"Message for you, Miles. It was important." His right hand rubbed his temple. "I put the message disk on your comconsole. What was it? Oh, yes. From your lady mother. She's just leaving Komarr, and will be here in five days."

Miles managed to keep an oh, shit from popping out of his mouth. "Oh? My father's not with her, is he?"

"I don't believe so."

"No, he's not," Alys put in. "I had a message from Cordelia myself this afternoon—she must have dispatched them all together. I shall be so glad to have her assistance for the betrothal—well, not assistance, exactly, you know how indolent your mother can become when presented with these little social challenges. But her moral support, anyway. And we have so much to catch up on."

Illyan's lips twitched. "You don't look overjoyed, Miles."

"Oh, I'll be glad to see her, I suppose. But you know the way she tries to take my emotional temperature, Betan-style. The thought of all that incoming maternal concern makes me want to duck and run."

"Mm," said Illyan, in judicious sympathy.

"Don't be childish, Miles," his Aunt Alys said firmly. Her poker-faced driver raised the canopy, and Illyan helped her settle herself and her dress neatly within. All those years of close observation of the Vor class had certainly taught him the moves, Miles had to admit.

And they were off, leaving Miles to another evening of wandering around Vorkosigan House talking to himself. So why didn't he take ladies to concerts? What was stopping him? Well, the thing with the seizures, of course. And the crisis with Illyan, hanging unresolved. But both looked to be ended soon, and then what? Not, dear God, more double dates with Ivan. Miles shuddered in memory of some historic disasters. He needed something new. He was still stuck somewhere in limbo, somehow, prisoner of old habits. He was too young to be retired, dammit. If only Quinn were here. . . .

He hoped his Aunt Alys would be careful tonight. He and Illyan had gone out for a walk one afternoon, Corporal Kosti trailing discreetly, and Illyan had become lost within two blocks of Vorkosigan House. He would have felt less nervous if Illyan and Lady Alys had stayed in and played cards again, a form of mild cognitive therapy Dr. Ruibal had approved.

Illyan and Lady Alys did not return till two hours after midnight, long past the end of the concert. Somewhat grouchily, Miles met his houseguest at the door.

Illyan seemed mildly surprised. "Hello, Miles. Are you still up?" Illyan looked all right, if slightly rumpled, and notably redolent of the esters of fine wine and perfumes.

"Where were you all this time?" Miles demanded.

"All what time?"

"Since the concert ended."

"Oh, we rode around. Had a late supper. Talked. You know."

"Talked?"

"Well, Lady Alys talked. I listened. I found it restful."

"Did you play cards?"