miles's neck. Miles shivered and asked, with uncharacteristic hesitation, "Do you think – maybe Natasha shouldn't go?"

"I don't know," Gregor said with a sigh. "She'll behave herself."

"That's not what I'm worried about." Miles pulled away and sat up; he leaned forward and put his head in his hands, rubbed at his temples.

"Headache?" Gregor asked. Miles nodded. Gregor switched on the bedside lamp, making them both blink in the sudden brightness, and fetched two painkillers and a glass of water from the bathroom. Miles swallowed them both down, and then crawled up and sprawled out across Gregor's chest, head in the crook of Gregor's neck. Gregor smoothed his hands down Miles's back. "You should try and sleep some more."

"Yeah."

Gregor closed his eyes and tried to be still and soothing. He drifted in and out of early morning sleep, Miles's weight in his arms following him into dreams where he wandered in and out of rooms in the Residence, opening and closing doors. Some of them led nowhere, some of them led into rooms that were only vaguely familiar, which he thought might have existed before the fire of the Pretendership. Ugly, oppressive antiques stared at him. He closed those doors and continued. His arms ached. Someone was knocking.

He opened his eyes – Rete, with the coffee. Miles slept on, while Gregor gently disentangled himself and went to prepare for an impossible day.

Cordelia waited for Gregor in the breakfast room, just next door to the children's suite where Natasha and Aral lived, and Vasha as well when he was home from the Academy. She could hear her grandchildren being reluctantly rousted out of bed and fed. There were sounds of small feet running and then a squeal of little girl laughter that was immediately suppressed by an indistinct but sharp reproof in Aral's voice. Her younger grandson had greeted the news of his beloved grandfather's death with silence, barely whitening around the lips.

Gregor, when he appeared, was unaccompanied by Miles and not yet dressed for the day in soft, worn, shapeless slacks and a wrinkled button down shirt two sizes too big for him. He did not seem surprised to see her. They murmured their good mornings and Cordelia waited until Gregor had been served groats and coffee. She shook her head to food, and sipped her tea.

"Is Miles still sleeping?" she asked.

"Yes. He wouldn't take a sleeptimer last night. I think he got a few hours." He eyed her critically. "Did you?"

"A bit." She was finding it almost impossible to sleep in their bed alone. She and Aral had spent nights apart during their marriage, but not many and never for long. She had always felt as though time were about to run out and now it finally had. "I wanted to talk to you," she said after a moment. She watched his hands as he sliced strawberries over his morning groats, the juice dying the groats pink.

He nodded, as though he'd known already, and waited for her to speak. When she didn't, he said, "I wish you would stay."

He knew then. And if he knew, Miles must know, though they had never spoken of it. "I can't stay. Not without Aral. I have never – Barrayar is not –"

"I still wish you would stay."

"I won't leave immediately," she said. "I wouldn't do that. It will be a few months at least."

"I know." He said nothing for a long time, ate nothing, and would not look at her. She watched his profile. "I had hoped . . . Miles has known for a long time that this is what you would choose, but I had hoped that something would be enough to keep you here. That we would be enough."

"It's not –"

"Isn't it?"

She sighed, bone-weary and impatient. "I want to go home, Gregor. I'm tired."

Gregor cleared his throat. "Well, I can certainly understand that. Excuse me, I need to dress." He hadn't eaten a thing. The door to their bedroom slid shut behind him, closing off her view of the defensive, almost angry set to his shoulders.

She sighed, and sipped her tea. "Well, Aral," she said aloud, wondering not for the first time if this sudden penchant for talking out loud would eventually go away. "That didn't go very well."

They arrived at Vorkosigan House with as little fanfare as possible, avoiding the press by going around the back way, behind Ekaterin's garden. Miles sat beside Aral in the groundcar, both of them tightlipped and tired. Once inside the house, Miles was borne off with Vasha, who had a part to play in the ceremony that afternoon, and Aral disappeared without a word. Gregor stood in the black and white tiled foyer, holding Natasha's hand until she started to fidget, and then led her into the library. To his relief it was empty.

"Let's wait in here awhile," he told Natasha. "Until someone needs us."

"Okay," she said, and climbed up next to him as he sat on the couch. "Will you braid my hair?" she asked.

"Sweetie, Mina braided it this morning. It's very pretty."

