Chapter 33: Damaged — The Key of Oslov

Volume 20: All the Kinds of Broken

Chapter 33 Damaged

Chapter Notes

I was going to have a quite long chapter, but then I got an idea and decided to split it in two, and this is the first half. As you can see, Tilrey’s struggling to process what happened and retain some sense of control, and that can mean thinking things that are off-kilter or just plain wrong, like blaming himself when he is the victim here.

Chapter Notes

In the morning, Vlastor took one look at Tilrey’s face and said, “Oh, fuck. What did you do?”Tilrey didn’t answer until they’d left Linden’s villa and were walking the short distance back to Verán’s against a howling wind. “I didn’t do a fucking thing except my job.” Out here, with no Upstarts in earshot, he didn’t have to sugarcoat things. “The man can’t keep it up, and he decided that’s my fault.”Vlastor’s expression softened toward pity—then darkened again. “I’m gonna have to tell the Fir. We can’t hide this.”“I know.”Vlastor didn’t have to tell Verán, as it turned out. When they came in, the old man was taking his breakfast alone in the sitting room. “Seven green hells,” he said when he got a look at Tilrey’s face. “What did you do, lad?”Tilrey glared at the carpet, while Vlastor said awkwardly, “Fir Magistrate was ill-disposed, Fir.”“Oh, was he?” Verán beckoned, clawing the air. “Nettsha, come and explain yourself.”Tilrey sat down beside the majority leader. His lip and cheeks were a little tender, but the damage looked worse than it was, in his view. He cursed his milky complexion.When Vlastor had stepped out, he said, “I obeyed every order from the Magistrate, Fir. Just like I did from you in this room last night.”“Poor Besha, beet red! I’m not sure he’ll ever recover from you.” Verán clearly relished the memory, but then his smile faded. “You didn’t wise off to Mosha, did you? He’s very old-fashioned. Needs constant deference.”Tilrey shook his head. There was no way to explain that every word he’d spoken had been bizarrely aggravating to the Magistrate. Anyway, giving details would be viewed as a breach of discretion, which he suspected Verán took even more seriously than Malsha did. “I did my best with him, Fir. Discretion forbids me to say more, but . . . maybe he’s not quite as recovered as his nephew thought.”To his relief, Verán took the hint. “Green hells, poor Mosha. He used to be quite the cocksman, if the gossip is any indication. Ah well, I suppose infirmity comes for all of us.”A smug smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—he didn’t have that problem, he was clearly thinking. “What a pity. And I do wish he’d been more considerate. You’re sure you didn’t provoke him? You didn’t mention Malsha?”Tilrey shook his head. Asking about Adelbert had been a misstep, but Verán didn’t need to know he’d done that. Anyway, Linden had brought up the majority leader’s nephew first. “I swear I was respectful, Fir.”“Fine, fine, enough.” Verán dug a spoon into his porridge. “I suppose we’ll hold off for a bit on moving you into his apartment. We don’t want you damaged—more damaged. I was going to give you to Svallgren again tomorrow night, but it’ll have to be Gourmanian instead. He’s less likely to gossip, and he might even like you looking worse for wear.”He pointed the spoon sternly at Tilrey. “But not a word to him or anyone else. Mosha has a quick temper with his inferiors, but he’s competent to hold office. We don’t want anyone thinking otherwise.”“Why not, Fir?” Tilrey’s curiosity, which Malsha had always encouraged, got the better of him. “I mean, why not be GM yourself? You do such a good job of running the party,” he added, hoping flattery would make the question less offensive.Verán barked with laughter. “Poor child, you have no idea how things work. Over in Malsha’s party, they’ve cut themselves free of the traditions—they had to, to allow themselves to be led by him. But we do things differently in the Island. Mosha is the General Magistrate because his quant score was a full fifteen points higher than mine.”Was Verán really talking about the E-Squareds, a test they’d all taken a single time when they were eighteen? “But . . . that was so long ago, Fir.”Tilrey’s disbelief must have looked comical. Verán laughed again. “Shut your mouth, boy, you look like a raving idiot. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”Gourmanian winced when he saw Tilrey’s bruises. “I heard you took a spill on your skis yesterday.”“He’s learned his lesson about being careful, Fir,” Vlastor said grimly. “He went off-trail and straight over a precipice. We’re lucky he doesn’t have a concussion.”Tilrey hadn’t been on skis since his time with Malsha. He said nothing and tried to look contrite.Gourmanian wasn’t that gullible, though. He was gentle with Tilrey that night, insisting on pleasuring him with his mouth and refusing to use the usual restraints. When they had finished and were resting in each other’s arms, he said, “You went to Mosha Linden, didn’t you?”“I saw him, Fir.” He couldn’t confirm what had happened, but he didn’t have to deny anything, either.“The man’s always had a short fuse, and he seems to get worse every year as he loses his faculties.” Gourmanian sat up and tugged Tilrey’s head into his lap. “I hope Visha gives him a talking to. I hate seeing you this way.”“It looks worse than it is, Fir.” But Tilrey couldn’t help probing a little. “I thought you liked seeing me hurt.”“Verdant hells, that’s not the same!” The Councillor stroked his hair. “A little hurt is different, and you like that, too, don’t you?”Tilrey remembered how it felt to be hauled onto Gourmanian’s lap and spanked; yes, he liked that. It put him on another plane, where his body burned with need and nothing else mattered.But hadn’t he also felt that way when Linden was hitting him, just a little? Dizzy and focused at the same time, every nerve in his body straining with overstimulation? It wasn’t quite the same: He’d been unnerved and angry, and his cock certainly hadn’t been aroused by the beating. But some other, heretofore unknown pleasure center in his brain had clicked on. He’d felt high.And Verán had been so annoyed to see him “damaged.” That gave him a stealthy pleasure.“I do like it, Fir.” He burrowed his face into the Councillor’s dressing gown. “Sometimes I need it. Anyway, it takes more than a few measly slaps to hurt me. I’m strong.”Vlastor walked Tilrey home in the morning but didn’t follow him inside. “I have to go pick up supplies,” he said in the coldroom. “The Fir’s got a guest. You go in and pour the tea for them.”“A guest?” After his work nights, Tilrey never liked seeing anyone until he’d been able to shower, preferably hole up in his room for a while as well. He felt raw and exposed on these mornings, and the bruises only made it worse.“Not that kind of a guest. Just some younger relation he’s giving a scolding.”Tilrey went reluctantly into the sitting room and found himself face to face with Verán and his nephew, Adelbert.It was their first meeting since the night more than a year ago when Adelbert had lured Tilrey to his father’s villa with promises to help him bring a judicial complaint against Malsha. One look at the scrawny, black-haired, sheepish-faced young man brought memories flooding back.Tilrey couldn’t believe he’d thrown himself at this pathetic young Upstart, thinking a good fuck might be the revenge on Malsha that Adelbert wanted. The last words they’d exchanged were Adelbert giving him permission to climax.

