“At any rate,” Honor went on after a moment in a deliberately more cheerful tone, “your misfortune—and Alice’s—is my good fortune. Janacek and Chakrabarti may not be able—or willing—to cough up the ship strength I think we’re going to need, but at least we’re going to have an excellent command team. So if I can’t get the job done, we’ll know whose fault it is, won’t we?”

“I wouldn’t put it quite that way myself, Your Grace. But I do agree that you seem to have pulled together a pretty good bunch. And I’m looking forward to seeing Rafe and Alistair again. And,” she grinned suddenly, “especially to seeing Scotty and ‘Sir Horace!’ ”

· · • · ·

“That was delicious.” Honor sighed, and leaned back in her chair with a pleasant sense of repletion.

The picked-over rubble of lunch lay strewn across the table between her and Benjamin IX, Protector of Grayson. They sat on one of Protector’s Palace’s private, domed terraces, a continent away from Harrington Steading, but it was raining here, as well. Not the gentle, misty rain which had welcomed Honor, but a hard, driving fall downpour that pounded the overhead dome hard. The occasional rumble of thunder was clearly audible, and Honor glanced up as a fork of lightning split the charcoal overcast. The gray, water-soaked afternoon was dark, almost ominous, yet that only made the terrace’s warm comfort even more welcoming.

They were alone, aside from Nimitz, LaFollet, and Benjamin’s personal armsman and constant shadow, Major “Sparky” Rice, and the Protector chuckled at her comment as he reached for his wineglass.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” he assured her. “My chef stole the stroganoff recipe from your father, and the fudge cake—of which, if memory serves, you had three slices—came directly from Mistress Thorne’s recipe book.”

“I thought they both tasted familiar. But Master Batson’s added a little something to the stroganoff, hasn’t he?”

“I’d be surprised if he hasn’t,” Benjamin agreed. “As to what it might have been, though—” He shrugged.

“Dill weed, I think,” Honor said thoughtfully. “But there’s something else, too…” She gazed thoughtfully up into the rainstorm, pondering, then shrugged. “Whatever it is, warn him that Daddy’s going to be trying to steal it back from him.”

“From something your mother said a couple of weeks ago, I think he already has,” Benjamin said with a grin. “And I think Master Batson can’t quite make up his mind whether to be outraged by the fact that a steadholder’s father is raiding his recipe files, even in retaliation, or flattered by the competition!”

“Oh, flattered. He should definitely feel flattered!” Honor assured the Protector.

“I’ll tell him that,” Benjamin replied, then sipped his wine and cocked his head to one side. “And how are your parents? And my god children?” he asked.

“Fine, thank God,” Honor said, then shook her head with a wry chuckle. “Mother and Daddy both wanted to strangle about a third of the population of the planet of Manticore—starting with the Prime Minister. And Howard—!” She shook her head again. “Your god children were just fine, too. And noisy.” Her twin siblings had just celebrated their sixth birthdays, and she’d been appalled by the sheer energy level they’d demonstrated. Especially Faith, although James hadn’t been far behind her. And neither of them had been able to compete with Samantha’s and Nimitz’s kittens, now rapidly approaching adolescence and even more rambunctious than the twins. And, she thought with a mental shudder, far better, at their size, in getting into places they had no business being. Explaining to them why their mother hadn’t returned with Honor this time had been difficult, but less traumatic than she’d feared. Probably because all of their foster mothers had been there to help them cope with it.