"Like a small tank," suggested the Count, evidently entertaining a somewhat more hopeful vision.

"Perhaps. It depends on the other two aspects of his, um, body-language."

"Which are?"

"Rebellion, and fear. As for rebellion—all his life, other people have made free with his somatic integrity. Forcibly chosen his body shape. Now at last it's his turn. And fear. Of Barrayar, of us, but most of all fear, frankly, of being overwhelmed by Miles, who can be pretty overwhelming even if you're not his little brother. And Mark's right. It's actually been something of a boon. The armsmen and servants are having no trouble distinguishing him, taking him as Lord Mark. The weight ploy has that sort of half-cocked half-conscious brilliance that . . . reminds me of someone else we both know."

"But where does it stop?" The Count was now picturing something spherical, too, Mark decided.

"The metabolism—when he chooses. He can march himself to a physician and have it adjusted to maintain any weight he wants. He'll choose a more average body-type when he no longer needs rebellion or feels fear."

The Count snorted. "I know Barrayar, and its paranoias. You can never be safe enough. What do we do if he decides he can never be fat enough?"

"Then we can buy him a float pallet and a couple of muscular body-servants. Or—we can help him conquer his fears. Eh?"

"If Miles is dead," he began.

"If Miles is not recovered and revived," she corrected sharply.

"Then Mark is all we have left of Miles."

"No!" Her skirts rustled as she rose, stepped, turned, paced. God, don't let her walk over this way! "That's where you take the wrong turn, Aral. Mark is all we have left of Mark."

The Count hesitated. "All right. I concede the point. But if Mark is all we have—do we have the next Count Vorkosigan?"

"Can you accept him as your son even if he isn't the next Count Vorkosigan? Or is that the test he has to pass to get in?"

The Count was silent. The Countess's voice went low. "Do I hear an echo of your father's voice in yours? Is that him I see, looking out from behind your eyes?"

"It is . . . impossible . . . that he not be there." The Count's voice was equally low, disturbed, but defiant of apology. "On some level. Despite it all."

"I . . . yes. I understand. I'm sorry." She sat again, to Mark's frozen relief. "Although surely it isn't that hard to qualify as a count of Barrayar. Look at some of the odd ducks who sit on the Council now. Or fail to show up, in some cases. How long did you say it's been since Count Vortienne cast a vote?"