Chapter 2

Volume 12: Feather Snow

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The storm was over, but the tall spruce and firs still wore heavy coats of snow on their dark branches. As the rickety old chairlift cranked its way up the mountain, Ceill leaned out to peer into the treetops.Tilrey snagged the back of his coat. “Careful!”Ceill straightened up and blinked at him. “The bar’s holding me in.”“I know, but you shouldn’t wiggle around too much when you’re thirty meters in the air. What was down there, anyway?”The boy’s face lit up. “An owl’s nest, I think! I saw one from below once, up a big tree in Thurskein; at least Vlen said it was an owl’s nest, and he should know, his ma works on the periphery and knows all about animals—”He went on like that, chattering about his Skeinsha friends and their families and all the things he’d seen and done on his rec outings in the past two months. Tilrey tried to listen attentively—it was so long since they’d seen each other—but his head kept drifting.He’d assured Gersha he could handle a sleepless night, and he had found enough energy to enjoy their first three runs down the mountain. But now the day’s relentless brightness was wearing on him, and the strong tea he’d drunk back at the villa was losing its effect.“—and then I reached for the top branch, and it cracked! Vlen and Finta started screaming because they thought I was gonna fall all the way to the ground, but I had one foot on the lower branch and one hand in a hollow part, and I held on, barely, and all the skin scraped off my knuckles.” Ceill stuck out his hand proudly. “You can’t really see now, but that whole part was red.”Tilrey winced as he examined the mild scarring. “Ceillsha, I know your father’s already told you this a thousand times, but you should never climb a tree without adult supervision.”Ceill’s face fell. “That’s why I didn’t tell Dad. But you said you used to climb trees on the periphery when you were my age.”Had he mentioned that? When they were nine or ten, Dal had coaxed Tilrey to climb to the top of a knotty old pine. He’d gotten a mouth full of pitch and needles for his trouble, but also a view that expanded the boundaries of his world. He remembered how it felt to stick his head above the canopy and feel the wind in his hair, and how proud he’d been of his aches and bruises afterward.“Whenever I was out there on the periphery, I thought about my poor mother and how much it would hurt her if anything happened to me,” he said, doing his best to qualify the story. “My dad died in an accident, so I knew bad things happen.”“But you did climb big trees,” Ceill insisted. “You said so.”“Once or twice,” Tilrey admitted. “But we were older than you, and we were very careful” —a fib— “and besides, our parents were ordinary Skeinshaka, not Councillors and Administrators who are very important in Redda.” He didn’t like putting it that way, as if the children of Upstarts mattered more, but Ceill’s safety was the priority.The boy seemed unimpressed by this reasoning. “Did you ever get a scar this ugly?”“Many of them. Much uglier. I’m probably lucky to be alive.” And then Tilrey couldn’t resist adding, “Feels good sometimes, doesn’t it? Daring yourself to go a little higher? Not that you should,” he added hastily, because Gersha would kill him if he could hear this conversation. “You should always be careful.”“I’m very, very careful.” Ceill’s face was glowing again; he’d finally gotten the validation of his daredeviltry that he craved. “I never reach for a branch without having a good hold on another one.”No, Gersha wouldn’t be happy with this conversation. He and Vera had both complained, on separate occasions, that Tilrey wasn’t zealous enough about enforcing their rules for Ceill.“Does he really need three high-strung parents?” Tilrey had objected. “Maybe I can be the indulgent uncle.” He didn’t insist on the point, though, because they all three knew the truth: He was too busy to play a consistent parental role, and probably lacked the temperament anyway. Being the fun uncle was easier.And if that meant that Ceill always ran first to Gersha or Vera when he’d scraped his knee, or when he bombed a test, or when he just needed a granite-solid presence to lean on—well, Tilrey could handle that. It didn’t offend him to be the third most essential person in Ceill’s life, and possibly the fourth whenever Grandma Lisha, whom Ceill adored, was around. Parenting wasn’t a contest.Still, he needed to make clear he didn’t condone behavior that produced ugly scars. He was still formulating the right warning—stern, but not so alarmist the boy would shake it off—as they reached the top.Ceill slammed up the bar and leapt from the lift with a wild whoop. When his skis hit the ground, he pushed off and navigated the icy down- and up-slope with ease, snowplowing to an abrupt stop.Tilrey followed, wobblier. In the city, he could tell himself he wasn’t losing the physical confidence of his youth, but out here it was different. “Have the courtesy to wait for an old man,” he said once he caught his breath.Ceill laughed. “You’re not as old as Daddy.”“I’m old enough.”He was thirty-eight—two years older than Gersha had been when they met. And though Gersha teased Tilrey about his self-consciousness, swearing he didn’t look a day older than he had then, Tilrey had followed the progress of each hair-fine line in the mirror. He had watched the ardor dim in the eyes of men and women who once found him irresistible. He was aging quite well, yes, but he couldn’t stop time.Blissfully innocent of all such problems, Ceill perched at the summit where the trails diverged. “Granite next!” he said. “Please?”From here, they could see out across the forbidding, black-cragged peaks all the way to the distant shimmer of the ice-bound ocean. The sky was blue from horizon to horizon, the sun blinding on the snow.Only a few tracks had been laid on the Granite Trail, a steep, straight shot to the bottom that was dimpled with treacherous moguls. “I don’t think so,” Tilrey said, imagining how horrified Gersha would be if he let Ceill enter that chute. “Next year, maybe, when you’re bigger and have more practice. For now we can stick to Schist—it’s plenty difficult.”Even through the goggles, Ceill’s scowl was unmistakable. “At home I do B24 from the top.”“In Thurskein, you mean.” Tilrey wasn’t sure how he felt about Ceill calling Thurskein home—when had that started?“Right, and it’s just as hard as Granite. Maybe harder.” Ceill’s mouth was set.“B24 is easier. I’ve skied both, so I know.” Truth to tell, it was nearly two decades since Tilrey had tackled any moguls. In his teens, he’d done a bit of racing, but he’d slowed himself down to match Gersha’s pace, and then even further to match Ceill’s.It felt like yesterday that they’d both fretted about teaching Ceill to use the rope tow by himself, with Gersha wringing his hands over the possibility of a freak accident. Now the kid seemed determined to break his neck. “If you don’t want to do Schist again, we’ll do Quartz,” Tilrey suggested.Ceill planted both poles in the snow. “Quartz is boring. I’m bored. Gersha said you’d let me try Granite.”“Oh, did he, now?” A likely story.For a pleasant instant or two, Tilrey flashed back to this morning: Still in bed, Gersha had opened heavy lids to apologize for not being up to get them breakfast. He was naked under the covers, his skin warm and soft and every movement languid with satisfaction. Tilrey had kissed him on the shoulder and forehead and said, “Everything’s under control, sweetheart. You rest.”But everything was not under control. Because now, without waiting any longer for permission, Ceill grabbed his poles and pushed off, propelling himself straight down the mouth of the Granite Trail.His heart in his throat, Tilrey jabbed his own poles in the snow and floundered after him. “Ceill! Damn it! Stop!”Everything slowed down and sped up at the same time. The boy had picked up momentum and was tucking himself into speed demon position, knees bent and poles extended behind him. Tilrey imitated him, but every movement felt a little wrong, off-balance or delayed.Shit. I’m not ready for this. He dug in his edges and widened his curves to gain control, trying to visualize what he would do once he caught up—and he had to catch up. He would make Ceill take off his skis and trudge back to the top with them over his shoulder to teach him a lesson about actions and consequences. He would—“Slow down!” He dodged a icy patch, skirting dangerously close to the treeline. The slope was getting steeper. “Stop yourself safely, Ceill! Now!”But Ceill had already vanished over the next rise. His exuberant voice trailed back, “I can do it!”Tilrey zoomed over the hump, taking air, and slammed down so hard he felt the impact in every joint. Deep powder furrowed up around him, spattering his goggles and momentarily blinding him. At least the friction was slowing him down. “Ceill!”Ceill’s voice sounded below—not words this time, just a long, excited yelp. When Tilrey managed to get the snow off his goggles, he saw his son had reached the moguls.Shit.