I actually fucked him. What would Verán do if he knew?

At least Adelbert wouldn’t tell—he was too ashamed. The blood had drained from his face, and he was busy looking anywhere but at Tilrey.And Tilrey had plenty of experience in keeping his own face blank. “Another pot of tea, Fir?”“Of course! I was about to ask Bertsha to do it.”Verán didn’t bother to introduce them, not even when Tilrey returned from the kitchen with the fresh pot. He was busy giving his nephew a scolding, just as Vlastor had said, and he didn’t seem to care if Tilrey overheard.“You came into this world with every advantage, yet you only think of yourself,” he told Adelbert as Tilrey knelt to pour the tea. “This is a family. When you want to get yourself reposted, you tell me.”“I didn’t think you’d care.” Adelbert’s shoulders were hunched, but his tone was defiant. “It’s a perfectly respectable job for my R-level. And,” he added with more vehemence, “I’ll be damned if I have anything more to do with the Judiciary. Do you know what my job actually was, Uncle? They had me using fancy words and Whyberg quotes to justify decisions that had fuck-all to do with justice. Do you have any idea what happens when a Laborer accuses one of us of rape?”The word made Tilrey blink, as if Adelbert had lit a match in his face. But he finished pouring with steady hands and sat down.Verán didn’t seem bothered. “A nasty word, and a notoriously difficult charge to prove.”“Maybe. But I can tell you it suddenly gets a lot easier when it’s one of us accusing one of them.”Tilrey examined the carpet, wishing he had something to do with his hands so that he would stop thinking about wringing the young Upstart’s neck. Adelbert had no right to use the word “rape”—not after he’d tricked and trapped Tilrey into bed and then handed the judicial complaint over to Malsha so that Malsha could mock Tilrey with it. Why was he posing as a crusader for justice when he was as bad as any of them? Did it ease his conscience?Verán said, “You’re trying to distract me from the real issue, which is that you’re falling back into bad habits. A posting in the Bureau of Diversions, really? So you can get close to your precious stream makers again?”“I won’t be ‘close’ to them. I’ll be editing and censoring their work. But at least I’ll be doing something I don’t hate.”Verán sighed. “I don’t want you working too closely with Drudges, Bertsha. I don’t want you tempted.”“Tempted to what?”“You know what I mean.”“You think I’m slumming with this new job? You think I’m going to try to Lower myself again?” Adelbert laughed wildly. “This might surprise you, Uncle, but stream makers don’t want to be my friends. They have too much sense to come between me and my family, especially after how that turned out last time.”Tilrey wondered if Verán had found ways to punish the Laborers who had “tempted” Adelbert to take a role in their stream. He hoped not.“I’m glad to hear that, but I don’t trust them to keep their distance. A bleeding heart like yours is irresistible to an ambitious Drudge. They’ll try to exploit you for your connections.” Verán picked up Tilrey’s hand absently. “I’ll tell you what, Bertsha. I’ll allow this posting if you marry and get to work on giving your father a grandchild.”Adelbert’s laughter was tinged with acid this time. “You’re forgetting I’m an adult, Uncle. You have no power to allow or forbid me to do anything. Anyway, Dad doesn’t want a grandchild. He knows I plan to apply for Sanctioned Celibacy.”“Your father is a dreamer,” Verán snapped, his fingers tightening around Tilrey’s. “If he hadn’t made a bad match with an empty-headed beauty, I wouldn’t have to deal with you at all.”“Oh, we’re being honest now?” Adelbert laughed again, but it sounded forced. He stretched and rose from the sofa, clearly trying to make the movements look more languid and indifferent than they were. “Fine. You despise me except as a tool to continue your family line. I don’t choose to be a tool. I think we’re done here—unless you want to threaten me with moral rehab again?”