"I like how you do it better," she replied, and, not waiting for his reply, turned to sit with her back to him. Obligingly, he untied the black bow at the end of her long, dark plait and combed through the strands with his fingers. It was wavy from having been braided while wet, and still a little damp. He started at the crown, just as Ekaterin had taught him when he'd gone to her in the days before Natasha's birth and confessed that he didn't know anything about how to raise a girl – didn't have any understanding of girls at all, really, having never had much reason to learn – and would she please take pity on him and Miles, not to mention poor Natasha. Like Cordelia and Alys, she had informed him that unless one went about it in a very silly way, it wasn't all that different from raising boys. But she had taught Gregor how to braid hair, a comforting thing her mother had done for her. Miles was terrible at it – Natasha said he pulled too hard, and the braid always came out loose and sloppy– but Gregor had found that he liked the little movements involved, and he very much liked that they could just sit together, not speaking, while he did it.

"Papa?" Natasha said, when he was just about done.

"Mmm?"

"Aral cried this morning. In the bathroom. And he shouted at me when I saw."

"Ah." Gregor tied the bow carefully on the end, and Natasha reached up to feel the braid. "Aral is very sad because Grand'da died," he said, as she shifted around to look at him. "And probably he was embarrassed that you saw him cry."

"Why?"

"Because probably he thinks that men aren't supposed to cry."

"But I saw Daddy crying yesterday and he wasn't embarrassed."

Gregor froze briefly. "When did you see that, sweetie?"

"Yesterday," she repeated, patiently. "He was sitting at the desk and he cried. Not a lot," she added. "Just a little bit. I gave him a hug."

"Did you say anything to you?"

She nodded. "He said thank you. And then he read me a story."

"I see."

"He didn't get mad at me."

"Well, Aral's only ten, you know."

Her tiny nose wrinkled. "That's pretty old."

Gregor smiled. "Not really. And this is hard for him. He loved Grand'da very much."

She nodded, and reached up to pat her braid again, as though checking it was still there. "I loved him too," she said, and leaned her dark head against Gregor's arm.

"I know you did."

"Did you love him?" She stared up at Gregor, huge gray eyes in a pale, faintly freckled face.

"Of course," Gregor said, raising his eyebrows. He smoothed a hand over her dark head and met her very serious regard with his own. "Sometimes he and I argued. You know how Vasha and Daddy argue sometimes?" She nodded. "But it doesn't mean they don't love each other anymore, and eventually they . . . work things out." More or less. She nodded again. "Well, it was a bit like that with Grand'da and me. We loved each other – he was very, very important to me when I was your age, because my father died when I was younger than you. But he worried about Daddy – he worried that something would happen to him because Daddy and I fell in love." And he never quite forgave me . . .

No. Such thoughts were unworthy. Gregor believed – or liked to believe, at any rate – that all the old wounds had been healed the day he placed Vasha in Aral's arms. That had done much for the two of them. It hadn't worked a miracle, of course, but it had . . . helped.

"Don't you worry," he concluded, ghosting a hand over Natasha's head once more. "Things will be better after today." He didn't mention that she'd likely be losing her grandmother soon as well, which might be more traumatic, all things considered. "Why don't you go find a book for us to read?" he suggested, and she slid off the couch willingly.

She had never particularly liked her dressing room. The concept of even having a dressing room had been foreign to her when she had first arrived, and later, after she had adjusted and acculturated as much as she ever would, she had always thought of this part of it – taking two hours and three maids to get into your clothes and makeup – with irony. Some days playing dress-up, as she had always thought of it, had held a certain appeal for her; on others it had tried her patience sorely.

But now this room, with its detritus of Barrayaran femaleness that she had acquired despite herself and few signs of him, was the only room where she felt quite . . . well. And even here – a glance at the chrono revealed she'd just lost ten minutes staring into the mirror, trying to recognize the person she saw there, a seeming stranger with red-roan hair and bags under her eyes who looked vaguely like her. She'd unnerved her maid, she realized, until she'd made an excuse and left.

Talking out loud, losing time staring into a mirror . . . I need to get off this damn planet.

There was a quiet rap at the door, and it opened. Alys swept in, an elegant sail of black silk. She surveyed Cordelia for a moment and then sighed, as in resignation. "Where's your maid?"

"Downstairs, helping Ekaterin with the floral arrangements," Cordelia said; she thought that was what the poor girl had said as she had fled. "I won't need her for another hour yet."