“Use them to stop yourself!” he shouted desperately, pushing off again. “You’ve got to stop!”But of course Ceill didn’t. Rather than use the moguls to cut his speed, he threaded his way among them with textbook grace—right, left, right, left, bending his knees and leaning deeply into each turn. For a moment, holding his breath as he raced down the slope, Tilrey was sure the boy would emerge safely on the other end.Then Ceill caught an edge and went down in a flurry of whirling limbs and snow. One ski soared through the air and landed with a whap; the other stayed on as he rolled over and over before finally sliding to a stop.Ceill. Verdant blossoming green hells. Please, Ceill. The whole landscape pulsed in time with Tilrey’s heart. But at least his instincts took over; he didn’t have to decide whether to try to tackle the moguls and risk running his son down. He snowplowed to a stop, unclipped his skis, and clomped down the hill.He skidded up beside Ceill and fell to his knees, already planning in a detached way how he would summon the emergency personnel. He couldn’t call them directly, but he could reach Gersha, who would message them, which would mean telling Gersha—“Ceill!” The voice sounded high with hysteria, nothing like his. The boy lay facedown. With an enormous drumbeat in his ears, Tilrey reached out to turn him over—then snatched back his hand. If Ceill had hit his head— “Ceill?”“Mmmfff.” The boy raised his head, then wedged a knee under his body to lever himself upright. Rubbing snow from his red face, he announced, “I almost did it.”Tilrey took hold of Ceill’s shoulders, trying not to move in panicked jerks. He couldn’t let the boy see how frightened he was. “Are you okay? Is anything broken? No, no—slowly, be careful.”But Ceill was already untangling the ski from under his free leg. He unclipped it and stood up, shaking off Tilrey’s unsteady grip. “’M okay. I almost did it. Didn’t you see?”It didn’t seem possible that everything was all right. Even an hour later, sitting safely in the medic’s office in the warm lodge, Tilrey didn’t believe it. He kept expecting to find himself back on that mountainside beside his son’s prone form, waiting and waiting for Ceill to get up.He’d been so lucky. They’d been so lucky. This was a warning to him never to be indulgent or distracted or unprepared again.The on-site medic was a high Laborer, an R-6 with an imperious manner. While he was still checking Ceill over, shining lights in his eyes and asking him questions, he found time to ask Tilrey questions, too. “Mind if I scan his chip and yours, Fir, just for Records?”Tilrey nodded and pressed his hand to the sensor, then motioned to Ceill to do the same. He knew what was coming. His ski clothes didn’t indicate his Level, but Laborers couldn’t ski at this resort except by an Upstart’s invitation. “I’m actually the chaperone,” he explained, smiling disarmingly. “His father’s employee.”The medic examined the data on his screen. When his eyes returned to Tilrey, he was frowning. “Chaperone? Fir Councillor knows you’re here with his son, then?”“He’s my dad’s secretary and he looks after me sometimes,” Ceill jumped in, reciting the explanation they’d made him memorize for authorities. He squirmed, clearly eager to get off the exam table. “Of course Daddy knows we’re here. He doesn’t like skiing, so he sends me with Tilrey.”“I see.” The medic looked at Tilrey in a new way, coolly assessing him. “Have you been certified in childcare or athletic education, then?”“No.” And you know it. He could tell exactly what the medic was thinking: So the Councillor has his Drudge boyfriend doing double duty as a nanny. How sordid.“He taught me to ski and he teaches me Harbourer,” Ceill said, still squirming. “He’s fluent.”The medic raised a brow, clearly wondering why any Oslov child should need or want to speak Harbourer. “Ceill seems to be fine,” he told Tilrey, “but we’ll have to monitor him—and, of course, message his father. I suggest next time you keep him off the expert trails.”Tilrey felt his jaw clench, then reprimanded himself. The man was right—he’d been careless. “It won’t happen again.”The medic dismissed them with instructions to stay nearby for the next hour or so in case Ceill started showing signs of being concussed. Tilrey fetched Ceill a plate of dumplings and a hot licorice and himself a pot of strong tea. Settled in a booth, he sent Gersha a carefully worded message assuring him they’d be home shortly and there was no reason for alarm.When he looked up, Ceill’s big blue eyes were scrutinizing him. “He’s gonna be mad, isn’t he?”“Yes,” Tilrey said shortly, then corrected himself. “No. He’ll be worried, not mad, and he certainly won’t be mad at you.”“Will he be mad at you?” The boy looked worried. “Because it wasn’t your fault. It was my fault.”“Ceillsha.” Tilrey squeezed Ceill’s hand, then released him in case any observer—like that medic—got the wrong impression. “You should absolutely not have disobeyed me about that trail. Next time you’ll know better. But your dad won’t be angry; he just wants you to be safe.”They sipped their hot drinks and watched skiers swoop down the last wide stretch of the Chalcedony Trail, laughing and shouting in the waning orange sunlight. At length, Ceill asked, “What’s a chaperone?”“Anyone who looks after you, like the aide your mother has watching you at home when she’s working. Are you going to drink that licorice before it gets cold?”Ceill brought the cup to his lips. “But you’re not like Rusinka. I know I’m supposed to say you look after me, but you live with us. You’re Grandma Lisha’s son.”Grandma Lisha is not your legal grandmother. But Ceill knew that; they’d painstakingly told him that Lisha was only related to him in the same sense that “Auntie Dal” was his aunt. “We can’t explain everything about our family to outsiders,” Tilrey said gently. “That man was just doing his job, making sure you’re in safe hands.”“He wasn’t nice to you, though. He acted like it was your fault. Is it because you’re a Laborer?”It was way too soon to try to explain these things. “Nah, he was just doing his job and being a bit of a jerk about it. Anyway, he’s a Drudge too—didn’t you notice? Some medics are.”To his surprise, Ceill’s eyes went wide with horror. “That’s a bad word.”“What, ‘medic’?” Tilrey laughed, wondering if it was Gersha, Vera, or both who’d lectured the boy about slurs. “‘Drudge’ is rude, yeah. But mainly when it comes from an Upstart. I bet you hear the kids in Thurskein calling each other Drudges all the time.”Ceill just blinked at him, looking so troubled and confused that Tilrey reached out and tousled his hair. “Look, it’s okay. You don’t have to worry about the language you use around me. You’ve known me your whole life, and I know how Skeinsha kids talk. I used to be one.” Maybe Ceill had imitated his schoolmates, and Gersha or Vera had reprimanded him. “How’s school there, anyway?” he added, trying to change the subject. “You like it?”Ceill relaxed a little, his eyes lighting up. “Vlen’s my best friend now. He’s top of the class, him and Pernilla. I’m third. In Redda I’m only seventeenth.”Another thing it was too early to explain. Ceill’s Prime pod in Redda had a large percentage of Upstart children who were already obsessed with their scores and class rankings, while most Skeinsha kids reasonably didn’t place much value on academics they would never use.“Seventeeth is perfectly good in Redda,” Tilrey said. “Anyway, your class ranking is less important than whether you’re learning what you need to. Do you have a best friend in Redda, too?” Please tell me you do. His greatest fear, one he kept secret from Vera and Gersha, was that Upstart kids would sense something different about Ceill and ostracize him.“Malkina, I guess. We always pair up. And I went to Svint’s house for tea once.” Ceill frowned. “But they’re not the same kind of friends as Vlen. I like Thurskein ’cause we go outside more, and everybody’s more the same.” He raised his eyes to Tilrey. “Nobody’s mean to you in ’Skein, right? They all know who you are?”“Of course they do. My mom’s the Supervisor there. But look, Ceill, nobody’s ‘mean’ to me, in ’Skein or in Redda. You shouldn’t worry about that. In Redda they treat me a little differently, that’s all.”Ceill took no heed of this; he seemed to be struggling to articulate a thought. “In Redda people are always talking about Levels,” he said. “Daddy says Levels are unfair.”What? Tilrey glanced around reflexively for cameras. The view out the window of happy Upstart families, gliding down the trails and unclipping their skis, seemed suddenly a little sinister. “What a strange thing to say,” he said evenly. “But your dad is a Councillor. He has all sorts of complex political ideas that I can’t hope to understand. My understanding is that Levels are based on merit.”Ceill plowed on: “Kars called me a Strutter because of Levels. But I’m not an Upstart yet and I might never be. That’s how it works.”