Chapter 30: Gifts Before Leaving — The Key of Oslov

Volume 10: The Trip to Harbour

Chapter 30 Gifts Before Leaving

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

“You saw my Nicky die?” Mrs. Overton asked.Gersha nodded. He didn’t want to be here, in a leaning, smoky cottage with a chicken coop and pig-sty in the backyard, trying to decide whether to lie to a widow who looked no more than twenty and tell her her husband had died in some noble, painless way. He didn’t want to say that Overton had begged for his life and had his throat cut. Or that he, Gersha, had crouched beside him paralyzed and watched the blood flow. Or that her husband’s being on that dangerous road in the first place was his fault.“Your husband fought valiantly against our attackers,” he managed, and then reached in his pack and pulled out the third of three ornate ceramic vessels that Dalziel had given him.He had already delivered the first two vessels to the other two guardsmen’s families, who were settled closer to town. Mrs. Overton lived in the country with her farming in-laws—“to save money,” she told him—and he’d had a long coach journey over bumpy roads.Each vessel contained ten or twelve packets of ground spices that were imported from another continent, and hence precious. “They’ll understand,” the Duke had promised. “It’s a useful gift and a symbolic one.”Mrs. Overton showed the most raw grief of the three widows Gersha had dealt with. The other two, older and weathered with passels of kids, had received his gift with stoic gratitude. She took it from Gersha’s hands and stared at it, swaying a little as her eyes grew filmy. “We were married just a year,” she said.“I’m so sorry.” This would have been easier with Tilrey at his side, and easier still with Dalziel’s cultural expertise, but they both had other things to do. Besides, this was Gersha’s responsibility. “I don’t know what beliefs you have about the afterlife,” he said haltingly, “but where I come from, some people believe that your last moment on earth becomes your eternity.”He thought again of Overton’s last moment alive, choking on his own blood, and cringed. But he said, “I believe that in his last moment, your husband was thinking of you. He spoke your name, I think. Matilda?”She hadn’t mentioned her first name; Gersha knew it only because the Duke had told him. But he felt reasonably sure that, if Overton had been able, he would have died with his wife’s name on his lips.Tears trickled down the young woman’s cheeks as she led him over to a blackened hearth that, from the smell of it, was usually used to burn trash. She added a few sticks to the smoldering ashes and poked the flames into activity. Then she reached into the ceramic vessel, brought out a handful of powder, and tossed it into the fire.An odor filled the air, pungent, sweet, and piquant—it reminded Gersha of the apple crisp the Duke had served them last night. The girl threw in a second handful, and a new odor mingled with the first—pine forest.Gersha bowed his head, familiar by now with the ritual, as she added three more spices to the fire. The smoke stung both their eyes, but he didn’t shy away, breathing in the scents of these spices that had come so far to reach them.“May the lord of the Light Web keep him,” the young widow chanted softly. “May we all be united one day on paths of light, no longer divided by darkness.”Gersha closed his eyes and said a silent prayer to his own conscience, asking for self-forgiveness—but not forgetting. He needed to remember. The sheer luck of being one of the “damned” had brought him alive from that bloody road to be united with his Tilrey.He thought of Peony, still among the great pines of the Park, and hoped she liked living in the Southern Hearth enough to stay a while. Perhaps she would live there long enough to grow into a strong woman and return to teach her people new ways—gentler ones. Perhaps someday she would be a leader, just as she’d dreamed.“May we all be united,” he repeated after Matilda.The lake was always moving. Treading water about ten meters offshore, Tilrey felt it lap at his shoulders, embrace his naked hips, and slither around his legs in tiny crosscurrents as he paddled. He’d removed the crude splint in anticipation of getting a new one at the Embassy. But his ankle barely twinged in the water, especially with the special protective shoes Dalziel had given him—“The bottom’s all rocks,” the Duke had explained.They were in a private cove that belonged to the Duke’s estate, thickly wooded on all sides. Hardy cedars with gnarled trunks clung to high cliffs, canting perilously toward the water.“Not too cold, then?” Dalziel called. He sat on a rock ledge above the water, clad in one of his impeccable sedge-green suits. “I was afraid it might be.”