Alys seated herself on the divan next to Cordelia in a whisper of black silk skirts and pursed her lips disapprovingly. Cordelia waited for a remark about how that only gave her two hours to dress, but it didn't come. "What are you thinking about?"

Cordelia drew a deep breath. "I am thinking about cultural responses to widowhood," she said, lying. She had been thinking about it earlier though, before the mirror had caught her eye. "Barrayar does quite well with them, actually. They're not expected to actually die with their husbands, nor live in seclusion for the rest of their lives, nor any number of other unpleasant things humanity has come up with over the millennia. Very well, really, all things considered."

Alys adjusted her bolero, black with gray trim, stylish in mourning as in everything else, and met Cordelia's eyes in the mirror. "Are you staying after all then?"

"No."

"I thought not. And what about Miles? And the children?"

"They'll be fine. I don't deny that it is a selfish decision, Alys, but sometimes the selfish decision is the right one." Alys didn't answer. Cordelia turned her face away from the mirror to look her squarely in the eyes. "You don't approve, do you?"

"Cordelia," Alys said, rather sharply, "I strongly suggest that you stop looking for approval on this. You certainly never have on anything else. It's your life and you must do as you see fit, especially now."

"Thank you."

"But it is a luxury, I hope you know," Alys said, with that same sharpness. "Some of us never had that option."

"Would you have wanted to leave?" Cordelia asked, raising her eyebrows. That Alys might feel her leaving as a betrayal or even a criticism had never before occurred to her, though she thought that perhaps it should have. She could not imagine Lady Alys Vorpatril anywhere but Barrayar.

"No," Alys admitted. "Barrayar is my home. But it isn't yours, even after all this time, and perhaps that isn't entirely our fault."

"It's not a matter of fault," Cordelia said, startled. "Alys, you must know that. I just . . . I don't think I could do what you did. Have done, for years."

"What I had to do," Alys corrected. "And I think you are very mistaken. We do what we must."

"I've done what I must for long enough," Cordelia replied firmly. "It's time for a change in philosophy."

Alys sighed. "Well, perhaps you are right. I apologize, Cordelia. The truth is – of course I don't approve. I shall miss you terribly, you know."

Cordelia reached over and covered Alys's hand with her own. "I do know," she said, looking down at their hands on the dresser. "And – I'm not leaving because I don't –"

"I know." Alys turned her hand palm up, gave Cordelia's one firm squeeze, and then let go, straightening her spine. Cordelia followed her example and drew a deep breath. "What will you do there?" Alys asked after a brief silence.

"I haven't the faintest idea," Cordelia said honestly. "But I've been thinking . . . Aral and I did talk once, years ago. I'm not so old for Beta Colony, and – I think I'd like to have a daughter."

Alys nodded, and almost smiled. "A worthy occupation. And now," she said briskly, "we really must do something about your complexion. That red and white blotchiness just won't do for the holovids."

Cordelia nodded with some feeling of gratitude, and, averting her gaze from the mirror, allowed Alys to take over. What would it be like, she wondered, to be back on Beta Colony and make her own decisions – really make her own decisions, without taking politics or anyone but herself into account – for the first time in years? She supposed that leaving was the first such decision. She was finding it . . . difficult. Painful. But then, the decision to leave Beta the first time had been as well. Starting over always was, and this would be a bit like dying, being born, and giving birth, all at once.

There was a significant crowd already gathered outside Vorhartung Castle when the Imperial motorcade pulled up outside. The traditional seat of the Council of Counts had been draped in black for two days now, the usual colorful flurry of District flags lowered to half-mast, and the large banners flanking the main entrance replaced with simple sheets of black silk. Inside the Count's body was laid out in state for people to pay their regards in a slightly less ceremonious fashion. The crowd, which seemed to be composed mostly of surly Counts and their hangers-on, along with a few members of the press, watched in strangely respectful silence as the Imperial Family exited their groundcar. Head held high, Vasha strode ahead at Miles's side, while Natasha, shy before the holovids, clutched Gregor's hand and reverted to sucking her thumb, a habit she'd nearly shaken off. As for Aral . . . well, it was only because Gregor was standing so close to him that he saw him flinch. Gregor rested his hand lightly on his youngest son's shoulder as they entered the richly appointed foyer. The main hall lay off to the right; Gregor saw Aral glance inside, and away again. Gregor squeezed his shoulder.