“Did Gersha say that, too?” Blood had rushed to Tilrey’s head as if he were angry, though Gersha hadn’t said anything offensive or untrue. “Who’s this Kars, anyway? A Skeinsha kid? Has he been bugging you?”“I don’t care about Kars. Daddy says he’s just jealous. But he called me a Strutter, and the kids in Redda, they—they—they call me a Drudge sometimes.” The boy’s face was drawn and white; clearly he hadn’t wanted to admit this. “Because I go to school in ’Skein part of the time, they say I’m gonna turn into a Laborer. They say I get dumber every time I come back from ’Skein. I mean, I don’t care.” He averted his eyes from Tilrey’s, his small hands fisting on the edge of the table. “I know I’m not either, Upstart or Laborer, because you have to be old to get Notified. And I know not all Laborers are dumb. You’re not. But how can I be both? How can I be whatever people don’t like?”To hell with cameras and observers. Tilrey got up and slid onto Ceill’s banquette and wrapped him in a hug. Ceill’s arms squeezed him tight. Then they both drew away as if by mutual accord, knowing such gestures were more appropriate in private.“Ceillsha.” Tilrey stayed at arm’s length, gazing straight into Ceill’s eyes. “You need to listen to me. Your mom and dad are smart people, but there are some things they can’t teach you. These kids in Redda are jerks, and Kars is a jerk.” He wished he dared use a stronger word. “They’re bullies, and the only way to deal with bullies is to be strong in yourself. Not to let them hurt you. So, when they call you names, I want you to remember some things. People in Redda care about names. Do you know what it means to be named Linnett? Do you know why it’s important?”Ceill looked confused. “Grandma Bertine is a Councillor?”“Yes, but it goes beyond that. Your great-grandfather was General Magistrate of the entire Republic. And before that, his great-uncle was GM, too. Your ancestry is full of people in history books.”In his wildest dreams, Tilrey had never imagined that one day he’d be extolling the virtues of the Linnett family. But if it meant giving his flesh and blood a fighting chance in the shark tank of Redda, he would do it with a smile. “So,” he continued, “when these little pissants call you names, trying to rile you up, I want you to remember what your actual name is. And I want you to know that you will be an Upstart, no uncertainty about it.”He emphasized each word. Vera would never permit any other outcome—nor, for that matter, would he. Ceill would never have to endure any fraction of what he had.Ceill stared at him, a little stunned. “What if I don’t do well on my tests, though? Daddy says—”“You will.” Tilrey would need to have a talk with Gersha later. Idealism had its limits.He gave Ceill’s shoulder a companionable thump, trying to temper the force of his words. Then he lowered his voice: “Look, I understand what Gersha was trying to tell you. He wants you to see everyone as a person and not a Level, and I agree. But we live in a world where people do see each other as Levels, and because you spend half your time in Redda and half your time in Thurskein, you confuse the other kids. Right or wrong, you do. And what people find confusing, they attack. Which is why it’s best for you not to go around repeating to your friends what Gersha told you.”“I won’t. I wasn’t going to.” Ceill looked nervous again. “I promise.”The boy already understood way too much about keeping secrets. Tilrey took a deep breath, reminding himself Ceill was only eight and didn’t need to have the shit scared out of him. Kids didn’t get really vicious till around puberty—but wasn’t it better to be prepared? “I know, Ceill. We trust you. Look, don’t worry about tests and rankings—not yet. And when people call you names, don’t retaliate. But do stand tall, look them in the eye, and know you’re as good as they are or better. Say it— ‘I know I’m better.’”To Tilrey’s surprise, Ceill’s chin was up, as if the impromptu pep talk had actually made sense to him. “I know I’m better.”“That’s good. Now, you just need to remember that, okay?”“Okay,” Ceill said. “I’ll be like you and not care about the mean people, Tilrey. I swear.”When Gersha came down from seeing Ceill off to bed, he found Tilrey sitting by the fire—not reading, as usual, but seemingly waiting for him.Gersha checked the teapot; it was nearly empty. “I’ll make us another.”“Let me.”Before Gersha could stop him, Tilrey was off into the kitchen. Gersha gazed into the fire and fidgeted, hoping this wasn’t his husband’s way of trying to make amends for what had happened on the slopes today. The message from the resort had alarmed him, yes, but he hadn’t for a second held Tilrey responsible—despite what the resort medic seemed to be rudely insinuating about Tilrey’s qualifications as a caregiver. Outsiders were always making ignorant assumptions. Anyway, the important thing was that no one had been harmed.When Tilrey returned with the steaming pot, Gersha said, “I’m sorry about that officious asshole at the resort. I could tell he gave you the third degree.”Tilrey knelt to pour for them both. “I’m used to that, sweetheart.”He arranged their tumblers neatly on the table, the way he’d always done as a kettle boy. Then he sat on the couch and wound his fingers around Gersha’s, drawing him closer. “I need to ask you something, love, and please don’t get defensive. Did you tell Ceill that Levels don’t matter?”Gersha’s heart sank. He wasn’t displeased that Ceill had told Tilrey—it showed how much the boy trusted them both—but this was awkward. “I’m not sure I phrased it exactly that way. I did say he shouldn’t judge people by their Levels, and he shouldn’t regard his peers as having Levels at all. A nasty little bully in Thurskein called him a—”“I know. I heard the story.” Tilrey opened Gersha’s unresisting hands and stroked the palms in an absent-minded way, sending flutters of sensation up Gersha’s spine. “I’m well aware that nothing you said is false. But do you think Ceill is ready to hear it?”Irritation flared in Gersha, but he didn’t pull away. “He seemed to handle what I said just fine. It made sense to him—and it should. It’s our system that doesn’t make sense.”“That’s not the point.” Tilrey’s eyes caught Gersha’s, dim in the shadows but still powerful in their intensity. “On an abstract level, in a vacuum, of course he can handle the information. But we don’t live in a vacuum. Ceill goes to school every day and sees kids who make judgments and assumptions about him. And he goes to two different schools in two radically different places, which just makes it more confusing. Imagine if he started telling his friends that Levels are unfair or meaningless.”Gersha snorted. “It wouldn’t matter in Thurskein. It might even make him popular.”“Maybe, maybe not. But in Redda?”“You didn’t grow up in Redda. There’s always some silly Dissenter talk flying around the schools; it’s not taken seriously.”Tilrey just kept looking at him. “Imagine if those friends told their parents.”Gersha ducked his head. “All right, I see your point. But Ceill’s smart. He knows better than to repeat everything he hears in this house.”“I know. But secrets are a burden, Gersha, and he’s eight. Maybe he shouldn’t have to worry about anything more complicated than climbing trees or learning his times tables.”Tilrey’s tone was mild, but Gersha felt the sting of the words. “Maybe I didn’t think it through.” He curled his fingers around Tilrey’s larger hands, caressing them. “I just don’t want him to buy into it as he gets older. I don’t want him to grow up like other high-named kids, disdainful of everybody who’s not him. You don’t know how ruthless things can get in the upper grades. If Ceill were to listen to his peers and turn away from his Skeinsha friends, from Lisha, even from you . . .”“That’s not going to happen.” Tilrey freed his hands and raised Gersha’s face to look at him. “Ceill has a good heart, Gersha. You know that.”Gersha moved into Tilrey’s opening arms. “I know he does. I know.”He rested his head on Tilrey’s shoulder, feeling the faint thump of Tilrey’s heart against his and the pressure of fingers knotting themselves in his hair. The gas fire hissed softly. Upstairs, a door creaked open, and Valgund’s footsteps crossed the hall to the bathroom. Gersha hoped Ceill was sound asleep.He kissed Tilrey on the cheek. “From now on, I’ll ask you before I broach any political subjects. He asked me a question, and it just . . . came out.”“I know.” Tilrey sighed. “The questions had to start coming eventually. I worry sometimes about him spending all that time in Thurskein, but he seems to love it there.”“It’s good for him, too. Take it from someone who had an incredibly sheltered upbringing.”“I know, sweetheart. But . . .” Tilrey pressed his forehead against Gersha’s. In a small, hoarse whisper, as if it would have shamed him to speak aloud, he said, “Please don’t scare him about Notification anymore.”