That woman was seated in a huge, overstuffed armchair, almost lost in a gold satin robe and the contours of the chair itself. She was small-boned and delicate, and anyone who did not know her would think she was frail. Her skin, once a cobalt so deep it had appeared almost ebony, had lightened over time to a soft, washed denim; her black hair had turned a vivid white. A stranger would have thought he beheld a woman whose intensity and will had been slowly drained by the inexorable leeching of age; but he would have been mistaken.

“Good evening, Granmama,” Kit said formally. “If I’d known you would be waiting for me, I would have come sooner.”

“If I had grown tired of waiting for you, I would have gone to bed,” was the dry reply. “Sit down. Talk to me. You look tired.”

Kit smiled and seated herself on the divan closest to her grandmother. “It’s Sereva’s wine. I’m not used to drinking anything so deceptive and potent.”

“It’s good for you,” her grandmother responded instantly. “Wine clears the mind and settles the systems. Good wine, anyway. Bad wine rots your stomach.”

“Well, then my stomach is probably a sieve by now.”

“How’s that boy of hers? Bascom? She told me she’d enrolled him in some special class.”

Kit hadn’t expected to be drawn into this debate quite so quickly. “Yes, an advanced science class. He seems to enjoy it.”

Granmama made a slight sniff of annoyance. “Waste of time. If he enjoys it, fine, let him have his fun. No use to him to know all that scientific nonsense once he’s living in-country.”

“That’s years away,” Kit said neutrally. “Who knows what will happen in the next ten years?”

“I know,” Granmama said instantly. “I was at the Lansdon estate last time I was in-country. Jeretta Lansdon had her little granddaughter there—daughter of what’s his name, her second boy. Now that would be a good match. I’d been thinking about Kellisia Faremen’s daughter, because she’s got the bloodlines and the beauty, but there’s something about the girl I don’t quite like. Too soft, I think that’s it. Too easily swayed by someone else’s opinion. That’s a dangerous trait, and you can always spot it early.”

“Granmama, she’s only fourteen, if she’s the one I’m thinking of.”

“That’s her. And she might do yet. But Jeretta’s daughter just appealed to me. I’m thinking she might be the one.”

“And she’s how old?”

“Eight this spring.”

“And Bascom is twelve? Granmama, they’re children. How can you consider pairing them up when they aren’t even people yet? You talk like you’re planning to breed a couple of dogs.”