"I have to meet with Sitzen," Gregor said to Miles, letting his hand fall away from Aral's back. "To talk about my eulogy. Would you like to –"

"No. Mine's done."

"Are you sure? You could have someone look it over at least."

Miles shook his head. "It's done. I'm not having a speechwriter touch this."

Gregor nodded. "It shouldn't take very long – about half an hour or so at most. Then we could . . ." He nodded subtly towards the room. "If you want. Get them to clear the room, I mean. It'll be the last opportunity before everything starts."

Miles swallowed. "Yeah," he said. "But not . . ." He nodded toward Natasha, who somehow managed to clutch Vasha's hand in both of hers and yet not dislodge her thumb from its firm position in her mouth.

"Right," Gregor agreed quickly. "I'll be back in a bit." He hesitated, and then leaned in to kiss Miles, just briefly. Miles's expression when he pulled away was at first startled, and then grateful.

Sitzen was waiting for Gregor in the elegant but highly impersonal office Gregor kept at the Castle. "Sire," he said, holding out a draft for Gregor's perusal. Gregor leaned against the desk to read it over.

The death of a Count was not really unusual, he reflected, skimming the remarks. The median age of the Council was about sixty, after all, and the lifespan of the average Barrayaran male in peacetime was still only about seventy-eight, up from what it used to be but still well below the galactic average. But Aral Vorkosigan had been so much more than a Count. Seeing the man's life condensed like this into a page and a half, he could well understand the despair he knew had often plagued Miles as a young man, that no matter what he did, he would always be a footnote in the story of his father. That . . . was no longer one of Miles's concerns.

The eulogy was well written, of course, but far too dry. Gregor took out a stylus and glanced at Sitzen. "I'm going to have a go at this myself."

Sitzen looked nervous. "Sire . . ." Gregor frowned. "Of course, Sire. But we should have it for the press in the next half hour."

"I'll be done by then," Gregor assured him, and Sitzen bowed himself out. Gregor seated himself behind the too-large sprawl of the desk. No, he thought, it wasn't every day that Barrayar lost one of its Great Men – nor every day that Gregor himself attempted to lay to rest one of the most important and difficult relationships of his own life. Fathers and sons, he thought with a certain bewilderment, and tried to remember what people had said about his own father at his funeral: all lies, he was quite sure now. Had the Count spoken? No. Gregor was fairly certain he hadn't.

There had been a moment, very near the end, when Gregor and Aral had found themselves alone. They had looked at each other, the Count struggling with something, and Gregor had felt his father's ghost in the room, had felt him as a restive, bitter presence at the back of his neck. He'd shivered, and suddenly, more than anything, had wanted to remain ignorant of whatever the Count was about to tell him.

"Let it go, Aral," he'd said quietly.

The Count had let out a dry, wheezy breath. "Let the dying bury the dead?"

"Yes, sir. Please."

The Count had nodded, and looked down. An IV ran into the large vein in the back of his hand. "I did my best for you. I'm sorry I wasn't –"

"You were," Gregor had said, quietly and firmly. "You did well, Aral." He'd licked his lips then, formed the words in his head, words he'd said a million times for little things that hardly mattered, but never for the biggest thing of all, first because he was young and stupid and didn't even know he should say it, and later because . . . well, he wasn't sure why. "Thank you."

The Count had shaken his head, and, after a beat of silence, simply turned it away. For some reason, Gregor hadn't felt it as a dismissal, and had stayed sitting silently with him until Cordelia and Miles returned.

Gregor sighed, and rubbed his eyes wearily. There was so much he couldn't say in this eulogy, but he could certainly do better than dry phrases about being the greatest man of his time. Slowly he let stylus touch flimsy, and began to write.

Pym and Roic were stationed outside the entrance to the main hall of the Council when Cordelia arrived, rather later than she had intended. Not that it mattered; it wasn't as if they could start without her. Cordelia took a breath, and forced herself to proceed with the dignity she'd been informed was worthy of a dowager Countess, however much she may have wanted to hurry. She was finding this sort of thing much more difficult, without Aral. She supposed it might get easier, given time, but she didn't really care to find out. She had done so very many things under microscopic scrutiny on Barrayar. This would be the last of them.

"M'lady," Pym said, echoed by Roic, as she approached.

"Pym," she said, dredging part of a smile up from somewhere. "Are they . . ?"