“I don’t despise you, Bertsha.” Verán released Tilrey’s hand and stroked his knee instead—using me like he uses his cane, Tilrey thought, wondering why the old man needed a prop right now. “You’re a young man of many gifts, as I already said, but we all have our duties. We all make sacrifices to the greater good.”“Aren’t some people’s sacrifices a little bigger than others?”“If you’re talking about yourself—” Verán began.“Not this time.”Tilrey felt the pressure of a gaze on him. He looked up straight into Adelbert’s eyes, seething like gas flames.“Did you do that to him?” Adelbert asked his uncle. “Is that part of his duty? Letting you beat him black and blue?”Tilrey tensed up—couldn’t help it. He opened his mouth to say that no one could beat him black and blue without his consent.No, he couldn’t say that. Who consents to being beaten? But he hadn’t resisted, after all, when he could easily have overpowered Linden. So yes, he supposed he’d consented in some sense, just as surely as he’d consented to fucking Adelbert while knowing it was a terrible idea.In his mind, he saw Malsha looking dubious. Shaking his head. And Tilrey repeated firmly to himself: No one can make me do anything. I don’t need Adelbert’s pity.Before he could say anything rash, Verán replied to his nephew’s outburst: “Now you’re reaching, Bertsha. Don’t bring the piece into it—he’s a good lad.” His hand closed possessively on Tilrey’s knee. “No one’s been beating him. He took a tumble skiing, as reckless boys do. But I can assure you he knows his duty better than you know yours.”*Vlastor looked sadly down at Tilrey. “You’re not eating.”“I ate half.” Arguing took energy, so Tilrey rolled toward the wall.“Sit up. Let me see your face.”“It’s only been three days!” But Tilrey let the driver pull him into the light and examine him.The bruises meant Verán couldn’t show him off at parties for the remainder of the recess, which was nice. But Verán also wanted him to stay out of sight, and he missed being outdoors. Listening to Verán’s grandchildren come in from their skiing excursions, banging boots and poles around and yelling happily, summoned painfully vivid memories of his own childhood.In those days, he had taken all kinds of risks on the slopes, the one place where his shyness never held him back. His mother shook her head at the bruises and scrapes, and sometimes she lectured him on the dangers of concussion—but affectionately. His dad had been the same way, she said.Malsha had let him cross-country ski, but downhill was out of the question. “We can’t damage you.” Now here he was, damaged anyway. Apparently it couldn’t be avoided.What Vlastor saw on Tilrey’s face clearly didn’t please him. “Eat the rest,” he said, setting the bowl down again in Tilrey’s lap.“I’m not hungry.” Tilrey sifted around for an excuse. “I filled up on sticky rice cakes last night.”The truth was that he wasn’t sleeping well. Often when he tried to drift off, the sensations of the beating returned in a half dream, making him sit bolt upright. He would lie back down, determined to sleep, but the agitation made acid curdle in his stomach and surge up his throat. And he would sit up gasping again, this time because he couldn’t take a full breath.Since he couldn’t change what happened in his sleep, he preferred to keep his stomach close to empty. There was no point in explaining that to Vlastor, though, who would just give him an antacid that wouldn’t work.With a sigh, he dug his fork into the bowl of noodles and made a show of taking a bite. “You overfeed me, and I’m fine. Big and strong enough to take twenty more thrashings.”When he looked up, Vlastor was frowning. “Don’t talk like that.”“Why not? Everybody says I’m strong.”“Don’t . . . joke about it. It’s not funny, you being hurt.”Tilrey really did laugh then. He didn’t know why he found it so funny, Vlastor drawing the line for him. But he kept chuckling as he forced down the food, until the driver got exasperated and said, “I don’t understand you at all.”