“Scare him?” Gersha wrenched himself away, so surprised he couldn’t help it. “I didn’t say a single thing that would scare him. All I said is that for him, as for every single child, it could go either way.”“In your stupid ideal version of Whybergism!” Tilrey’s voice rose dangerously. “We’ve worked on making it more fair. But you know as well as I do that Notification is still more about power than merit.” He rubbed a hand across his mouth, his eyes suddenly raw with tears. “And even if it were entirely up to your precious tests, it still wouldn’t be fair.”“But that’s exactly what I told Ceill!” Gersha felt like he’d been catapulted into a cruel parallel universe where no one understood a thing he said. “I told him he shouldn’t count on being Raised when he’s eighteen, and he shouldn’t let his happiness rest on one stupid, arbitrary decision.”“Not arbitrary!” It was almost a shout.As Gersha stared, Tilrey rose and paced in front of the couch—jaw tight, eyes down. After a moment, he said in a quieter voice, “It’s an important distinction, Gersha. Not to you, maybe, but to me. Notification based on power and lineage is unfair, but it’s absolutely not random. It matters enormously to our kid whether he ends up with a red or a blue dot on his hand-chip, and it matters to me, and as long as we live in this unreformed system, it should matter to you. Won’t you do everything in your power to make sure he’s Raised?”Gersha had trouble finding his voice, but he couldn’t just concede to that. “Why would I need to ‘do’ anything? The system’s already rigged in his favor.”Tilrey halted, arms crossed. “What if he bombed his E-Squareds?”“That wouldn’t happen. You certainly didn’t.”“It does happen. It’s one test, Gersha. Kids lose their nerve, or they’re sick that day, or they couldn’t sleep, and they end up with a score that doesn’t reflect their abilities. Ceill’s already struggling a little with math. What if he gets to the upper grades and can’t handle calculus?”Gersha had never heard Tilrey concoct so many worst-case scenarios; usually he was the one who kept Gersha’s spirits up and teased him through his worries. “If Ceill has trouble, I’ll tutor him,” Gersha said. “I’m not worried about his Notification, Rishka. Besha managed to be Raised, for green’s sake, and he could barely handle quadratic equations, and he’s no Linnett!”“There.” Tilrey pointed accusingly at him. “You just admitted that external factors matter. Now promise me that if you have to, you and Vera will pull strings.”“I—where is this even coming from? How can I promise to do something that’s against everything we’re fighting for?” Tears pressed on Gersha’s eyes. But he didn’t want to use them as a weapon in this argument; didn’t want to force Tilrey to comfort him.“This upsets you,” he said, pushing his own objections aside. What mattered was why Tilrey was acting this way, why he felt this way. “The idea that Ceill might be Lowered, and I might let it happen because of a principle—it scares you so much. It’s a whole decade away, and it keeps you up at night.” He exhaled deeply, letting tensed muscles relax, and held out his arms. “I don’t want you to be scared.”“You’re evading the issue.” But Tilrey’s anger seemed to have deflated. He sat down. “I don’t see how it hurts you to promise,” he said, edging into the embrace Gersha offered. “You’re the one insisting he’d never need your help.”“I promise, then.” Gersha reached around, moving slowly, and rubbed Tilrey’s back in a steady, reassuring rhythm. “And Vera would pull any strings she has to, whether you make her promise or not.”“I know that.” Bit by bit, Tilrey relaxed, leaning into Gersha’s body. “I don’t know why I got angry at you,” he said after a time, voice muffled by Gersha’s shoulder. “I’m the one who makes things harder for him.”Gersha had a hand buried in Tilrey’s hair, its softness teasing the sensitive areas between his fingers in the way he loved. “Nonsense.”“No. Think about it.” Tilrey sighed heavily. “Sooner or later, one of Ceill’s little friends in Redda is going to hear from a parent or uncle that before I was ‘Daddy’s secretary,’ I was basically servicing the entire fucking Council.”Gersha shuddered at the wording. “No one would tell a child something like that!”“Not now. But as kids hit their teens, the jokes and banter and bullying get more sexual. He’ll need to distance himself from me, from the stories around me. Already the role I play in his life is raising eyebrows.”“It is? Whose?” Then Gersha remembered his conversation with the medic. “Idiots will always gossip, Tilrey. And you’re worrying about things that would never cross an eight-year-old’s mind—I hope.”“I hope not, too. But time flies, right?” Tilrey sighed again, fisting his hands in the wool of Gersha’s tunic. “I hope I’m wrong about this. I hope it never becomes an issue. But if it does, I’m ready to take a step away for Ceill’s own good.”“Take a step away from whom? From him? From me?” Gersha kissed the crown of his husband’s head over and over, furious at the suggestion. “That’s not going to happen, love. Over my dead body. But I see now why you’re so worried. Will you please just relax and trust me to make everything okay?”To his slight relief, Tilrey laughed. “You’re talking to me like I’m eight.”“I know. We both know I don’t have magical powers. But you used to lean on me that way in the old days, didn’t you? Sometimes?”“When I was your kettle boy, and you and Verán practically had the power of life and death over me? When you panicked and sent me off to get interrogated in Int/Sec?”What had Gersha been thinking, reminding them both of those days? “I know I didn’t deserve your trust. But didn’t you maybe trust me to make things better anyway . . . now and then? It seemed like you did.”Tilrey pulled away enough for Gersha to see his face. His eyes were red, but he didn’t look angry, only thoughtful. “I guess so. I’d gotten used to not trusting anyone, and then you were so fucking nice, so kind to me, and you were a Councillor and had all that power. I could see perfectly well how insecure you were, how clumsy at actually using your power. But it didn’t matter. When I fell asleep in your arms, I felt cared for, I felt safe. I wanted to be your tool, your possession, anything you wanted.” His eyes had a faraway look. “I did trust you absolutely, I think, those early nights we had together. But now I love you, and I’ve chosen you, and that’s completely different.”Gersha nodded, blinking back tears. “And I love you. But when it comes to keeping our son safe, would you trust me for a few more years? Or even just for tonight?”“Just for tonight?” After a moment, Tilrey smiled that old, radiant smile that had so charmed and intimidated Gersha from their first meeting. “I can probably manage that. Will you kiss me the way you used to?”Gersha leaned toward Tilrey and kissed him softly, almost reverently—lips, eyelids, lips again. When he deepened the kiss, Tilrey’s mouth opened to him in the wanton, submissive way he remembered, and Gersha claimed it with his tongue, the warm wetness sending shivers of excitement to his groin.“Green hells,” he groaned into Tilrey’s mouth. “Shall we bathe? Or just go to bed?”Tilrey drew away just enough to smile again. “Bed.”*Despite their talk about the past, they didn’t playact any dominance or submission this time. Tilrey didn’t even call Gersha Fir. They just moved against and into each other on top of the covers, in no hurry, changing position as the need arose. They didn’t need to speak, and they didn’t come at the same time, and that was all right. Neither of them was responsible for making it perfect. Tilrey liked watching Gersha’s face as Gersha came, and he liked what Gersha did to make him come afterward.And then, when they were both shuddering and satisfied and sheened with sweat, Tilrey pressed his face against Gersha’s chest and let Gersha’s arms wrap around him. Just like the old days.“This was always the way I liked it best,” he murmured, feeling the prickle of coarse hair against his cheek. “I liked holding you, too, feeling how much smaller you were than me, imagining the power I might have over you. But in the end, I liked it best when you held me.”Back then, he’d been so desperate to feel safe that he couldn’t admit it to himself. He told himself he didn’t care about this Fir Gádden any more than he cared about any other Strutter. But his body knew the truth. It molded itself to Gersha’s as if it were coming home.And he was home. The truth settled on him softly, generously, like last night’s snow. He was not a guest in this family, not an interloper or a “chaperone.” Ceill and Gersha both knew that.“And now?” Gersha asked, the words a sleepy vibration against Tilrey’s cheek. “Do you still like it best when I hold you?”Tilrey pressed a kiss to his husband’s nipple. “Now I like both ways equally.”Whatever else they had to face together as Ceill grew up, he was home to stay.