"They're all inside, m'lady," Pym said. "Except the Princess, who is with Lady Kareen."

"Ah," Cordelia said. "A wise decision." The laying-in-state was one of the less horrible funereal practices on Barrayar, allowing as it did some semblance of private grief. The two days of ridiculous, drawn-out ceremony after ceremony that had come before were a different story altogether. It had exhausted her, even as it had strengthened her resolve. She wanted nothing more than to be someplace sensible.

The bier was at the far end of the hall, stretched out beneath two huge banners with the Vorkosigan crest picked out in black on blacker silk. Gregor and Miles and Vasha stood at the front, Gregor's hand on the small of Miles's back. Mark was seated off to the side. And Aral . . . a small movement to Cordelia's left made her turn, and she saw him in the very last row of chairs, a small figure in black. For a moment, a sense of déjà vu overwhelmed her, and she couldn't understand why – and then she realized that sitting there, Aral wore the same sad, half-frightened, terribly lost look that she had occasionally seen on Gregor's face when he was young. He was, she realized, completely white and almost shaking with the effort of not weeping.

"Good morning," she said, trying not to startle him. He shot a resentful glance at her, and mumbled something that might, with imagination, have vaguely resembled Good morning. She gathered her black skirts in one hand and sat beside him. After a moment she said, carefully not looking at him, "Did your Da ever tell you that he blamed himself for his own grandfather's death for years?"

"No," Aral answered after a beat of silence.

"Well, he did."

"Why?"

"Because," Cordelia sighed, "Barrayaran men are all completely mad. I've come to this conclusion after long scientific observation," she added, when he gave her a dubious look. "But really it was because Piotr died the day after Miles failed the physical portion of his Academy entrance exams."

More silence. And then, a very small, "Oh."

"Of course that had absolutely nothing to do with it. Piotr had been ill for months. And so had your grandfather," she said, turned to look at him now, and forcing him to meet and hold her gaze. "So any guilt you might be feeling is unnecessary."

"He told you then?" Aral asked.

"Yes."

"Was he disappointed?"

"No. Well . . ." Cordelia sighed. "As I said, all Barrayaran men are mad."

"He was then."

"No. He was surprised. And I don't know if it matters to you much, but I for one am thrilled that you have somehow managed to resist the psychosis. Which I told him. You wouldn't know it living here, but there are many, many professions besides the military. In most of them, you never have to kill anyone at all."

"Yeah," Aral mumbled, looking away again.

"Actually, I believe just about the first conversation your grandfather and I ever had I called him a hired killer – or something like that. It was a long time ago." Almost fifty years. Where had it all gone? "Do you know what you might want to do instead?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I like science."

She smiled at him. "So do I."

He nodded, trying and failing to match her smile. "I know."

They sat side by side without speaking, until she thought he had started to look a little less peaked. The last thing she wanted was him fainting; wouldn't the press (of which she was generally in favor, but which had, on more than one occasion, invoked her ire by messing with her grandchildren) have a field day with that. "Have you told your parents?" she asked at last, when he was no longer quite so chalk-white.

"One of them," he muttered, slumping a little.

"Which one?"

"You know. The easy one."

"What did he say?"

He shrugged again, a little sullenly. "He said it's too early for me to choose something. Which I guess is just another way of saying I'm too young to know. He's wrong though. And I don't want to go to the preparatory academy next year."

"It would probably be a waste, preparing you for something you have no intention of doing," Cordelia agreed. "Well, don't leave your Da for too long. And just remember, he'll get over it."

"Someday."

"Sooner than you think. And if he gives you trouble, direct him to me and I'll straighten him out. Gladly."

He shot her a profoundly grateful look, and when she stood up to join the others at the front, he followed. If there was any argument for her to stay, she reflected, it was conversations like the one she'd just had. Not that Miles and Gregor weren't excellent parents, of course, but part of her felt simply sick at the thought of leaving her grandchildren on Barrayar, with very little between them and a world that would use them up until there was nothing left if so allowed. Gregor and Miles had grown up mostly healthy and sane, but there had been so many times when she'd feared it wouldn't be so, despite everyone's best efforts. Barrayar was better now, but still . . . if there was any argument, that was the one.

And yet, not even it was enough.