In the morning, Vlastor took one look at Tilrey’s face and said, “Oh, fuck. What did you do?”

Tilrey didn’t answer until they’d left Linden’s villa and were walking the short distance back to Verán’s against a howling wind. “I didn’t do a fucking thing except my job.” Out here, with no Upstarts in earshot, he didn’t have to sugarcoat things. “The man can’t keep it up, and he decided that’s my fault.”

Vlastor’s expression softened toward pity—then darkened again. “I’m gonna have to tell the Fir. We can’t hide this.”

“I know.”

Vlastor didn’t have to tell Verán, as it turned out. When they came in, the old man was taking his breakfast alone in the sitting room. “Seven green hells,” he said when he got a look at Tilrey’s face. “What did you do, lad?”

Tilrey glared at the carpet, while Vlastor said awkwardly, “Fir Magistrate was ill-disposed, Fir.”

“Oh, was he?” Verán beckoned, clawing the air. “Nettsha, come and explain yourself.”

Tilrey sat down beside the majority leader. His lip and cheeks were a little tender, but the damage looked worse than it was, in his view. He cursed his milky complexion.

When Vlastor had stepped out, he said, “I obeyed every order from the Magistrate, Fir. Just like I did from you in this room last night.”

“Poor Besha, beet red! I’m not sure he’ll ever recover from you.” Verán clearly relished the memory, but then his smile faded. “You didn’t wise off to Mosha, did you? He’s very old-fashioned. Needs constant deference.”

Tilrey shook his head. There was no way to explain that every word he’d spoken had been bizarrely aggravating to the Magistrate. Anyway, giving details would be viewed as a breach of discretion, which he suspected Verán took even more seriously than Malsha did. “I did my best with him, Fir. Discretion forbids me to say more, but . . . maybe he’s not quite as recovered as his nephew thought.”

To his relief, Verán took the hint. “Green hells, poor Mosha. He used to be quite the cocksman, if the gossip is any indication. Ah well, I suppose infirmity comes for all of us.”

