Illyan had estimated the time to compose the Auditor's report would be equal to the time it had taken to crack the case. This turned out to be optimistic; he hadn't factored in the interruptions. Miles spent most of the following week holed up in his bedroom, shoving masses of data files and words around on his comconsole. After identifying all the missing pieces, he trudged back and forth to ImpSec HQ to confer with Forensics, the clinic, and a half-dozen other departments, to record depositions, or to closet himself with General Allegre. He made one trip out of Vorbarr Sultana to collect extra medical testimony from Admiral Avakli. He rechecked everything. This was one report he didn't want to see floating back on a tide of clarification queries, even if they would lack Illyan's acerbic marginalia.

Miles was in deep concentration composing a brief, neutrally worded account of Haroche's stonewalling and misdirection during the peak of Illyan's medical crisis, and cursing himself for every clue he had missed—oh, Haroche had handled him all right, handled them all—when Ivan barged in, unannounced, to demand loudly, "Do you realize what's been going on in your guest suite?"

Miles groaned, and ran his hands through his hair, waved Ivan to silence, tried and failed to remember the brilliant way he'd been going to finish that paragraph, gave up, and shut down his comconsole. "You don't need to bellow."

"I am not bellowing," said Ivan. "I'm being firm."

"Could you please be firm at a lower volume?"

"No. Simon Illyan is sleeping with my mother, and it's your fault!"

"I . . . don't think it is, somehow."

"It's happening in your house, anyway. You've got some kind of responsibility for the consequences."

"What consequences?"

"I don't know what consequences! I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do about it. Should I start calling Illyan Da, or challenge him to a duel?"

"Well . . . you might start by considering the possibility that it's none of your business. They are grown-ups, last I checked."

"They're old, Miles! It's, it's, it's . . . undignified. Or something. Scandalous. She's high Vor, and he's, he's . . . Illyan."

"In a class by himself." Miles grinned. "I shouldn't anticipate much scandal, if I were you. I had the impression they were being reasonably, um, discreet. Your mother does everything in good taste. Besides, her being her, and him being him, who would dare comment?"