“And I’ll try not to embarrass you any more, Your Grace. Except to say that one of my greatest regrets is that Raoul Courvoisier didn’t live to see you now. He wrote to me after Basilisk Station to make sure I had the entire story straight, so I know he’d had proof his faith in you had been amply rewarded. But I also know how delighted he’d have been to see that others had seen fit to reward it, as well.”

“I miss him,” Honor said softly. “I miss him a lot. And it means a lot to me to know that you and he stayed in touch.”

“Raoul was always a loyal friend, Your Grace.”

“Captain,” Honor said, meeting his eyes, “it’s been thirty-nine T-years, but the last time we saw each other, I was only a midshipwoman. And half-pay or not, you are an admiral yourself. If it’s all the same to you, I’d be grateful if you could remember that I was once one of your snotties and forget about the ‘Your Graces.’ ”

“That’s easier said than done, Yo—” Bachfisch paused, then chuckled. “Put it down to automatic social reflexes,” he requested. “On the other hand, if I’m not supposed to call you ‘Your Grace,’ what would you prefer? Somehow, I don’t think ‘Ms. Midshipwoman Harrington’ is really appropriate anymore, do you?”

“Probably not,” she conceded with a chuckle of her own. “And I don’t think I’d prefer ‘Admiral Harrington,’ either. So suppose we try just ‘Honor.’ ”

“I—” the captain started, then paused again and cleared his throat. “If that’s what you’d really prefer… Honor,” he said after a moment.

“It is,” she told him, and he nodded, then sat in the indicated chair and created a small space in the conversation by leaning back and crossing his legs before he let his attention sweep around the rest of the day cabin.

His eyes rested for just a moment on the crystal case protecting the sword rack, the glittering key of a steadholder, and a multi-spired golden star whose crimson ribbon was stained with darker, browner spots. A bronze plaque hung above it, one corner twisted and broken as if by a great heat, bearing the image of an old-fashioned sailplane. And another case held Honor’s anachronistic .45… and a more modern ten-millimeter dueling pistol.

He gazed at all of them for several seconds, as if absorbing the evidence of how much time—and life—had truly passed since last he’d seen her. Then he drew a deep breath and returned his attention to her.

“Quite a change since the last time you and I were in Silesia together,” he observed wryly.

“I suppose so,” she agreed. “But it brings back a lot of memories, doesn’t it?”

“That it does. That it does.” He shook his head. “Some of them good… some of them not so good.”

“Sir,” she said just a bit hesitantly, “at the court of inquiry after we got home. I asked to testify, but—”