A smug smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—he didn’t have that problem, he was clearly thinking. “What a pity. And I do wish he’d been more considerate. You’re sure you didn’t provoke him? You didn’t mention Malsha?”

Tilrey shook his head. Asking about Adelbert had been a misstep, but Verán didn’t need to know he’d done that. Anyway, Linden had brought up the majority leader’s nephew first. “I swear I was respectful, Fir.”

“Fine, fine, enough.” Verán dug a spoon into his porridge. “I suppose we’ll hold off for a bit on moving you into his apartment. We don’t want you damaged—more damaged. I was going to give you to Svallgren again tomorrow night, but it’ll have to be Gourmanian instead. He’s less likely to gossip, and he might even like you looking worse for wear.”

He pointed the spoon sternly at Tilrey. “But not a word to him or anyone else. Mosha has a quick temper with his inferiors, but he’s competent to hold office. We don’t want anyone thinking otherwise.”

“Why not, Fir?” Tilrey’s curiosity, which Malsha had always encouraged, got the better of him. “I mean, why not be GM yourself? You do such a good job of running the party,” he added, hoping flattery would make the question less offensive.

Verán barked with laughter. “Poor child, you have no idea how things work. Over in Malsha’s party, they’ve cut themselves free of the traditions—they had to, to allow themselves to be led by him. But we do things differently in the Island. Mosha is the General Magistrate because his quant score was a full fifteen points higher than mine.”

Was Verán really talking about the E-Squareds, a test they’d all taken a single time when they were eighteen? “But . . . that was so long ago, Fir.”

Tilrey’s disbelief must have looked comical. Verán laughed again. “Shut your mouth, boy, you look like a raving idiot. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

Gourmanian winced when he saw Tilrey’s bruises. “I heard you took a spill on your skis yesterday.”

“He’s learned his lesson about being careful, Fir,” Vlastor said grimly. “He went off-trail and straight over a precipice. We’re lucky he doesn’t have a concussion.”

Tilrey hadn’t been on skis since his time with Malsha. He said nothing and tried to look contrite.

Gourmanian wasn’t that gullible, though. He was gentle with Tilrey that night, insisting on pleasuring him with his mouth and refusing to use the usual restraints. When they had finished and were resting in each other’s arms, he said, “You went to Mosha Linden, didn’t you?”

“I saw him, Fir.” He couldn’t confirm what had happened, but he didn’t have to deny anything, either.

“The man’s always had a short fuse, and he seems to get worse every year as he loses his faculties.” Gourmanian sat up and tugged Tilrey’s head into his lap. “I hope Visha gives him a talking to. I hate seeing you this way.”

“It looks worse than it is, Fir.” But Tilrey couldn’t help probing a little. “I thought you liked seeing me hurt.”

“Verdant hells, that’s not the same!” The Councillor stroked his hair. “A little hurt is different, and you like that, too, don’t you?”

Tilrey remembered how it felt to be hauled onto Gourmanian’s lap and spanked; yes, he liked that. It put him on another plane, where his body burned with need and nothing else mattered.

But hadn’t he also felt that way when Linden was hitting him, just a little? Dizzy and focused at the same time, every nerve in his body straining with overstimulation? It wasn’t quite the same: He’d been unnerved and angry, and his cock certainly hadn’t been aroused by the beating. But some other, heretofore unknown pleasure center in his brain had clicked on. He’d felt high.

And Verán had been so annoyed to see him “damaged.” That gave him a stealthy pleasure.

“I do like it, Fir.” He burrowed his face into the Councillor’s dressing gown. “Sometimes I need it. Anyway, it takes more than a few measly slaps to hurt me. I’m strong.”

Vlastor walked Tilrey home in the morning but didn’t follow him inside. “I have to go pick up supplies,” he said in the coldroom. “The Fir’s got a guest. You go in and pour the tea for them.”

“A guest?” After his work nights, Tilrey never liked seeing anyone until he’d been able to shower, preferably hole up in his room for a while as well. He felt raw and exposed on these mornings, and the bruises only made it worse.

