Miles in Love - Lois McMaster Bujold [288]
He stopped abruptly, and lukewarm tea sloshed onto his hand. His father was at the secured comconsole, and his mother was at the broad inlaid table with three or four books and a mess of flimsies spread out before her. They both looked up at him, and smiled in tentative greeting. It would probably seem surly of him to back out and flee.
"G'evening," he managed, and shambled past them to find his favorite chair, and lower himself carefully into it.
"Good evening, Miles," his mother returned. His father put his console on hold, and regarded him with bland interest.
"How was your trip home from Sergyar?" Miles went on, after about a minute of silence.
"Entirely without incident, happily enough," his mother said. "Till the very end."
"Ah," said Miles. "That." He brooded into his tea mug.
His parents humanely ignored him for several minutes, but whatever they'd been separately working on seemed to not hold their attention anymore. Still, nobody left.
"We missed you at breakfast," the Countess said finally. "And lunch. And dinner."
"I was still throwing up at breakfast," said Miles. "I wouldn't have been much fun."
"So Pym reported," said the Count.
The Countess added astringently, "Are you done with that now?"
"Yeh. It didn't help." Miles slumped a little further, and stretched his legs out before him. "A life in ruins with vomiting is still a life in ruins."
"Mm," said the Count in a judicious tone, "though it does make it easy to be a recluse. If you're repulsive enough, people spontaneously avoid you."
His wife twinkled at him. "Speaking from experience, love?"
"Naturally." His eyes grinned back at her.
More silence fell. His parents did not decamp. Obviously, Miles concluded, he wasn't repulsive enough. Perhaps he should emit a menacing belch.
He finally started, "Mother—you're a woman—"
She sat up, and gave him a bright, encouraging Betan smile. "Yes . . . ?"
"Never mind," he sighed. He slumped again.
The Count rubbed his lips and regarded him thoughtfully. "Do you have anything to do? Any miscreants to go Imperially Audit, or anything?"
"Not at present," Miles replied. After a contemplative moment he added, "Fortunately for them."
"Hm." The Count tamped down a smile. "Perhaps you are wise." He hesitated. "Your Aunt Alys gave us a blow-by-blow account of your dinner party. With editorials. She was particularly insistent that I tell you she trusts," Miles could hear his aunt's cadences mimicked in his father's voice, "you would not have fled the scene of any other losing battle the way you deserted last night."
Ah. Yes. His parents had been left with the mopping up, hadn't they. "But there was no hope of being shot dead in the dining room if I stayed with the rear guard."
His father flicked up an eyebrow. "And so avoid the subsequent court martial?"
"Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all," Miles intoned.
"I am sufficiently your partisan," said the Countess, "that the sight of a pretty woman running screaming, or at least swearing, into the night from your marriage proposal rather disturbs me. Though your Aunt Alys says you scarcely left the young lady any other choice. It's hard to say what else she could have done but walk out. Except squash you like a bug, I suppose."
Miles cringed at the word bug.
"Just how bad—" the Countess began.
"Did I offend her? Badly enough, it seems."
"Actually, I was about to ask, just how bad was Madame Vorsoisson's prior marriage?"
Miles shrugged. "I only saw a little of it. I gather from the pattern of her flinches that the late unlamented Tien Vorsoisson was one of those subtle feral parasites who leave their mates scratching their heads and asking, Am I crazy? Am I crazy?" She wouldn't have those doubts if she married him, ha.
"Aah," said his mother, in a tone of much enlightenment. "One of those. Yes. I know the type of old. They come in all gender-flavors, by the way. It can take years to fight your way out of the mental mess they leave in their wake."
"I don't