“Oh, it’s cold,” Tilrey said, laughing. Only the constant movement was keeping him comfortable. He ducked under and came up with a yelp, his face stinging and his hair dripping icy water onto his shoulders. “But it’s just right.”After Tilrey’s debriefing with Albertine Linnett at the Embassy, a messenger had arrived from the palace saying he’d “forgotten something.” When he came out to the waiting coach, as requested, he found Dalziel wearing a mischievous half-smile. “May I steal you for a few hours while Gersha’s busy?” the Duke asked. “He told me you regretted not getting a chance to swim in our lake.”Indeed, Tilrey had wanted to sample the “living water” Malsha had told him of long ago, so different from the indoor chlorinated pools where he’d swum all his life. It wasn’t disappointing him.In some places, the water was so clear he could see minnows and odd zebra-striped rocks on the bottom; in others, brown silt caught the light. He paddled in a circle and faced the open water, slate blue above the violet-blue mountains of Resurgence. The whole world was muted shades of blue and green blending into a misty gray sky.He remembered standing on the crown of one of the highest mountains beside Krisha, looking into the abyss. He remembered the deep forest silence around the Southern Hearth. I want to stay here. If only I could stay.But he had work to do at home, and he loved the taiga too, didn’t he? Oslov had its own bleak beauties.He rolled over and let an easy breaststroke take him to the mouth of the cove, enjoying the sensation of being right at the level of the restless waves he’d watched from the schooner. They buoyed him up, tugged at him, caressed him.His lips were getting numb, though, so he did a brisk crawl back, limped out of the water, and grabbed the enormous towel the Duke held out to him. “Okay, now I’m cold.”“I prefer canoeing, myself,” Dalziel said, indicating a rack of simple, hollow vessels at the edge of the woods. “But it’s rather a special lake, isn’t it? People who visit often want to come back.”“I can see why.” Using a cedar to support himself, Tilrey toweled off. He couldn’t help noticing that the Duke was gazing off across the lake instead of at him. He’d done the same earlier, when Tilrey stripped and waded into the water.“Why so respectful,” he asked, unable to resist teasing, “after last night?”Dalziel’s dark eyes returned to Tilrey and regarded him neutrally. “You’re used to every man wanting you, aren’t you?”Pretty much. He shrugged and tried to make a joke of it. “Are you suggesting you’re the bold exception to the rule?”“On the contrary,” Dalziel said, clearly choosing his words carefully. “I bring it up only because I wonder how you feel about what happened between Gersha and me last night.”Tilrey tugged his jerkin over his head. “It happened between the three of us, and I’m not at all bothered by your interest in him. I told him to respond to it.” So why was there an edge on his voice? “I’m well aware that, between him and me, you would choose him. Again, it doesn’t bother me. You two have a lot in common. It’s nice to see Gersha getting some admiration.”Dalziel watched as Tilrey lowered himself cautiously onto the rock ledge and began pulling on his socks and boots. His eyes narrowed. “You didn’t like it when I called you a servant yesterday, did you? Or when I called Gersha your master?”“We don’t have ‘masters’ or ‘servants’ in Oslov, as you well know.” Tilrey bit his lip, suddenly unable to keep up the diplomatic pretense. “Fuck, no, I didn’t like it. You keep trying to put me in my place like I’m a nasty little opportunist who’s exploiting Gersha. Plenty of Upstarts back home would agree with you. And yes, I started out as his whore. I imagine you already know that.”Dalziel held up a hand to stop the outpouring of words. “I provoked you, yes. But I don’t disdain you as you think.”“Oh yes? And is that why you’re careful to point out that you’d never allow ‘your’ Silas to meddle in your political dealings?” Tilrey swallowed; he didn’t like the open bitterness in his own tone. “I understand aristocratic presumption, your Grace. I’ve lived with it for the past twelve years. It doesn’t offend me to be treated like a silly ornament. But don’t pretend that’s not what you were doing.”Dalziel sighed. “For a while, yes, I thought you were taking advantage of Gersha. But then, last night, he came to me of his own accord. You expected and accepted it, but you didn’t orchestrate it. I could tell. You gave him his head, as we say of horses.”Tilrey laughed, feeling some of the rancor bleed away. “And he put it very enthusiastically between your thighs.”It wasn’t an unpleasant memory—in an odd way, he’d been almost proud of Gersha. But now he found himself considering the possibility that Gersha might genuinely care for Dalziel, connecting with him on levels where he and Gersha couldn’t. Was that what Dalziel was suggesting?Dalziel was grinning, too. “His enthusiasm is endearing. I’m deeply fond of Gersha, and I’d enjoy spending more time with him. But the point I’m trying to make is, last night is when I knew you loved Gersha as he loves you. If you were simply using him, you would have been more possessive, less willing to give him his freedom. I gained respect for you then—and for your bond.”Tilrey looked down at the waves, feeling his face flush. He’d felt possessive last night, but he’d never really felt that possession was in danger. “Gersha’s accepted my straying to other beds. How could I not accept his?”Dalziel nodded. “I may not entirely understand the bond between you, but I wouldn’t try to weaken it, even if I had the power to do so—which I doubt.”