“Not that kind of a guest. Just some younger relation he’s giving a scolding.”

Tilrey went reluctantly into the sitting room and found himself face to face with Verán and his nephew, Adelbert.

It was their first meeting since the night more than a year ago when Adelbert had lured Tilrey to his father’s villa with promises to help him bring a judicial complaint against Malsha. One look at the scrawny, black-haired, sheepish-faced young man brought memories flooding back.

Tilrey couldn’t believe he’d thrown himself at this pathetic young Upstart, thinking a good fuck might be the revenge on Malsha that Adelbert wanted. The last words they’d exchanged were Adelbert giving him permission to climax.

I actually fucked him. What would Verán do if he knew?

At least Adelbert wouldn’t tell—he was too ashamed. The blood had drained from his face, and he was busy looking anywhere but at Tilrey.

And Tilrey had plenty of experience in keeping his own face blank. “Another pot of tea, Fir?”

“Of course! I was about to ask Bertsha to do it.”

Verán didn’t bother to introduce them, not even when Tilrey returned from the kitchen with the fresh pot. He was busy giving his nephew a scolding, just as Vlastor had said, and he didn’t seem to care if Tilrey overheard.

“You came into this world with every advantage, yet you only think of yourself,” he told Adelbert as Tilrey knelt to pour the tea. “This is a family. When you want to get yourself reposted, you tell me.”

“I didn’t think you’d care.” Adelbert’s shoulders were hunched, but his tone was defiant. “It’s a perfectly respectable job for my R-level. And,” he added with more vehemence, “I’ll be damned if I have anything more to do with the Judiciary. Do you know what my job actually was, Uncle? They had me using fancy words and Whyberg quotes to justify decisions that had fuck-all to do with justice. Do you have any idea what happens when a Laborer accuses one of us of rape?”

The word made Tilrey blink, as if Adelbert had lit a match in his face. But he finished pouring with steady hands and sat down.

Verán didn’t seem bothered. “A nasty word, and a notoriously difficult charge to prove.”

“Maybe. But I can tell you it suddenly gets a lot easier when it’s one of us accusing one of them.”

Tilrey examined the carpet, wishing he had something to do with his hands so that he would stop thinking about wringing the young Upstart’s neck. Adelbert had no right to use the word “rape”—not after he’d tricked and trapped Tilrey into bed and then handed the judicial complaint over to Malsha so that Malsha could mock Tilrey with it. Why was he posing as a crusader for justice when he was as bad as any of them? Did it ease his conscience?

Verán said, “You’re trying to distract me from the real issue, which is that you’re falling back into bad habits. A posting in the Bureau of Diversions, really? So you can get close to your precious stream makers again?”

“I won’t be ‘close’ to them. I’ll be editing and censoring their work. But at least I’ll be doing something I don’t hate.”

Verán sighed. “I don’t want you working too closely with Drudges, Bertsha. I don’t want you tempted.”

“Tempted to what?”

“You know what I mean.”

“You think I’m slumming with this new job? You think I’m going to try to Lower myself again?” Adelbert laughed wildly. “This might surprise you, Uncle, but stream makers don’t want to be my friends. They have too much sense to come between me and my family, especially after how that turned out last time.”

Tilrey wondered if Verán had found ways to punish the Laborers who had “tempted” Adelbert to take a role in their stream. He hoped not.

“I’m glad to hear that, but I don’t trust them to keep their distance. A bleeding heart like yours is irresistible to an ambitious Drudge. They’ll try to exploit you for your connections.” Verán picked up Tilrey’s hand absently. “I’ll tell you what, Bertsha. I’ll allow this posting if you marry and get to work on giving your father a grandchild.”

Adelbert’s laughter was tinged with acid this time. “You’re forgetting I’m an adult, Uncle. You have no power to allow or forbid me to do anything. Anyway, Dad doesn’t want a grandchild. He knows I plan to apply for Sanctioned Celibacy.”

“Your father is a dreamer,” Verán snapped, his fingers tightening around Tilrey’s. “If he hadn’t made a bad match with an empty-headed beauty, I wouldn’t have to deal with you at all.”

