Eric Flint: Grantville Gazette.Volume IX

Bernie shook his head. "No, not back to Grantville. I wish I could go home, back to the world I came from. This place, all these places, just aren't home. Even Grantville isn't home. I used to do all right, you know. I had enough money to do what I wanted, for the most part. I dated, I worked my hours. I got by. Now, though, well, it's just not the same, not even in Grantville."

Natasha murmured a sympathetic sound and Bernie kept talking. Natasha could tell Bernie was lonely and feeling lost. Not much of a wonder, judging from Bernie's appearance. He had worn what he called his "best suit" to the audience, but now he was wearing something called "jeans." They were blue but faded, clearly inappropriate for a person of Bernie's station in life. Peasants wore faded clothing.

I shall have to help him with his wardrobe, Natasha thought. He needs to grow a beard, as well. Else no one will take him seriously.

Bernie looked at the girl. She seemed nice enough and she hadn't gotten pissed at the Boris and Natasha bit. On the other hand, she was Vladimir's sister and Bernie had finally picked up on just how rich and powerful Vlad was after he had gotten to Moscow. This girl was the daughter of a great house. She was pretty, dark haired and slim. Slimmer than a lot of the Russian women, with black hair that hung down to her b… past her waist. She spoke some English. Funny sounding English, but English. Mostly, though, she was someone to talk to.

"So," he said, "tell me about you."

Natasha was a bit surprised. It was a fairly forward question, it seemed to her. She had little experience with men not part of her family or sworn to it. Members of her family would already know such things. Retainers would never have the gall to ask such a question if not invited. Her aunt, Sofia, tittered a bit. Natasha cast a glance her way and the sixty-year-old Sofia pretended innocence, staring out the windows on the other side of the carriage.

"Ah…" Natasha stopped. What about her? "What do you wish to know?"

"Oh…" Bernie hesitated a moment. "Like, what do you figure on doing with your life? Do you have any plans to become a doctor or lawyer? What's it like in the winter here? Do you like parties?" He snorted. "What's your sign?" Natasha had no idea what that meant.

Bernie stopped suddenly. He even blushed a bit. "That's probably too many questions, isn't it?"

"Perhaps," Natasha acknowledged. "In any case, I didn't understand what all of them meant. I don't know what my sign is. Unless you mean the family crest."

"Never mind." Bernie said hastily. Then he scratched his chin. "Why do all the men wear beards?"

Natasha found herself suppressing a giggle. Didn't this outlander know anything? "Men wear beards because the church says that it is a mortal sin to shave them. God did not create men beardless, only cats and dogs."

"Not to mention rats and mice," Bernie said. "Cattle. Sheep. Well, sheep are sort of bearded all over. Goats, though. Goats have beards."

Aunt Sofia was suppressing laughter, Natasha thought. Her shoulders were shaking, at any rate. And her black eyes sparkled a bit.

"Perhaps so." Natasha felt a grin trying to break out. "But I'm not sure the church would like hearing that…" She searched for the word. "Ah… compare?"

"Comparison," Bernie said. "Yeah. Churches up-time didn't like it when you pointed out that sort of thing, either. Whatever. So, anyway, what do you do?"

The question threw Natasha into a bit of confusion. What did she do? Did he mean how she spent her time? "I take care of the family properties while Vladimir is away. Someone must."

Bernie shook his head and shifted his weight on the saddle. Natasha envied that he was riding a horse. It had to be more comfortable than the jolting carriage. The carriage hit a rut and she bounced a bit, grabbing onto the edge of the seat. "Uff."

"That's one of the things we gotta do." Bernie made a tsking sound, staring ahead at the road. "These roads are the pits."

Yet another word she wasn't sure of, Natasha thought. Pit for hunting? Pit of Hell? Thinking about it, she wasn't sure that the latter wasn't accurate. "Pits?"

"Really bad. But that's one thing I know how to fix. Some ditches, some drainage and some gravel. Easy."

The carriage jolted again and Natasha suppressed a groan. Fix the roads. What a good idea.

Berna was moved in and settled. It had been a busy three days, but Natasha was at her desk, at last. There were several letters to write. She, as was her nature, started with the hardest.

To the Up-timer Citizen of Grantville, United States of America, Miss Brandy Bates,

I make free to write to you at the suggestion of your fellow up-timer, Bernard Zeppi. I hope that this missive finds you in the best of good health.

Natasha hated this part. She was a regular correspondent with several women of Muscovy and even a few men. But writing to someone new was always a challenge, especially someone from a foreign country. Worse, in this case, because the up-timers probably thought of everyone from this century as barbarians. But she really did need an answer to this question.

Let me apologize if I have failed to include the titles appropriate to your station. It is not with the intent of insult but from simple ignorance. Goodman Zeppi informs me that you are a woman of great accomplishment and considerable status among the up-timers, being a professional researcher at the research center. Also that you are of good family and possessed of a Ged.

I gather that the Ged is a title? But I confess my ignorance in how it is to be applied to a salutation. Mr Zeppi professes ignorance of your other titles, not being a student of heraldry.

The talk Bernie and Natasha had on the road to the dacha and the talk Natasha had with Sofia led to other talks with Bernie. He had made a very strange comment. When Natasha had asked about it his face had gone red and he had refused to answer. He suggested that she write Brandy Bates. When she had asked why, he had said that Brandy was a better person to ask and insisted that she was an expert and a person of high status. Natasha suspected that he might have overstated the woman's importance and wasn't at all sure she liked the way Berna had waxed effusive on Brandy Bates' accomplishments. Still, if she wanted to know this was the only way to find out.

I fear this may be a delicate matter to broach on first acquaintance, but what is a bra and why should one burn it in the grand market square?

Princess Natalia Petrovna Yaroslavicha

Natasha knew she should be saying more, introducing herself more clearly, but she was uncertain of what degree of formality she should use in writing to an unknown up-timer. She set the letter aside and started working on the next. It would go to Vladimir and discuss the Grantville Section of the Embassy Bureau and the agreements reached between the family and the government.

Fall, 1633

The Grantville Section was, so far, not doing all that well. Boris was having organizational problems. Pavel Borisovich, his eldest son, shook his head at him. "They won't authorize it, Father."

"Why not?" Boris felt he was asking the question with considerable restraint.

His son shrugged. "The official reason or the real reason?"

"The official one, I know the real one." The real reason was resentment. The patriarch had gotten Boris the Grantville section and a reasonable budget. That only fueled the resentment. There were other people who were in line for the promotion; people with better family connections. That would normally mean that if a new section was established they might reasonably expect to be tapped to head it up. Assistant section chiefs-in and out of the embassy bureau-were pissed that Boris had been jumped a rank.