“No.” The word came out savage. “You don’t have that power.”“No. And believe me, if I thought you were a negligible person, a subordinate, I wouldn’t be saying any of this. But you’ve earned my respect, Tilrey Bronn, and so I say this: Respect my good intentions in turn.”Tilrey held the gaze. He’d felt a brief, sharp twinge when Dalziel had said, I’m deeply fond of Gersha. A new sensation. Until now, Oslov itself had seemed like his only rival for Gersha’s love and attention.He thought of his long winter-night sessions in Davita Lindblom’s bedroom, sharing something with her that he wasn’t even sure he wanted Gersha to understand. He thought of his close, sometimes sexual friendship with Bror, and the messy feelings that kept him coming to Vera Linnett’s bed even though he told himself it was just a political maneuver. If Gersha could put up with all that and still believe in his love, surely Tilrey could put up with whatever there was between Gersha and Dalziel. Hell, last night he’d reaped some benefits of his own.“I hope we’ll have opportunities to return here as the garrison is built,” he said after a moment. “I think Gersha would enjoy spending more time with you, though I can’t guarantee I won’t tag along as a chaperone.”It was the Duke’s turn to laugh. “And I shan’t blame you.”“You’re checking your messages?” Tilrey protested. “But it’s our last night here! Can’t you do that on the flight tomorrow?”“I thought you were asleep.” Gersha reached down to tousle Tilrey’s sweat-damp hair.After reuniting at the Embassy a few hours ago, they’d meant to go to dinner, but somehow they’d ended up in bed. They’d spent the last hours of the afternoon in each other’s arms, their ragged breaths falling into sync as their slick limbs built up friction. They’d reached release close to the same instant and then, still entwined, drifted off to sleep.Gersha had woken first, seen darkness between the blinds, and crept off to get his newly issued handheld. He was catching up on his mail from Oslov, which was, predictably, overwhelming. Everybody wanted something—his vote, his attention, his data. Even Besha wanted “to talk as soon as you land, in private,” though he didn’t say about what.Tilrey pulled Gersha down into a lingering kiss, then sat up and stretched, yawning. “The sky was clearing at sunset, and I want to go out into the courtyard and watch the moon rise. Remember how scared you were out there, love, when we’d just arrived? How I held you?”“Too well.” Moved by the sight of his husband’s well-defined deltoids, Gersha bent to kiss first the right, then the left. “Let’s dress and go out, then,” he said. “I mean, if you’re up for it—”“With my fancy new cast?” A soft chuckle. “I’m up for anything.”“Perhaps there’s a nice patch of grass out there.”“Perhaps.”Gersha kissed the nape of Tilrey’s neck, feeling blood begin to pool in his groin again. “Just one thing first,” he added, determined not to forget something. “One of these messages is actually for you. Vera Linnett asked me to pass you an enclosure, in confidence.”“Vera?” Tilrey turned to face him, those wide blue eyes still sleep-bleary. “What does she want? You’re not going to get jealous of her, are you?”“I was never jealous!” Gersha complained, clicking the cover message and passing the handheld over. “But you need to read it for yourself; she made it clear she doesn’t want me vetting it.”“She knows you,” Tilrey murmured, taking the device. “Most Councillors would have taken that request as all the more reason to read it before passing it on.” He rubbed his eyes, peering at the screen. “It’s short . . . oh.”“What?” Gersha wound an arm around Tilrey, pulling him close while resisting the urge to look at the screen.His husband’s face had gone blank. He scarcely even blinked.“Rishka. She’s all right, isn’t she? Do you think Albertine—”“No,” Tilrey said. He tugged himself out of Gersha’s arms, his face still stony, his once-pliant body gone stiff. “Albertine doesn’t know about this, I wager.”“Sweetheart.” Gersha took Tilrey’s face in his hands. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Obviously. But you seem upset, and if I can help—”“You can’t, love.” Tilrey threw the device across the bed with surprising force.Then, all at once, he went lax in Gersha’s arms, trembling all over. “I don’t even know how to say this. She says she’s done the standard genetic screen on her unborn son and . . . her husband isn’t the father. I am.”