Tilrey snagged the back of his coat. “Careful!”

Ceill straightened up and blinked at him. “The bar’s holding me in.”

“I know, but you shouldn’t wiggle around too much when you’re thirty meters in the air. What was down there, anyway?”

The boy’s face lit up. “An owl’s nest, I think! I saw one from below once, up a big tree in Thurskein; at least Vlen said it was an owl’s nest, and he should know, his ma works on the periphery and knows all about animals—”

He went on like that, chattering about his Skeinsha friends and their families and all the things he’d seen and done on his rec outings in the past two months. Tilrey tried to listen attentively—it was so long since they’d seen each other—but his head kept drifting.

He’d assured Gersha he could handle a sleepless night, and he had found enough energy to enjoy their first three runs down the mountain. But now the day’s relentless brightness was wearing on him, and the strong tea he’d drunk back at the villa was losing its effect.

“—and then I reached for the top branch, and it cracked! Vlen and Finta started screaming because they thought I was gonna fall all the way to the ground, but I had one foot on the lower branch and one hand in a hollow part, and I held on, barely, and all the skin scraped off my knuckles.” Ceill stuck out his hand proudly. “You can’t really see now, but that whole part was red.”

Tilrey winced as he examined the mild scarring. “Ceillsha, I know your father’s already told you this a thousand times, but you should never climb a tree without adult supervision.”

Ceill’s face fell. “That’s why I didn’t tell Dad. But you said you used to climb trees on the periphery when you were my age.”

Had he mentioned that? When they were nine or ten, Dal had coaxed Tilrey to climb to the top of a knotty old pine. He’d gotten a mouth full of pitch and needles for his trouble, but also a view that expanded the boundaries of his world. He remembered how it felt to stick his head above the canopy and feel the wind in his hair, and how proud he’d been of his aches and bruises afterward.

“Whenever I was out there on the periphery, I thought about my poor mother and how much it would hurt her if anything happened to me,” he said, doing his best to qualify the story. “My dad died in an accident, so I knew bad things happen.”

“But you did climb big trees,” Ceill insisted. “You said so.”

“Once or twice,” Tilrey admitted. “But we were older than you, and we were very careful” —a fib— “and besides, our parents were ordinary Skeinshaka, not Councillors and Administrators who are very important in Redda.” He didn’t like putting it that way, as if the children of Upstarts mattered more, but Ceill’s safety was the priority.

The boy seemed unimpressed by this reasoning. “Did you ever get a scar this ugly?”

“Many of them. Much uglier. I’m probably lucky to be alive.” And then Tilrey couldn’t resist adding, “Feels good sometimes, doesn’t it? Daring yourself to go a little higher? Not that you should,” he added hastily, because Gersha would kill him if he could hear this conversation. “You should always be careful.”

“I’m very, very careful.” Ceill’s face was glowing again; he’d finally gotten the validation of his daredeviltry that he craved. “I never reach for a branch without having a good hold on another one.”

No, Gersha wouldn’t be happy with this conversation. He and Vera had both complained, on separate occasions, that Tilrey wasn’t zealous enough about enforcing their rules for Ceill.

“Does he really need three high-strung parents?” Tilrey had objected. “Maybe I can be the indulgent uncle.” He didn’t insist on the point, though, because they all three knew the truth: He was too busy to play a consistent parental role, and probably lacked the temperament anyway. Being the fun uncle was easier.

And if that meant that Ceill always ran first to Gersha or Vera when he’d scraped his knee, or when he bombed a test, or when he just needed a granite-solid presence to lean on—well, Tilrey could handle that. It didn’t offend him to be the third most essential person in Ceill’s life, and possibly the fourth whenever Grandma Lisha, whom Ceill adored, was around. Parenting wasn’t a contest.

Still, he needed to make clear he didn’t condone behavior that produced ugly scars. He was still formulating the right warning—stern, but not so alarmist the boy would shake it off—as they reached the top.

Ceill slammed up the bar and leapt from the lift with a wild whoop. When his skis hit the ground, he pushed off and navigated the icy down- and up-slope with ease, snowplowing to an abrupt stop.

Tilrey followed, wobblier. In the city, he could tell himself he wasn’t losing the physical confidence of his youth, but out here it was different. “Have the courtesy to wait for an old man,” he said once he caught his breath.

Ceill laughed. “You’re not as old as Daddy.”

“I’m old enough.”

He was thirty-eight—two years older than Gersha had been when they met. And though Gersha teased Tilrey about his self-consciousness, swearing he didn’t look a day older than he had then, Tilrey had followed the progress of each hair-fine line in the mirror. He had watched the ardor dim in the eyes of men and women who once found him irresistible. He was aging quite well, yes, but he couldn’t stop time.

Blissfully innocent of all such problems, Ceill perched at the summit where the trails diverged. “Granite next!” he said. “Please?”

From here, they could see out across the forbidding, black-cragged peaks all the way to the distant shimmer of the ice-bound ocean. The sky was blue from horizon to horizon, the sun blinding on the snow.

Only a few tracks had been laid on the Granite Trail, a steep, straight shot to the bottom that was dimpled with treacherous moguls. “I don’t think so,” Tilrey said, imagining how horrified Gersha would be if he let Ceill enter that chute. “Next year, maybe, when you’re bigger and have more practice. For now we can stick to Schist—it’s plenty difficult.”

Even through the goggles, Ceill’s scowl was unmistakable. “At home I do B24 from the top.”

“In Thurskein, you mean.” Tilrey wasn’t sure how he felt about Ceill calling Thurskein home—when had that started?

“Right, and it’s just as hard as Granite. Maybe harder.” Ceill’s mouth was set.

“B24 is easier. I’ve skied both, so I know.” Truth to tell, it was nearly two decades since Tilrey had tackled any moguls. In his teens, he’d done a bit of racing, but he’d slowed himself down to match Gersha’s pace, and then even further to match Ceill’s.

It felt like yesterday that they’d both fretted about teaching Ceill to use the rope tow by himself, with Gersha wringing his hands over the possibility of a freak accident. Now the kid seemed determined to break his neck. “If you don’t want to do Schist again, we’ll do Quartz,” Tilrey suggested.

Ceill planted both poles in the snow. “Quartz is boring. I’m bored. Gersha said you’d let me try Granite.”

“Oh, did he, now?” A likely story.

For a pleasant instant or two, Tilrey flashed back to this morning: Still in bed, Gersha had opened heavy lids to apologize for not being up to get them breakfast. He was naked under the covers, his skin warm and soft and every movement languid with satisfaction. Tilrey had kissed him on the shoulder and forehead and said, “Everything’s under control, sweetheart. You rest.”

But everything was not under control. Because now, without waiting any longer for permission, Ceill grabbed his poles and pushed off, propelling himself straight down the mouth of the Granite Trail.

His heart in his throat, Tilrey jabbed his own poles in the snow and floundered after him. “Ceill! Damn it! Stop!”

Everything slowed down and sped up at the same time. The boy had picked up momentum and was tucking himself into speed demon position, knees bent and poles extended behind him. Tilrey imitated him, but every movement felt a little wrong, off-balance or delayed.

Shit. I’m not ready for this. He dug in his edges and widened his curves to gain control, trying to visualize what he would do once he caught up—and he had to catch up. He would make Ceill take off his skis and trudge back to the top with them over his shoulder to teach him a lesson about actions and consequences. He would—

“Slow down!” He dodged a icy patch, skirting dangerously close to the treeline. The slope was getting steeper. “Stop yourself safely, Ceill! Now!”

But Ceill had already vanished over the next rise. His exuberant voice trailed back, “I can do it!”

Tilrey zoomed over the hump, taking air, and slammed down so hard he felt the impact in every joint. Deep powder furrowed up around him, spattering his goggles and momentarily blinding him. At least the friction was slowing him down. “Ceill!”

Ceill’s voice sounded below—not words this time, just a long, excited yelp. When Tilrey managed to get the snow off his goggles, he saw his son had reached the moguls.

Shit.

“Use them to stop yourself!” he shouted desperately, pushing off again. “You’ve got to stop!”

But of course Ceill didn’t. Rather than use the moguls to cut his speed, he threaded his way among them with textbook grace—right, left, right, left, bending his knees and leaning deeply into each turn. For a moment, holding his breath as he raced down the slope, Tilrey was sure the boy would emerge safely on the other end.

