* * *
The funeral for the old hero was nearly a State occasion. Three
days of panoply and pantomime, thought Miles wearily; what's it all for? Proper clothing was produced, hastily, in somber correct black.
Vorkosigan House became a chaotic staging-area for forays into
public set-pieces. The lying-in-state at Vorhartung Castle, where the Council of Counts met. The eulogies. The procession, which was
nearly a parade, thanks to the loan from Gregor Vorbarra of a
military band in dress uniform and a contingent of his purely
decorative horse cavalry. The interment.
Miles had thought his grandfather was the last of his generation.
Not quite, it seemed, for the damnedest set of ancient creaking
martinets and their crones, in black like napping crows, came
creeping from whatever woodwork they'd been lurking in. Miles,
grimly polite, endured their shocked and pitying stares when
introduced as Piotr Vorkosigan's grandson, and their interminable
reminiscences about people he'd never heard of, who'd died before he was born, and of whom—he sincerely hoped—he would never hear
again.
Even after the last spadeful of dirt had been packed down, it was
not ended. Vorkosigan House was invaded, that afternoon and
evening, by hordes of—you couldn't call them well-wishers, exactly, he reflected—but friends, acquaintances, military men, public men, their wives, the courteous, the curious, and more relatives than he cared to think about.
Count and Countess Vorkosigan were nailed downstairs. Social
duty was always yoked, for his father, to political duty, and so was doubly inescapable. But when his cousin Ivan Vorpatril arrived, in
tow of his mother Lady Vorpatril, Miles determined to escape to the only bolt-hole left not occupied by enemy forces. Ivan had passed his candidacy exams, Miles had heard; he didn't think he could tolerate the details. He plucked a couple of gaudy blooms from a funeral floral display in passing, and fled by lift tube to the top floor, and refuge.
* * *
Miles knocked on the carved wood door. "Who's there?" Elena's voice floated through faintly. He tried the enamel-patterned knob,
found it unlocked, and snaked a hand waving the flowers around the
door. Her voice added, "Oh, come in, Miles."
He bobbed around the door, lean in black, and grinned tentatively.
She was sitting in an antique chair by her window. "How did you know it was me?" Miles asked.
"Well, it was either you or—nobody brings me flowers on their
knees." Her eye lingered a moment on the doorknob, unconsciously
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revealing the height scale used for her deduction.
Miles promptly dropped to his knees and quick-marched across
the rug, to present his offering with a flourish. "Voila!" he cried, surprising a laugh from her. His legs protested this abuse by going into painful cramping spasms. "Ah . . ." He cleared his throat, and added in a much smaller voice, "Do you suppose you could help me up? These damn grav-crutches . . ."