“You saw my Nicky die?” Mrs. Overton asked.

Gersha nodded. He didn’t want to be here, in a leaning, smoky cottage with a chicken coop and pig-sty in the backyard, trying to decide whether to lie to a widow who looked no more than twenty and tell her her husband had died in some noble, painless way. He didn’t want to say that Overton had begged for his life and had his throat cut. Or that he, Gersha, had crouched beside him paralyzed and watched the blood flow. Or that her husband’s being on that dangerous road in the first place was his fault.

“Your husband fought valiantly against our attackers,” he managed, and then reached in his pack and pulled out the third of three ornate ceramic vessels that Dalziel had given him.

He had already delivered the first two vessels to the other two guardsmen’s families, who were settled closer to town. Mrs. Overton lived in the country with her farming in-laws—“to save money,” she told him—and he’d had a long coach journey over bumpy roads.

Each vessel contained ten or twelve packets of ground spices that were imported from another continent, and hence precious. “They’ll understand,” the Duke had promised. “It’s a useful gift and a symbolic one.”

Mrs. Overton showed the most raw grief of the three widows Gersha had dealt with. The other two, older and weathered with passels of kids, had received his gift with stoic gratitude. She took it from Gersha’s hands and stared at it, swaying a little as her eyes grew filmy. “We were married just a year,” she said.

“I’m so sorry.” This would have been easier with Tilrey at his side, and easier still with Dalziel’s cultural expertise, but they both had other things to do. Besides, this was Gersha’s responsibility. “I don’t know what beliefs you have about the afterlife,” he said haltingly, “but where I come from, some people believe that your last moment on earth becomes your eternity.”

He thought again of Overton’s last moment alive, choking on his own blood, and cringed. But he said, “I believe that in his last moment, your husband was thinking of you. He spoke your name, I think. Matilda?”

She hadn’t mentioned her first name; Gersha knew it only because the Duke had told him. But he felt reasonably sure that, if Overton had been able, he would have died with his wife’s name on his lips.

Tears trickled down the young woman’s cheeks as she led him over to a blackened hearth that, from the smell of it, was usually used to burn trash. She added a few sticks to the smoldering ashes and poked the flames into activity. Then she reached into the ceramic vessel, brought out a handful of powder, and tossed it into the fire.

An odor filled the air, pungent, sweet, and piquant—it reminded Gersha of the apple crisp the Duke had served them last night. The girl threw in a second handful, and a new odor mingled with the first—pine forest.

Gersha bowed his head, familiar by now with the ritual, as she added three more spices to the fire. The smoke stung both their eyes, but he didn’t shy away, breathing in the scents of these spices that had come so far to reach them.

“May the lord of the Light Web keep him,” the young widow chanted softly. “May we all be united one day on paths of light, no longer divided by darkness.”

Gersha closed his eyes and said a silent prayer to his own conscience, asking for self-forgiveness—but not forgetting. He needed to remember. The sheer luck of being one of the “damned” had brought him alive from that bloody road to be united with his Tilrey.

He thought of Peony, still among the great pines of the Park, and hoped she liked living in the Southern Hearth enough to stay a while. Perhaps she would live there long enough to grow into a strong woman and return to teach her people new ways—gentler ones. Perhaps someday she would be a leader, just as she’d dreamed.