It was a good thing Vorkosigan House's staff was as frighteningly competent as it was, Gregor reflected, because with one thing and another – mostly the press – he and Miles and Mark and Cordelia were nearly the last people to reach Vorkosigan House for the reception following the conclusion of the ceremonies. Between Ma Kosti in the kitchen, Lord Vortala on security, and Delia Galeni for social direction, it hardly seemed to matter. Gregor made sure Natasha was being looked after and then went to find his spouse, who seemed to have disappeared on him sometime after exiting the car, and possibly a glass of wine.

After spending several futile minutes looking for Miles among the crowd in the ballroom, and getting waylaid by several dozen people offering their sympathies (and fishing for inside information on Miles's plans in the Council) in the process, Gregor finally found both him and wine in the library – along with Ivan.

"There you are," Gregor said, frowning a little. The bottle of wine on the end-table was nearly empty, though it appeared, to Gregor's experienced eye, that Ivan had drunk most of it.

"Shh," Miles said and gestured hastily. "Shut the door behind you."

"Your mother and brother told me to tell you that you'd best make a prolonged appearance in that ballroom as soon as humanly possible or they would both have your hide. I'm quoting," Gregor said, looking down at Miles, sprawled in an armchair.

Miles sighed. "I will. I just . . . needed a break." The afternoon's ceremonies had been over-long, and Miles, as the new Count Vorkosigan, had perforce been at the center. He had done very well, as had Vasha, but it was simply too much, Gregor thought. Private grief had left Miles with little energy for the spectacle of public grieving.

"It'll be over in a few hours," Gregor said gently, looking down at him.

"I know," Miles said. "I'm fine. It's just –" he shrugged, and attempted a lighter tone, "you know I don't have that much patience with old Vor tradition on my best days."

Gregor nodded, and glanced to Ivan. "And your excuse?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Historical vertigo," Ivan pronounced with unaccustomed gravity.

"Excuse me?"

"Gran'da's funeral," Miles explained. "I had just flunked the physical entrance exams to the Academy and killed my grandfather with the disappointment. We got drunk."

"Until your father came in to lecture me about swiving the servant girls," Ivan said, managing to seem both embarrassed and nostalgic at the same time.

"No, actually, he came in to make sure I wasn't swiving Elena," Miles sighed.

Gregor's eyebrows shot up. "Really?"

"Not that I ever got close to doing any such thing," Miles said, contemplating his wine glass.

"Lucky for you," Gregor said, lowering himself into the chair next to Miles. "Oaths or no oaths, I imagine Sergeant Bothari would have had something to say about that."

Miles grimaced in agreement and swallowed the last of his wine. "I suppose I really had better . . ." He gestured toward the door.

"I think it would be appreciated," Gregor said. "I won't be long." Miles nodded and heaved himself to his feet.

Ivan, leaning his head back against the armchair, seemed oddly fixated by the door swinging shut behind Miles. He said nothing, and Gregor, watching him discretely, was reminded that Ivan had never known his father either. That was easy to forget, somehow. He realized suddenly that he had no idea what sort of relationship Ivan and Aral had had. Not a particularly affectionate one, he knew. Occasionally an adversarial one. Perhaps it was only in the absence that Ivan himself realized what Aral had been to him.

"If you don't mind my asking," Gregor said, when Ivan went on not saying anything, "how are you . . . doing?"

Ivan shrugged. "All right, I suppose. Well," he amended, "no, not really. I shouldn't have been shocked, I suppose, but I was."

"I think that's often how it is," Gregor said reflectively. In truth, the Count's death at ninety-three years of age had been anything but sudden. Everyone had known it was coming for weeks, if not months. Still, Gregor had never quite been able to grasp – and perhaps Miles hadn't either – just what the Count's death would mean until it had happened. The subtle, unrelenting ache in Gregor's chest had been entirely unexpected; perhaps that was what Ivan meant, rather than the event itself.

They were silent together for time. Finally Ivan shook his head and sat up, setting his wine glass aside without refilling it, to Gregor's relief. "Don't worry. I'll be fine, really."

Gregor nodded, glanced at his watch, and stood. "Are you coming to Vorkosigan Surleau tonight?"

"No. Cordelia asked, but frankly I've had more than enough ceremony these past few days."

Gregor could certainly understand that, though privately, he thought that Ivan had it backwards; the brief interment of the Count's ashes at the long lake was the only part of any of this for those who had really known the Count. But everyone would handle this however they could, and he certainly understood the desire to return to something resembling normal. For some of them it would be more normal than others, he reflected, thinking of Cordelia standing alone during the ceremonies this afternoon and the last two days. He felt a sudden pang of something very like guilt.

