Miles Errant - Lois McMaster Bujold [309]
"No, no." Bothari-Jesek opened her hands. "You have to understand. I told her about Maree, that little blonde clone we found you with. What I thought was going on. I accused you to the Countess."
He froze, flushed with shame, and a new dismay. "I didn't realize you hadn't told her at the first." Was everything he thought he'd built with the Countess on a rotten foundation, collapsing now in ruins?
"She wanted you for a son so badly, I couldn't bring myself to. But I was so furious with you tonight, I blurted it all out."
"And then what happened?"
Bothari-Jesek shook her head in wonderment. "She's so Betan. She's so strange. She's never where you think she is, mentally. She wasn't the least surprised. And then she explained it all to me—I felt as though my head was being turned inside out, and given a good wash-and-brush."
He almost laughed. "That sounds like a typical conversation with the Countess." His choking fear began to recede. She doesn't despise me . . . ?
"I was wrong about you," Bothari-Jesek said sturdily.
His hands spread in exasperation. "It's nice to know I have such a defender, but you weren't wrong. What you thought was exactly what was going on. I would have if I could have," he said bitterly. "It wasn't my virtue that stopped me, it was my high-voltage conditioning."
"Oh, I don't mean wrong about the facts. But I was projecting a lot of my own anger, into the way I was explaining you to myself. I had no idea how much you were a product of systematic torture. And how incredibly you resisted. I think I would have gone catatonic, in your place."
"It wasn't that bad all the time," he said uncomfortably.
"But you have to understand," she repeated doggedly, "what was going on with me. About my father."
"Huh?" He felt as if his head had just been given a sharp half-twist to the left. "I know what my father has to do with this, why the hell is yours in on it?"
She walked around the room. Working up to something. When she did speak, it came out all in a rush. "My father raped my mother. That's where I came from, during the Barrayaran invasion of Escobar. I've known for some years. It's made me allergically sensitive on the subject. I can't stand it," her hands clenched, "yet it's in me. I can't escape it. It made it very hard for me to see you clearly. I feel as if I've been looking at you through a fog for the last ten weeks. The Countess has dispelled it." Indeed, her eyes did not freeze him any more. "The Count helped me too, more than I can say."
"Oh." What was he to say? So, it hadn't been just him they'd been talking about for the past two hours. There was clearly more to her story, but he sure wasn't going to ask. For once, it wasn't his place to apologize. "I'm . . . not sorry you exist. However you got here."
She smiled, crookedly. "Actually, neither am I."
He felt very strange. His fury at the violation of his privacy was fading, to be replaced by a light-heartedness that astonished him. He was greatly relieved, to be unburdened of his secrets. His dread was shrunken, as if giving it away had literally diminished it. I swear if I tell four more people, I'll be altogether free.
He swung his legs out of the bed, grabbed her by the hand, led her to a wooden chair beside his window, climbed up and stood on it, and kissed her. "Thank you!"
She looked quite startled. "What for?" she asked on the breath of a laugh. Firmly, she repossessed her hand.
"For existing. For letting me live. I don't know." He grinned, exhilarated, but the grin faded in dizziness, and he climbed down more carefully, and sat.
She stared down at him, and bit her lip. "Why do you do that to yourself?"
No use to pretend he didn't know what that was; the physical manifestations of his compulsive gorge were obvious enough. He felt monstrous. He swiped a hand over his sweaty face. "I don't know. I do think, half of what we call madness is just some poor slob dealing with pain by a strategy that annoys the people around him."