“May we all be united,” he repeated after Matilda.

The lake was always moving. Treading water about ten meters offshore, Tilrey felt it lap at his shoulders, embrace his naked hips, and slither around his legs in tiny crosscurrents as he paddled. He’d removed the crude splint in anticipation of getting a new one at the Embassy. But his ankle barely twinged in the water, especially with the special protective shoes Dalziel had given him—“The bottom’s all rocks,” the Duke had explained.

They were in a private cove that belonged to the Duke’s estate, thickly wooded on all sides. Hardy cedars with gnarled trunks clung to high cliffs, canting perilously toward the water.

“Not too cold, then?” Dalziel called. He sat on a rock ledge above the water, clad in one of his impeccable sedge-green suits. “I was afraid it might be.”

“Oh, it’s cold,” Tilrey said, laughing. Only the constant movement was keeping him comfortable. He ducked under and came up with a yelp, his face stinging and his hair dripping icy water onto his shoulders. “But it’s just right.”

After Tilrey’s debriefing with Albertine Linnett at the Embassy, a messenger had arrived from the palace saying he’d “forgotten something.” When he came out to the waiting coach, as requested, he found Dalziel wearing a mischievous half-smile. “May I steal you for a few hours while Gersha’s busy?” the Duke asked. “He told me you regretted not getting a chance to swim in our lake.”

Indeed, Tilrey had wanted to sample the “living water” Malsha had told him of long ago, so different from the indoor chlorinated pools where he’d swum all his life. It wasn’t disappointing him.

In some places, the water was so clear he could see minnows and odd zebra-striped rocks on the bottom; in others, brown silt caught the light. He paddled in a circle and faced the open water, slate blue above the violet-blue mountains of Resurgence. The whole world was muted shades of blue and green blending into a misty gray sky.

He remembered standing on the crown of one of the highest mountains beside Krisha, looking into the abyss. He remembered the deep forest silence around the Southern Hearth. I want to stay here. If only I could stay.

But he had work to do at home, and he loved the taiga too, didn’t he? Oslov had its own bleak beauties.

He rolled over and let an easy breaststroke take him to the mouth of the cove, enjoying the sensation of being right at the level of the restless waves he’d watched from the schooner. They buoyed him up, tugged at him, caressed him.

His lips were getting numb, though, so he did a brisk crawl back, limped out of the water, and grabbed the enormous towel the Duke held out to him. “Okay, now I’m cold.”

“I prefer canoeing, myself,” Dalziel said, indicating a rack of simple, hollow vessels at the edge of the woods. “But it’s rather a special lake, isn’t it? People who visit often want to come back.”

“I can see why.” Using a cedar to support himself, Tilrey toweled off. He couldn’t help noticing that the Duke was gazing off across the lake instead of at him. He’d done the same earlier, when Tilrey stripped and waded into the water.

“Why so respectful,” he asked, unable to resist teasing, “after last night?”

Dalziel’s dark eyes returned to Tilrey and regarded him neutrally. “You’re used to every man wanting you, aren’t you?”

Pretty much. He shrugged and tried to make a joke of it. “Are you suggesting you’re the bold exception to the rule?”

“On the contrary,” Dalziel said, clearly choosing his words carefully. “I bring it up only because I wonder how you feel about what happened between Gersha and me last night.”

Tilrey tugged his jerkin over his head. “It happened between the three of us, and I’m not at all bothered by your interest in him. I told him to respond to it.” So why was there an edge on his voice? “I’m well aware that, between him and me, you would choose him. Again, it doesn’t bother me. You two have a lot in common. It’s nice to see Gersha getting some admiration.”

Dalziel watched as Tilrey lowered himself cautiously onto the rock ledge and began pulling on his socks and boots. His eyes narrowed. “You didn’t like it when I called you a servant yesterday, did you? Or when I called Gersha your master?”

“We don’t have ‘masters’ or ‘servants’ in Oslov, as you well know.” Tilrey bit his lip, suddenly unable to keep up the diplomatic pretense. “Fuck, no, I didn’t like it. You keep trying to put me in my place like I’m a nasty little opportunist who’s exploiting Gersha. Plenty of Upstarts back home would agree with you. And yes, I started out as his whore. I imagine you already know that.”