“Oh, we’re being honest now?” Adelbert laughed again, but it sounded forced. He stretched and rose from the sofa, clearly trying to make the movements look more languid and indifferent than they were. “Fine. You despise me except as a tool to continue your family line. I don’t choose to be a tool. I think we’re done here—unless you want to threaten me with moral rehab again?”

“I don’t despise you, Bertsha.” Verán released Tilrey’s hand and stroked his knee instead—using me like he uses his cane, Tilrey thought, wondering why the old man needed a prop right now. “You’re a young man of many gifts, as I already said, but we all have our duties. We all make sacrifices to the greater good.”

“Aren’t some people’s sacrifices a little bigger than others?”

“If you’re talking about yourself—” Verán began.

“Not this time.”

Tilrey felt the pressure of a gaze on him. He looked up straight into Adelbert’s eyes, seething like gas flames.

“Did you do that to him?” Adelbert asked his uncle. “Is that part of his duty? Letting you beat him black and blue?”

Tilrey tensed up—couldn’t help it. He opened his mouth to say that no one could beat him black and blue without his consent.

No, he couldn’t say that. Who consents to being beaten? But he hadn’t resisted, after all, when he could easily have overpowered Linden. So yes, he supposed he’d consented in some sense, just as surely as he’d consented to fucking Adelbert while knowing it was a terrible idea.

In his mind, he saw Malsha looking dubious. Shaking his head. And Tilrey repeated firmly to himself: No one can make me do anything. I don’t need Adelbert’s pity.

Before he could say anything rash, Verán replied to his nephew’s outburst: “Now you’re reaching, Bertsha. Don’t bring the piece into it—he’s a good lad.” His hand closed possessively on Tilrey’s knee. “No one’s been beating him. He took a tumble skiing, as reckless boys do. But I can assure you he knows his duty better than you know yours.”

Vlastor looked sadly down at Tilrey. “You’re not eating.”

“I ate half.” Arguing took energy, so Tilrey rolled toward the wall.

“Sit up. Let me see your face.”

“It’s only been three days!” But Tilrey let the driver pull him into the light and examine him.

The bruises meant Verán couldn’t show him off at parties for the remainder of the recess, which was nice. But Verán also wanted him to stay out of sight, and he missed being outdoors. Listening to Verán’s grandchildren come in from their skiing excursions, banging boots and poles around and yelling happily, summoned painfully vivid memories of his own childhood.

In those days, he had taken all kinds of risks on the slopes, the one place where his shyness never held him back. His mother shook her head at the bruises and scrapes, and sometimes she lectured him on the dangers of concussion—but affectionately. His dad had been the same way, she said.

Malsha had let him cross-country ski, but downhill was out of the question. “We can’t damage you.” Now here he was, damaged anyway. Apparently it couldn’t be avoided.

What Vlastor saw on Tilrey’s face clearly didn’t please him. “Eat the rest,” he said, setting the bowl down again in Tilrey’s lap.

“I’m not hungry.” Tilrey sifted around for an excuse. “I filled up on sticky rice cakes last night.”

The truth was that he wasn’t sleeping well. Often when he tried to drift off, the sensations of the beating returned in a half dream, making him sit bolt upright. He would lie back down, determined to sleep, but the agitation made acid curdle in his stomach and surge up his throat. And he would sit up gasping again, this time because he couldn’t take a full breath.

Since he couldn’t change what happened in his sleep, he preferred to keep his stomach close to empty. There was no point in explaining that to Vlastor, though, who would just give him an antacid that wouldn’t work.

With a sigh, he dug his fork into the bowl of noodles and made a show of taking a bite. “You overfeed me, and I’m fine. Big and strong enough to take twenty more thrashings.”

When he looked up, Vlastor was frowning. “Don’t talk like that.”

“Why not? Everybody says I’m strong.”

“Don’t . . . joke about it. It’s not funny, you being hurt.”

Tilrey really did laugh then. He didn’t know why he found it so funny, Vlastor drawing the line for him. But he kept chuckling as he forced down the food, until the driver got exasperated and said, “I don’t understand you at all.”