Then Ceill caught an edge and went down in a flurry of whirling limbs and snow. One ski soared through the air and landed with a whap; the other stayed on as he rolled over and over before finally sliding to a stop.

Ceill. Verdant blossoming green hells. Please, Ceill. The whole landscape pulsed in time with Tilrey’s heart. But at least his instincts took over; he didn’t have to decide whether to try to tackle the moguls and risk running his son down. He snowplowed to a stop, unclipped his skis, and clomped down the hill.

He skidded up beside Ceill and fell to his knees, already planning in a detached way how he would summon the emergency personnel. He couldn’t call them directly, but he could reach Gersha, who would message them, which would mean telling Gersha—

“Ceill!” The voice sounded high with hysteria, nothing like his. The boy lay facedown. With an enormous drumbeat in his ears, Tilrey reached out to turn him over—then snatched back his hand. If Ceill had hit his head— “Ceill?”

“Mmmfff.” The boy raised his head, then wedged a knee under his body to lever himself upright. Rubbing snow from his red face, he announced, “I almost did it.”

Tilrey took hold of Ceill’s shoulders, trying not to move in panicked jerks. He couldn’t let the boy see how frightened he was. “Are you okay? Is anything broken? No, no—slowly, be careful.”

But Ceill was already untangling the ski from under his free leg. He unclipped it and stood up, shaking off Tilrey’s unsteady grip. “’M okay. I almost did it. Didn’t you see?”

It didn’t seem possible that everything was all right. Even an hour later, sitting safely in the medic’s office in the warm lodge, Tilrey didn’t believe it. He kept expecting to find himself back on that mountainside beside his son’s prone form, waiting and waiting for Ceill to get up.

He’d been so lucky. They’d been so lucky. This was a warning to him never to be indulgent or distracted or unprepared again.

The on-site medic was a high Laborer, an R-6 with an imperious manner. While he was still checking Ceill over, shining lights in his eyes and asking him questions, he found time to ask Tilrey questions, too. “Mind if I scan his chip and yours, Fir, just for Records?”

Tilrey nodded and pressed his hand to the sensor, then motioned to Ceill to do the same. He knew what was coming. His ski clothes didn’t indicate his Level, but Laborers couldn’t ski at this resort except by an Upstart’s invitation. “I’m actually the chaperone,” he explained, smiling disarmingly. “His father’s employee.”

The medic examined the data on his screen. When his eyes returned to Tilrey, he was frowning. “Chaperone? Fir Councillor knows you’re here with his son, then?”

“He’s my dad’s secretary and he looks after me sometimes,” Ceill jumped in, reciting the explanation they’d made him memorize for authorities. He squirmed, clearly eager to get off the exam table. “Of course Daddy knows we’re here. He doesn’t like skiing, so he sends me with Tilrey.”

“I see.” The medic looked at Tilrey in a new way, coolly assessing him. “Have you been certified in childcare or athletic education, then?”

“No.” And you know it. He could tell exactly what the medic was thinking: So the Councillor has his Drudge boyfriend doing double duty as a nanny. How sordid.

“He taught me to ski and he teaches me Harbourer,” Ceill said, still squirming. “He’s fluent.”

The medic raised a brow, clearly wondering why any Oslov child should need or want to speak Harbourer. “Ceill seems to be fine,” he told Tilrey, “but we’ll have to monitor him—and, of course, message his father. I suggest next time you keep him off the expert trails.”

Tilrey felt his jaw clench, then reprimanded himself. The man was right—he’d been careless. “It won’t happen again.”

The medic dismissed them with instructions to stay nearby for the next hour or so in case Ceill started showing signs of being concussed. Tilrey fetched Ceill a plate of dumplings and a hot licorice and himself a pot of strong tea. Settled in a booth, he sent Gersha a carefully worded message assuring him they’d be home shortly and there was no reason for alarm.

When he looked up, Ceill’s big blue eyes were scrutinizing him. “He’s gonna be mad, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Tilrey said shortly, then corrected himself. “No. He’ll be worried, not mad, and he certainly won’t be mad at you.”

“Will he be mad at you?” The boy looked worried. “Because it wasn’t your fault. It was my fault.”

“Ceillsha.” Tilrey squeezed Ceill’s hand, then released him in case any observer—like that medic—got the wrong impression. “You should absolutely not have disobeyed me about that trail. Next time you’ll know better. But your dad won’t be angry; he just wants you to be safe.”

They sipped their hot drinks and watched skiers swoop down the last wide stretch of the Chalcedony Trail, laughing and shouting in the waning orange sunlight. At length, Ceill asked, “What’s a chaperone?”

“Anyone who looks after you, like the aide your mother has watching you at home when she’s working. Are you going to drink that licorice before it gets cold?”

Ceill brought the cup to his lips. “But you’re not like Rusinka. I know I’m supposed to say you look after me, but you live with us. You’re Grandma Lisha’s son.”

Grandma Lisha is not your legal grandmother. But Ceill knew that; they’d painstakingly told him that Lisha was only related to him in the same sense that “Auntie Dal” was his aunt. “We can’t explain everything about our family to outsiders,” Tilrey said gently. “That man was just doing his job, making sure you’re in safe hands.”

“He wasn’t nice to you, though. He acted like it was your fault. Is it because you’re a Laborer?”

It was way too soon to try to explain these things. “Nah, he was just doing his job and being a bit of a jerk about it. Anyway, he’s a Drudge too—didn’t you notice? Some medics are.”

To his surprise, Ceill’s eyes went wide with horror. “That’s a bad word.”

“What, ‘medic’?” Tilrey laughed, wondering if it was Gersha, Vera, or both who’d lectured the boy about slurs. “‘Drudge’ is rude, yeah. But mainly when it comes from an Upstart. I bet you hear the kids in Thurskein calling each other Drudges all the time.”

Ceill just blinked at him, looking so troubled and confused that Tilrey reached out and tousled his hair. “Look, it’s okay. You don’t have to worry about the language you use around me. You’ve known me your whole life, and I know how Skeinsha kids talk. I used to be one.” Maybe Ceill had imitated his schoolmates, and Gersha or Vera had reprimanded him. “How’s school there, anyway?” he added, trying to change the subject. “You like it?”

Ceill relaxed a little, his eyes lighting up. “Vlen’s my best friend now. He’s top of the class, him and Pernilla. I’m third. In Redda I’m only seventeenth.”

Another thing it was too early to explain. Ceill’s Prime pod in Redda had a large percentage of Upstart children who were already obsessed with their scores and class rankings, while most Skeinsha kids reasonably didn’t place much value on academics they would never use.

“Seventeeth is perfectly good in Redda,” Tilrey said. “Anyway, your class ranking is less important than whether you’re learning what you need to. Do you have a best friend in Redda, too?” Please tell me you do. His greatest fear, one he kept secret from Vera and Gersha, was that Upstart kids would sense something different about Ceill and ostracize him.

“Malkina, I guess. We always pair up. And I went to Svint’s house for tea once.” Ceill frowned. “But they’re not the same kind of friends as Vlen. I like Thurskein ’cause we go outside more, and everybody’s more the same.” He raised his eyes to Tilrey. “Nobody’s mean to you in ’Skein, right? They all know who you are?”

“Of course they do. My mom’s the Supervisor there. But look, Ceill, nobody’s ‘mean’ to me, in ’Skein or in Redda. You shouldn’t worry about that. In Redda they treat me a little differently, that’s all.”

Ceill took no heed of this; he seemed to be struggling to articulate a thought. “In Redda people are always talking about Levels,” he said. “Daddy says Levels are unfair.”

What? Tilrey glanced around reflexively for cameras. The view out the window of happy Upstart families, gliding down the trails and unclipping their skis, seemed suddenly a little sinister. “What a strange thing to say,” he said evenly. “But your dad is a Councillor. He has all sorts of complex political ideas that I can’t hope to understand. My understanding is that Levels are based on merit.”

Ceill plowed on: “Kars called me a Strutter because of Levels. But I’m not an Upstart yet and I might never be. That’s how it works.”

“Did Gersha say that, too?” Blood had rushed to Tilrey’s head as if he were angry, though Gersha hadn’t said anything offensive or untrue. “Who’s this Kars, anyway? A Skeinsha kid? Has he been bugging you?”