Dalziel held up a hand to stop the outpouring of words. “I provoked you, yes. But I don’t disdain you as you think.”

“Oh yes? And is that why you’re careful to point out that you’d never allow ‘your’ Silas to meddle in your political dealings?” Tilrey swallowed; he didn’t like the open bitterness in his own tone. “I understand aristocratic presumption, your Grace. I’ve lived with it for the past twelve years. It doesn’t offend me to be treated like a silly ornament. But don’t pretend that’s not what you were doing.”

Dalziel sighed. “For a while, yes, I thought you were taking advantage of Gersha. But then, last night, he came to me of his own accord. You expected and accepted it, but you didn’t orchestrate it. I could tell. You gave him his head, as we say of horses.”

Tilrey laughed, feeling some of the rancor bleed away. “And he put it very enthusiastically between your thighs.”

It wasn’t an unpleasant memory—in an odd way, he’d been almost proud of Gersha. But now he found himself considering the possibility that Gersha might genuinely care for Dalziel, connecting with him on levels where he and Gersha couldn’t. Was that what Dalziel was suggesting?

Dalziel was grinning, too. “His enthusiasm is endearing. I’m deeply fond of Gersha, and I’d enjoy spending more time with him. But the point I’m trying to make is, last night is when I knew you loved Gersha as he loves you. If you were simply using him, you would have been more possessive, less willing to give him his freedom. I gained respect for you then—and for your bond.”

Tilrey looked down at the waves, feeling his face flush. He’d felt possessive last night, but he’d never really felt that possession was in danger. “Gersha’s accepted my straying to other beds. How could I not accept his?”

Dalziel nodded. “I may not entirely understand the bond between you, but I wouldn’t try to weaken it, even if I had the power to do so—which I doubt.”

“No.” The word came out savage. “You don’t have that power.”

“No. And believe me, if I thought you were a negligible person, a subordinate, I wouldn’t be saying any of this. But you’ve earned my respect, Tilrey Bronn, and so I say this: Respect my good intentions in turn.”

Tilrey held the gaze. He’d felt a brief, sharp twinge when Dalziel had said, I’m deeply fond of Gersha. A new sensation. Until now, Oslov itself had seemed like his only rival for Gersha’s love and attention.

He thought of his long winter-night sessions in Davita Lindblom’s bedroom, sharing something with her that he wasn’t even sure he wanted Gersha to understand. He thought of his close, sometimes sexual friendship with Bror, and the messy feelings that kept him coming to Vera Linnett’s bed even though he told himself it was just a political maneuver. If Gersha could put up with all that and still believe in his love, surely Tilrey could put up with whatever there was between Gersha and Dalziel. Hell, last night he’d reaped some benefits of his own.

“I hope we’ll have opportunities to return here as the garrison is built,” he said after a moment. “I think Gersha would enjoy spending more time with you, though I can’t guarantee I won’t tag along as a chaperone.”

It was the Duke’s turn to laugh. “And I shan’t blame you.”

“You’re checking your messages?” Tilrey protested. “But it’s our last night here! Can’t you do that on the flight tomorrow?”

“I thought you were asleep.” Gersha reached down to tousle Tilrey’s sweat-damp hair.

After reuniting at the Embassy a few hours ago, they’d meant to go to dinner, but somehow they’d ended up in bed. They’d spent the last hours of the afternoon in each other’s arms, their ragged breaths falling into sync as their slick limbs built up friction. They’d reached release close to the same instant and then, still entwined, drifted off to sleep.

Gersha had woken first, seen darkness between the blinds, and crept off to get his newly issued handheld. He was catching up on his mail from Oslov, which was, predictably, overwhelming. Everybody wanted something—his vote, his attention, his data. Even Besha wanted “to talk as soon as you land, in private,” though he didn’t say about what.

Tilrey pulled Gersha down into a lingering kiss, then sat up and stretched, yawning. “The sky was clearing at sunset, and I want to go out into the courtyard and watch the moon rise. Remember how scared you were out there, love, when we’d just arrived? How I held you?”

