"Suppose," she leaned her head back, and stared unseeing down the hallway. "Suppose things hadn't taken such a wrong turn, that night. Suppose you hadn't panicked. Suppose that idiot Evon Vorhalas hadn't interrupted with his little horror show." There was a thought. Too painful, that might-not-have-been. "Drop back to square one. There you were, cuddling happily." Aral had used that word, cuddling. It hurt too much to think of Aral just now, too. "You part friends, you wake up the next morning, er, aching with unrequited love . . . what happens next, on Barrayar?"

"A go-between."

"Ah?"

"Her parents, or mine, would hire a go-between. And then they'd, well, arrange things."

"And you do what?"

He shrugged. "Show up on time for the wedding and pay the bill, I guess. Actually, the parents pay the bill."

No wonder the man was at a loss. "Did you want a wedding? Not just to get laid?"

"Yes! But . . . Milady, I'm just about half a man, on a good day. Her family'd take one look at me and laugh."

"Have you ever met her family? Have they met you?"

"No . . ."

"Kou, are you listening to yourself?"

He looked rather shamefaced. "Well . . ."

"A go-between. Huh." She stood up.

"Where are you going?" he asked nervously.

"Between," she said firmly. She marched down the hall to Lady Vorpatril's door, and stuck her head in. Droushnakovi was sitting watching the sleeping woman. Two beers and the sandwiches sat untouched on a bedside table.

Cordelia slipped within, and closed the door gently. "You know," she murmured, "good soldiers never pass up a chance to eat or sleep. They never know how much they'll be called on to do, before the next chance."

"I'm not hungry." Drou too had a folded-in look, as if caught in some trap within herself.

"Want to talk about it?"

She grimaced uncertainly, and moved away from the bed to a settee in the far corner of the room. Cordelia sat beside her. "Tonight," she said lowly, "was the first time I was ever in a real fight."

"You did well. You found your position, you reacted—"

"No." Droushnakovi made a bitter hand-chopping gesture. "I didn't."

"Oh? It looked good to me."

"I ran around behind the building—stunned the two security men waiting at the back door. They never saw me. I got to my position, at the building's corner. I watched those men, tormenting Lady Vorpatril in the street. Insulting and staring and pushing and poking at her . . . it made me so angry, I switched to my nerve disruptor. I wanted to kill them. Then the firing started. And . . . and I hesitated. And Lord Vorpatril died because of it. My fault—"