“I don’t care about Kars. Daddy says he’s just jealous. But he called me a Strutter, and the kids in Redda, they—they—they call me a Drudge sometimes.” The boy’s face was drawn and white; clearly he hadn’t wanted to admit this. “Because I go to school in ’Skein part of the time, they say I’m gonna turn into a Laborer. They say I get dumber every time I come back from ’Skein. I mean, I don’t care.” He averted his eyes from Tilrey’s, his small hands fisting on the edge of the table. “I know I’m not either, Upstart or Laborer, because you have to be old to get Notified. And I know not all Laborers are dumb. You’re not. But how can I be both? How can I be whatever people don’t like?”

To hell with cameras and observers. Tilrey got up and slid onto Ceill’s banquette and wrapped him in a hug. Ceill’s arms squeezed him tight. Then they both drew away as if by mutual accord, knowing such gestures were more appropriate in private.

“Ceillsha.” Tilrey stayed at arm’s length, gazing straight into Ceill’s eyes. “You need to listen to me. Your mom and dad are smart people, but there are some things they can’t teach you. These kids in Redda are jerks, and Kars is a jerk.” He wished he dared use a stronger word. “They’re bullies, and the only way to deal with bullies is to be strong in yourself. Not to let them hurt you. So, when they call you names, I want you to remember some things. People in Redda care about names. Do you know what it means to be named Linnett? Do you know why it’s important?”

Ceill looked confused. “Grandma Bertine is a Councillor?”

“Yes, but it goes beyond that. Your great-grandfather was General Magistrate of the entire Republic. And before that, his great-uncle was GM, too. Your ancestry is full of people in history books.”

In his wildest dreams, Tilrey had never imagined that one day he’d be extolling the virtues of the Linnett family. But if it meant giving his flesh and blood a fighting chance in the shark tank of Redda, he would do it with a smile. “So,” he continued, “when these little pissants call you names, trying to rile you up, I want you to remember what your actual name is. And I want you to know that you will be an Upstart, no uncertainty about it.”

He emphasized each word. Vera would never permit any other outcome—nor, for that matter, would he. Ceill would never have to endure any fraction of what he had.

Ceill stared at him, a little stunned. “What if I don’t do well on my tests, though? Daddy says—”

“You will.” Tilrey would need to have a talk with Gersha later. Idealism had its limits.

He gave Ceill’s shoulder a companionable thump, trying to temper the force of his words. Then he lowered his voice: “Look, I understand what Gersha was trying to tell you. He wants you to see everyone as a person and not a Level, and I agree. But we live in a world where people do see each other as Levels, and because you spend half your time in Redda and half your time in Thurskein, you confuse the other kids. Right or wrong, you do. And what people find confusing, they attack. Which is why it’s best for you not to go around repeating to your friends what Gersha told you.”

“I won’t. I wasn’t going to.” Ceill looked nervous again. “I promise.”

The boy already understood way too much about keeping secrets. Tilrey took a deep breath, reminding himself Ceill was only eight and didn’t need to have the shit scared out of him. Kids didn’t get really vicious till around puberty—but wasn’t it better to be prepared? “I know, Ceill. We trust you. Look, don’t worry about tests and rankings—not yet. And when people call you names, don’t retaliate. But do stand tall, look them in the eye, and know you’re as good as they are or better. Say it— ‘I know I’m better.’”

To Tilrey’s surprise, Ceill’s chin was up, as if the impromptu pep talk had actually made sense to him. “I know I’m better.”

“That’s good. Now, you just need to remember that, okay?”

“Okay,” Ceill said. “I’ll be like you and not care about the mean people, Tilrey. I swear.”

When Gersha came down from seeing Ceill off to bed, he found Tilrey sitting by the fire—not reading, as usual, but seemingly waiting for him.

Gersha checked the teapot; it was nearly empty. “I’ll make us another.”

“Let me.”

Before Gersha could stop him, Tilrey was off into the kitchen. Gersha gazed into the fire and fidgeted, hoping this wasn’t his husband’s way of trying to make amends for what had happened on the slopes today. The message from the resort had alarmed him, yes, but he hadn’t for a second held Tilrey responsible—despite what the resort medic seemed to be rudely insinuating about Tilrey’s qualifications as a caregiver. Outsiders were always making ignorant assumptions. Anyway, the important thing was that no one had been harmed.

When Tilrey returned with the steaming pot, Gersha said, “I’m sorry about that officious asshole at the resort. I could tell he gave you the third degree.”

Tilrey knelt to pour for them both. “I’m used to that, sweetheart.”

He arranged their tumblers neatly on the table, the way he’d always done as a kettle boy. Then he sat on the couch and wound his fingers around Gersha’s, drawing him closer. “I need to ask you something, love, and please don’t get defensive. Did you tell Ceill that Levels don’t matter?”

Gersha’s heart sank. He wasn’t displeased that Ceill had told Tilrey—it showed how much the boy trusted them both—but this was awkward. “I’m not sure I phrased it exactly that way. I did say he shouldn’t judge people by their Levels, and he shouldn’t regard his peers as having Levels at all. A nasty little bully in Thurskein called him a—”

“I know. I heard the story.” Tilrey opened Gersha’s unresisting hands and stroked the palms in an absent-minded way, sending flutters of sensation up Gersha’s spine. “I’m well aware that nothing you said is false. But do you think Ceill is ready to hear it?”

Irritation flared in Gersha, but he didn’t pull away. “He seemed to handle what I said just fine. It made sense to him—and it should. It’s our system that doesn’t make sense.”

“That’s not the point.” Tilrey’s eyes caught Gersha’s, dim in the shadows but still powerful in their intensity. “On an abstract level, in a vacuum, of course he can handle the information. But we don’t live in a vacuum. Ceill goes to school every day and sees kids who make judgments and assumptions about him. And he goes to two different schools in two radically different places, which just makes it more confusing. Imagine if he started telling his friends that Levels are unfair or meaningless.”

Gersha snorted. “It wouldn’t matter in Thurskein. It might even make him popular.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But in Redda?”

“You didn’t grow up in Redda. There’s always some silly Dissenter talk flying around the schools; it’s not taken seriously.”

Tilrey just kept looking at him. “Imagine if those friends told their parents.”

Gersha ducked his head. “All right, I see your point. But Ceill’s smart. He knows better than to repeat everything he hears in this house.”

“I know. But secrets are a burden, Gersha, and he’s eight. Maybe he shouldn’t have to worry about anything more complicated than climbing trees or learning his times tables.”

Tilrey’s tone was mild, but Gersha felt the sting of the words. “Maybe I didn’t think it through.” He curled his fingers around Tilrey’s larger hands, caressing them. “I just don’t want him to buy into it as he gets older. I don’t want him to grow up like other high-named kids, disdainful of everybody who’s not him. You don’t know how ruthless things can get in the upper grades. If Ceill were to listen to his peers and turn away from his Skeinsha friends, from Lisha, even from you . . .”

“That’s not going to happen.” Tilrey freed his hands and raised Gersha’s face to look at him. “Ceill has a good heart, Gersha. You know that.”

Gersha moved into Tilrey’s opening arms. “I know he does. I know.”

He rested his head on Tilrey’s shoulder, feeling the faint thump of Tilrey’s heart against his and the pressure of fingers knotting themselves in his hair. The gas fire hissed softly. Upstairs, a door creaked open, and Valgund’s footsteps crossed the hall to the bathroom. Gersha hoped Ceill was sound asleep.

He kissed Tilrey on the cheek. “From now on, I’ll ask you before I broach any political subjects. He asked me a question, and it just . . . came out.”

“I know.” Tilrey sighed. “The questions had to start coming eventually. I worry sometimes about him spending all that time in Thurskein, but he seems to love it there.”

“It’s good for him, too. Take it from someone who had an incredibly sheltered upbringing.”

“I know, sweetheart. But . . .” Tilrey pressed his forehead against Gersha’s. In a small, hoarse whisper, as if it would have shamed him to speak aloud, he said, “Please don’t scare him about Notification anymore.”

“Scare him?” Gersha wrenched himself away, so surprised he couldn’t help it. “I didn’t say a single thing that would scare him. All I said is that for him, as for every single child, it could go either way.”