“Too well.” Moved by the sight of his husband’s well-defined deltoids, Gersha bent to kiss first the right, then the left. “Let’s dress and go out, then,” he said. “I mean, if you’re up for it—”

“With my fancy new cast?” A soft chuckle. “I’m up for anything.”

“Perhaps there’s a nice patch of grass out there.”

“Perhaps.”

Gersha kissed the nape of Tilrey’s neck, feeling blood begin to pool in his groin again. “Just one thing first,” he added, determined not to forget something. “One of these messages is actually for you. Vera Linnett asked me to pass you an enclosure, in confidence.”

“Vera?” Tilrey turned to face him, those wide blue eyes still sleep-bleary. “What does she want? You’re not going to get jealous of her, are you?”

“I was never jealous!” Gersha complained, clicking the cover message and passing the handheld over. “But you need to read it for yourself; she made it clear she doesn’t want me vetting it.”

“She knows you,” Tilrey murmured, taking the device. “Most Councillors would have taken that request as all the more reason to read it before passing it on.” He rubbed his eyes, peering at the screen. “It’s short . . . oh.”

“What?” Gersha wound an arm around Tilrey, pulling him close while resisting the urge to look at the screen.

His husband’s face had gone blank. He scarcely even blinked.

“Rishka. She’s all right, isn’t she? Do you think Albertine—”

“No,” Tilrey said. He tugged himself out of Gersha’s arms, his face still stony, his once-pliant body gone stiff. “Albertine doesn’t know about this, I wager.”

“Sweetheart.” Gersha took Tilrey’s face in his hands. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Obviously. But you seem upset, and if I can help—”

“You can’t, love.” Tilrey threw the device across the bed with surprising force.

Then, all at once, he went lax in Gersha’s arms, trembling all over. “I don’t even know how to say this. She says she’s done the standard genetic screen on her unborn son and . . . her husband isn’t the father. I am.”

Chapter End Notes

First, my apologies for that soap opera-style cliffhanger. (Okay, maybe I’m a little sorry-not-sorry because I love twists. ;) ) This has been in the plan from the beginning, for better or worse; it’s the reason we spent all that time with Vera in the previous story. I hope I can make it pay off!Second, if you’re still reading at the end of this mammoth story, THANK YOU! You are wonderful and regularly make my day. <3 Yet more thanks to all who kudo’ed or commented, and to those who gave me excellent story suggestions, general encouragement, or continuity reminders. Regarding this chapter in particular, thank you to Fair_Feather_Friend for giving me the idea for the swimming scene. You all rock. <3Future plans: I’m going to take some time off and start posting the (shorter) sequel to this in the fall. At the very least, the cliffhanger will be resolved, though I have tentative plans to start a second leg of this, er, saga.In the meantime, I’ve started writing some of Tilrey’s backstory, and I’ll be posting that, probably at wider intervals. It’s dark, sad stuff with no direct bearing on the main plot, so just a bonus for anybody who’s interested (thank you, Misty, for the suggestion!).I may work myself up to getting an email address/newsletter if I ever decide to try to publish any of this stuff, but for now, find me on Tumblr, and please don’t hesitate to ask questions or make suggestions. Thank you again! <3

Chapter End Notes

Second, if you’re still reading at the end of this mammoth story, THANK YOU! You are wonderful and regularly make my day. <3 Yet more thanks to all who kudo’ed or commented, and to those who gave me excellent story suggestions, general encouragement, or continuity reminders. Regarding this chapter in particular, thank you to Fair_Feather_Friend for giving me the idea for the swimming scene. You all rock. <3

Future plans: I’m going to take some time off and start posting the (shorter) sequel to this in the fall. At the very least, the cliffhanger will be resolved, though I have tentative plans to start a second leg of this, er, saga.

In the meantime, I’ve started writing some of Tilrey’s backstory, and I’ll be posting that, probably at wider intervals. It’s dark, sad stuff with no direct bearing on the main plot, so just a bonus for anybody who’s interested (thank you, Misty, for the suggestion!).

I may work myself up to getting an email address/newsletter if I ever decide to try to publish any of this stuff, but for now, find me on Tumblr, and please don’t hesitate to ask questions or make suggestions. Thank you again! <3