He excused himself. Ivan barely seemed to notice.

Gregor reappeared in the ballroom shortly after Miles. Cordelia, who was standing with Ekaterin, perhaps one of two people in the room who didn't seem to want to treat her as though she were made of spun glass, watched him watch Miles for a few seconds. Her son moved from group to group, shaking hands, accepting condolences, politicking, whatever the moment required of him, easy and efficient in this arena. Finally she saw Gregor give a small nod, as though satisfied by something, and scan the crowd until his gaze landed on the two of them.

"Lady Ekaterin," he said when at last, having been waylaid only four or five times on his way across the ballroom, he reached them. He nodded a separate greeting to Cordelia, but continued to Ekaterin, "If you were wondering where Ivan had got to, he's in the library."

Ekaterin's brow creased. "The library, Sire?"

"Yes. He's fine," Gregor added, "but you might consider taking him home. He doesn't seem to be much in the mood for company just now."

Ekaterin frowned. "I see, Sire. Thank you. Countess, if you'll excuse me . . . ?"

"Yes, of course, dear."

Ekaterin took her leave. Cordelia watched her weave her way through the crowd, until finally – with a quiet word in Miles's ear – she disappeared through the ballroom doors. Cordelia glanced towards Gregor, and started to ask if Ivan really was all right. But he was watching Miles again, his expression very closed, and she remained silent.

They stood awkwardly together until several people – mostly Counts and their heirs – came up to give their condolences and attempt to not-so-subtly get information out of Gregor on Miles's plans now that he was a full fledged member of the Council. Cordelia they ignored altogether, aside from a few respectful nods. Not for the first time, she had the unpleasant feeling that she was somehow fading, becoming insubstantial here without Aral to give her weight and purpose. The Admiral's Captain, indeed. And without him . . . just another widow on a planet with more than its fair share of them already. Gregor pretended ignorance about Miles's intentions, and eventually they wandered away, disappointed and a little annoyed.

"I don't know why they're so concerned, really," Gregor said, once they had gone. "Aral let Miles do pretty much as he pleased these last fifteen years. Longer than that, even."

"They are afraid of change," Cordelia replied simply. When Gregor looked at her as though he expected her to go on, she added, "Whether or not Aral's death has any real effect on the Council has little to do with it, I think. Barrayar without him is an alien landscape."

"Yes, it is. For everyone," Gregor said lowly. He glanced sideways at her, opened his mouth, closed it, and finally sighed. "Cordelia, I want to apologize for this morning. It is your life, after all."

"Yes," she said, surprised but rather pleased that he had been the one to bring it up, and so soon. The last thing she had wanted was to let this fester between them, but she had lacked the energy – or possibly the courage – to do it herself. "It is." She drew a deep breath. "But I do have an obligation to Miles and the children. And to you as well. I won't forsake that."

"Have you changed your mind then?"

"No."

"I didn't think so." A servant materialized at his side with a tray of glasses, all filled with a wine as pale as straw. Cordelia flashed suddenly on a clear summer's day, the sparkle of sun on a lake, the taste of something very similar. Aral had been wearing that dreadful florid shirt, had looked seedy and disreputable and embarrassed. She'd thought him the most wonderful sight in ten worlds.

The memory was so sharp and painfully clear that it was a moment before Cordelia realized that Gregor, having accepted one of the glasses and waited for the waiter to leave, was still speaking. "I just can't understand it, Cordelia. I imagine leaving my children, even grown and capable of being on their own, and I have . . . I get this panicked feeling in my chest. I can't imagine what would make me do it."

"I know that feeling. I know it well, actually. But I can't live the rest of my life defined by what I once had and lost. I'd go mad."

"That's it then?" Gregor asked, his voice harder and sharper than she had expected. "Is there nothing in between?"

"That's what a widow is here, love," she said gently. "The last thing you or Miles needs is a madwoman in your attic. Barrayar has quite enough of them as it is."

Gregor nodded, the flash of anger – or had that been fear? – gone as suddenly as it had come. He sipped his wine, appearing contemplative. "Still . . ." he said at last, "what will we do without your unique perspective?"

She had to smile at this. "I think you and Miles know me well enough. Simply imagine what I would say. Or send me a tight beam message and I'll tell you myself."