“In your stupid ideal version of Whybergism!” Tilrey’s voice rose dangerously. “We’ve worked on making it more fair. But you know as well as I do that Notification is still more about power than merit.” He rubbed a hand across his mouth, his eyes suddenly raw with tears. “And even if it were entirely up to your precious tests, it still wouldn’t be fair.”

“But that’s exactly what I told Ceill!” Gersha felt like he’d been catapulted into a cruel parallel universe where no one understood a thing he said. “I told him he shouldn’t count on being Raised when he’s eighteen, and he shouldn’t let his happiness rest on one stupid, arbitrary decision.”

“Not arbitrary!” It was almost a shout.

As Gersha stared, Tilrey rose and paced in front of the couch—jaw tight, eyes down. After a moment, he said in a quieter voice, “It’s an important distinction, Gersha. Not to you, maybe, but to me. Notification based on power and lineage is unfair, but it’s absolutely not random. It matters enormously to our kid whether he ends up with a red or a blue dot on his hand-chip, and it matters to me, and as long as we live in this unreformed system, it should matter to you. Won’t you do everything in your power to make sure he’s Raised?”

Gersha had trouble finding his voice, but he couldn’t just concede to that. “Why would I need to ‘do’ anything? The system’s already rigged in his favor.”

Tilrey halted, arms crossed. “What if he bombed his E-Squareds?”

“That wouldn’t happen. You certainly didn’t.”

“It does happen. It’s one test, Gersha. Kids lose their nerve, or they’re sick that day, or they couldn’t sleep, and they end up with a score that doesn’t reflect their abilities. Ceill’s already struggling a little with math. What if he gets to the upper grades and can’t handle calculus?”

Gersha had never heard Tilrey concoct so many worst-case scenarios; usually he was the one who kept Gersha’s spirits up and teased him through his worries. “If Ceill has trouble, I’ll tutor him,” Gersha said. “I’m not worried about his Notification, Rishka. Besha managed to be Raised, for green’s sake, and he could barely handle quadratic equations, and he’s no Linnett!”

“There.” Tilrey pointed accusingly at him. “You just admitted that external factors matter. Now promise me that if you have to, you and Vera will pull strings.”

“I—where is this even coming from? How can I promise to do something that’s against everything we’re fighting for?” Tears pressed on Gersha’s eyes. But he didn’t want to use them as a weapon in this argument; didn’t want to force Tilrey to comfort him.

“This upsets you,” he said, pushing his own objections aside. What mattered was why Tilrey was acting this way, why he felt this way. “The idea that Ceill might be Lowered, and I might let it happen because of a principle—it scares you so much. It’s a whole decade away, and it keeps you up at night.” He exhaled deeply, letting tensed muscles relax, and held out his arms. “I don’t want you to be scared.”

“You’re evading the issue.” But Tilrey’s anger seemed to have deflated. He sat down. “I don’t see how it hurts you to promise,” he said, edging into the embrace Gersha offered. “You’re the one insisting he’d never need your help.”

“I promise, then.” Gersha reached around, moving slowly, and rubbed Tilrey’s back in a steady, reassuring rhythm. “And Vera would pull any strings she has to, whether you make her promise or not.”

“I know that.” Bit by bit, Tilrey relaxed, leaning into Gersha’s body. “I don’t know why I got angry at you,” he said after a time, voice muffled by Gersha’s shoulder. “I’m the one who makes things harder for him.”

Gersha had a hand buried in Tilrey’s hair, its softness teasing the sensitive areas between his fingers in the way he loved. “Nonsense.”

“No. Think about it.” Tilrey sighed heavily. “Sooner or later, one of Ceill’s little friends in Redda is going to hear from a parent or uncle that before I was ‘Daddy’s secretary,’ I was basically servicing the entire fucking Council.”

Gersha shuddered at the wording. “No one would tell a child something like that!”

“Not now. But as kids hit their teens, the jokes and banter and bullying get more sexual. He’ll need to distance himself from me, from the stories around me. Already the role I play in his life is raising eyebrows.”

“It is? Whose?” Then Gersha remembered his conversation with the medic. “Idiots will always gossip, Tilrey. And you’re worrying about things that would never cross an eight-year-old’s mind—I hope.”

“I hope not, too. But time flies, right?” Tilrey sighed again, fisting his hands in the wool of Gersha’s tunic. “I hope I’m wrong about this. I hope it never becomes an issue. But if it does, I’m ready to take a step away for Ceill’s own good.”

“Take a step away from whom? From him? From me?” Gersha kissed the crown of his husband’s head over and over, furious at the suggestion. “That’s not going to happen, love. Over my dead body. But I see now why you’re so worried. Will you please just relax and trust me to make everything okay?”

To his slight relief, Tilrey laughed. “You’re talking to me like I’m eight.”

“I know. We both know I don’t have magical powers. But you used to lean on me that way in the old days, didn’t you? Sometimes?”

“When I was your kettle boy, and you and Verán practically had the power of life and death over me? When you panicked and sent me off to get interrogated in Int/Sec?”

What had Gersha been thinking, reminding them both of those days? “I know I didn’t deserve your trust. But didn’t you maybe trust me to make things better anyway . . . now and then? It seemed like you did.”

Tilrey pulled away enough for Gersha to see his face. His eyes were red, but he didn’t look angry, only thoughtful. “I guess so. I’d gotten used to not trusting anyone, and then you were so fucking nice, so kind to me, and you were a Councillor and had all that power. I could see perfectly well how insecure you were, how clumsy at actually using your power. But it didn’t matter. When I fell asleep in your arms, I felt cared for, I felt safe. I wanted to be your tool, your possession, anything you wanted.” His eyes had a faraway look. “I did trust you absolutely, I think, those early nights we had together. But now I love you, and I’ve chosen you, and that’s completely different.”

Gersha nodded, blinking back tears. “And I love you. But when it comes to keeping our son safe, would you trust me for a few more years? Or even just for tonight?”

“Just for tonight?” After a moment, Tilrey smiled that old, radiant smile that had so charmed and intimidated Gersha from their first meeting. “I can probably manage that. Will you kiss me the way you used to?”

Gersha leaned toward Tilrey and kissed him softly, almost reverently—lips, eyelids, lips again. When he deepened the kiss, Tilrey’s mouth opened to him in the wanton, submissive way he remembered, and Gersha claimed it with his tongue, the warm wetness sending shivers of excitement to his groin.

“Green hells,” he groaned into Tilrey’s mouth. “Shall we bathe? Or just go to bed?”

Tilrey drew away just enough to smile again. “Bed.”

Despite their talk about the past, they didn’t playact any dominance or submission this time. Tilrey didn’t even call Gersha Fir. They just moved against and into each other on top of the covers, in no hurry, changing position as the need arose. They didn’t need to speak, and they didn’t come at the same time, and that was all right. Neither of them was responsible for making it perfect. Tilrey liked watching Gersha’s face as Gersha came, and he liked what Gersha did to make him come afterward.

And then, when they were both shuddering and satisfied and sheened with sweat, Tilrey pressed his face against Gersha’s chest and let Gersha’s arms wrap around him. Just like the old days.

“This was always the way I liked it best,” he murmured, feeling the prickle of coarse hair against his cheek. “I liked holding you, too, feeling how much smaller you were than me, imagining the power I might have over you. But in the end, I liked it best when you held me.”

Back then, he’d been so desperate to feel safe that he couldn’t admit it to himself. He told himself he didn’t care about this Fir Gádden any more than he cared about any other Strutter. But his body knew the truth. It molded itself to Gersha’s as if it were coming home.

And he was home. The truth settled on him softly, generously, like last night’s snow. He was not a guest in this family, not an interloper or a “chaperone.” Ceill and Gersha both knew that.

“And now?” Gersha asked, the words a sleepy vibration against Tilrey’s cheek. “Do you still like it best when I hold you?”

Tilrey pressed a kiss to his husband’s nipple. “Now I like both ways equally.”

Whatever else they had to face together as Ceill grew up, he was home to stay.

Chapter End Notes

How did this second/final chapter get so long?! :) Anyway, this story was very relaxing to write. I have some more angst to serve up soon, and I’m working on the next proper installment of the saga. Thank you for reading, and please be safe and well! <3

Chapter End Notes