Miles in Love - Lois McMaster Bujold [290]
His mother sat quietly, expectantly.
The light dawned. Even with his eyes squeezed shut, the intensity of the glare hurt his head.
"Oh. Noooo," groaned Miles, muffled into the cushion he jammed over his face. "I did that to her?"
His remorseless parent let him stew in it, a silence sharper-edged than words.
"I did that to her . . ." he moaned, pitifully.
Pity did not seem to be forthcoming. He clutched the cushion to his chest. "Oh. God. That's exactly what I did. She said it herself. She said the garden could have been her gift. And I'd taken it away from her. Too. Which made no sense, since it was she who'd just quit . . . I thought she was starting to argue with me. I was so pleased, because I thought, if only she would argue with me . . ."
"You could win?" the Count supplied dryly.
"Uh . . . yeah."
"Oh, son." The Count shook his head. "Oh, poor son." Miles did not mistake this for an expression of sympathy. "The only way you win that war is to start with unconditional surrender."
"That you is plural, note," the Countess put in.
"I tried to surrender!" Miles protested frantically. "The woman was taking no prisoners! I tried to get her to stomp me, but she wouldn't. She's too dignified, too, oversocialized, too, too . . ."
"Too smart to lower herself to your level?" the Countess suggested. "Dear me. I think I'm beginning to like this Ekaterin. And I haven't even finished being properly introduced to her yet. I'd like you to meet—she's getting away! seemed a little . . . truncated."
Miles glared at her. But he couldn't keep it up. In a smaller voice, he said, "She sent all the garden plans back to me this afternoon, on the comconsole. Just like she'd said she would. I'd set it to code-buzz me if any call originating from her came in. I damn near killed myself, getting over to the machine. But it was just a data packet. Not even a personal note. Die, you rat would have been better than this . . . this nothing." After a fraught pause, he burst out, "What do I do now?"
"Is that a rhetorical question, for dramatic effect, or are you actually asking my advice?" his mother inquired tartly. "Because I'm not going to waste my breath on you unless you're finally paying attention."
He opened his mouth for an angry reply, then closed it. He glanced for support to his father. His father opened his hand blandly in the direction of his mother. Miles wondered what it would be like, to be in such practiced teamwork with someone that it was as though you coordinated your one-two punches telepathically. I'll never get the chance to find out. Unless.
"I'm paying attention," he said humbly.
"The . . . the kindest word I can come up with for it is blunder—was yours. You owe the apology. Make it."
"How? She's made it abundantly clear she doesn't want to speak to me!"
"Not in person, good God, Miles. For one thing, I can't imagine you could resist the urge to babble, and blow yourself up. Again."
What is it about all my relatives, that they have so little faith in—
"Even a live comconsole call is too invasive," she continued. "Going over to the Vorthys's in person would be much too invasive."
"The way he's been going about it, certainly," murmured the Count. "General Romeo Vorkosigan, the one-man strike force."
The Countess gave him a faintly quelling flick of her eyelash. "Something rather more controlled, I think," she continued to Miles. "About all you can do is write her a note, I suppose. A short, succinct note. I realize you don't do abject very well, but I suggest you exert yourself."
"D'you think it would work?" Faint hope glimmered at the bottom of a deep, deep well.
"Working is not what this is about. You can't still be plotting to make love and war on the poor woman. You'll send an apology because you owe it, to her and to your own honor. Period. Or else don't bother."
"Oh," said Miles, in a very small voice.
"Cross-ball," said his father. Reminiscently. "Huh."
"The knife is in the target," sighed Miles. "To the hilt. You don't have to twist." He glanced across at his mother. "Should