"When will you talk to him?"

"Tonight, at the lake."

"I wish you well with it. With everything." And then, perhaps feeling that was too distant, Gregor caught her hand in his, and pressed her fingers between his own. "Truly."

She smiled. "Thank you."

"Now, if you'll excuse me . . ." Miles was gesturing for him across the room. Cordelia watched as Gregor inserted himself at her son's side, and something eased in Miles's face, some tension that had not been visible until it was gone, and with its easing, something snapped in Cordelia's own chest. Her throat was suddenly tight, and her eyes stung hotly. She had not cried all through the funeral, and she would not cry here, but she suddenly longed for the balm of Aral's presence more than she had ever longed for anything in her entire life. It hurt being without him, and it hurt even more being without him here, in this room, in this house, on this planet, and she couldn't do it. She hoped to God that Miles could understand that.

They flew to Vorkosigan Surleau very late that night, after the guests had left and the press had been finally – and rather forcibly – decamped. Natasha fell asleep in Gregor's arms, and Aral too after awhile, his face resting against the window. Gregor leaned his head back and closed his eyes, but Miles could tell that he wasn't sleeping. Nor was Vasha, who had a handviewer out but spent most of the ride peering out the dark window. Miles's own mind was blissfully blank and quiet. He'd sleep well tonight, in his and Gregor's bed at the lake.

It was nearly two in the morning when they landed. Miles helped a sleepy Aral stumble out, and lent a steadying hand to Gregor, who had about fifteen kilo of sleeping princess draped across his shoulder. He glanced over at the other aircar, where his mother and Mark and Kareen stood. The dowager Countess clasped a small wooden box with the Vorkosigan seal hand-carved on the front. Miles exchanged a glance with her, and she nodded and touched Mark on the sleeve.

"Hey," Miles said quietly to Gregor. "Are you okay with the kids? I'm going to go up to the cemetery with my mother and Mark. It won't take long."

Miles found himself next to Mark, following their mother as she led the way up to the small cemetery plot. Mark was short of breath when they reached the top of the incline, and the two of them stood together, Mark breathing deeply, as their mother placed the box with their father's ashes on the ground. She stood again after a few seconds, brushing damp dirt off the skirt of her best mourning dress. It would be buried there tomorrow, with funeral offerings, but for the moment the three of them simply stood there silently.

"The view of the lake is so lovely up here," she remarked at last, staring down at the long stretch of water. She turned away after a moment, and looked at them. "I don't think I need to tell either of you about my decision."

"No," Miles said, looking past her toward the narrow stretch of lake, small wavelets picked out in the moonlight. "I've known a long time."

"Will you come back with Kareen and me?" Mark asked.

She shook her head. "Not so soon, I think."

Miles tried not to let his relief show even as he said, "I think that would be very hard on the children."

She nodded, and then glanced toward Mark. "Could you give us a moment?" Mark nodded, and started making his careful way down the dark path. "I hope that you can forgive me this," she said, when they could no longer hear his rustlings.

"Forgive –" Miles began in surprise.

"I know it won't just be hard on the children." She reached out, took his hand and squeezed it. "Sometimes I still want my mother. Sometimes . . . I regret very much, having spent so much time away from her. Not the things I've done, of course, but . . . the time away."

Miles swallowed. He, too, had found himself regretting of late the years spent away from his parents – with the Dendarii, and later, while they were on Sergyar. But if he'd let that stop him, he'd never have been able to do anything at all. "You will visit?" he asked, finally.

"Of course. And I want every single one of your children to spend at least a year on Beta with me," she added severely.

"Oh, that will just thrill the conservatives to no end," he said, and grinned, imagining the furor.

Together, they turned away from the graves to start back down. Miles felt his recent lack of sleep as actual dizziness. It would be so nice to slide into bed next to Gregor . . . but there was something he needed to say first. He stopped his mother at the bottom of the path, just short of the veranda. There was a light on in one of the upstairs bedrooms; Gregor was waiting up for him.

"There's nothing to forgive," he said, quietly. "I know Gregor is upset, and most people won't understand. But I do. You don't need my permission or approval, and you certainly don't need my forgiveness. I'll be all right."

She nodded, her eyes very bright. They went into the house then, and parted, she to her bedroom, alone, and he to climb the stairs to where Gregor waited.

Fin.