Elizabeth Moon: Change of Command

What good would it do someone else?

She stood watching as Roz and Gerry began sponging the horse down, wondering why that had come to mind . . . why, at some level, she did not believe that awful milita group had killed Bunny. But who else? And how was she going to find out?

“Cece—” Dale, her trainer, had Max in tow. “I know, it’s awful, but you’ve got to ride this guy.”

She wanted to say she couldn’t, but she knew she could. And whatever happened to humans, horses needed their unbroken routine. She let a groom give her a leg up onto Max, and headed back to the gallops.

As always, just being on a horse in motion cleared her mind. Max was no Seniority, but he was maturing into a very nice ride over shorter distances, and he would bring a good price when the time came.

If the time came, with Bunny dead. Who knew what that meant politically? She didn’t, though she had paid more attention than she used to. Bunny had been a good executive, except perhaps for his frenzy when Brun was taken—a frenzy no one could blame. Things had gone well—her investments had prospered, and if hers prospered then surely the economy was doing well. Except for the volatility in rejuvenation pharmaceuticals, which had pretty much smoothed out this past year. The Consellines had lost face—and market share—but they certainly weren’t ruined.

And what about Miranda, and Brun? Would they move back to Sirialis? Would they—she hated the thought that forced itself to the top of her mind—would they still have foxhunting?

That wasn’t the important thing, of course—the important thing was finding out who had killed Bunny and dealing with him. Or her.

Max took advantage of his rider’s wandering mind and shied at a rustle in the hedge beside the field. Cecelia caught him before he could bolt, and sent him on firmly. Best think about the horse; that was something she could control. For the rest of the two-hour hack, she managed to keep her sorrow and her worries at bay.

They returned when she handed Max over to the grooms. Roz looked almost as grim as she felt—she had worked two seasons on Sirialis, Cecelia remembered, and had a scrapbook on the Thornbuckle family. “It’ll never be the same,” she muttered to Cecelia. “Young Buttons is a fine man, but he’s not his father.”

“No . . . but Kevil will help him.”

“He was hurt too, you know. Really bad—he might die.”

“Kevil Mahoney?”

“That’s what the newsvid said. If you can trust them. Damn those terrorists anyway; I don’t know why they have to make more trouble in the world, as if there’s not enough.”

“Lady Cecelia—” That was Dale, more formal than usual. “You have a caller.”

The last thing she wanted. She turned away, leaving Roz and the new girl working on Max, and stripped off her gloves, tucking them in her belt.

He was lounging in the stable office, flipping through the stable feed records.

“Get out of that,” Cecelia said, but without much heat. She herself had sneaked a look at the hay receipts for other owners, wondering if they had a better source. Everyone snooped in stable offices.

“You’re looking splendid,” Pedar Orregiemos said. “Still—terrible news, terrible news.”

“Yes, it is.” Cecelia sat down heavily in one of the battered leather chairs. “I’m still not really grasping it.”

“I came over because I knew you’d been close to both of them,” Pedar said.

Cecelia looked up sharply. “Both of them?”

“Bunny and Kevil, I mean. At least, that’s what the word was, the past few years. People were even twitting young George about it.”

“About me and Kevil? ”

He shrugged. “And why not?”

“Kevil and I are friends,” Cecelia said, almost spitting the words out. “Friends, not lovers.” Well, only twice, after which they’d both agreed it wasn’t working nearly as well as they’d hoped. “Yes, I spent a lot of time with him after my rejuvenation, because I needed his legal advice to untangle my affairs. But that’s all.” She was aware of the heat in her face, mixed anger and shame.

“Well, a friend, then. But still . . . I was sure you’d be upset, so I came over to check on you.”

Disgusting little climber. Yes, he was rich, and yes, his family was Seated, but he was, compared to her, a minor twig on the very large and ancient Conselline elm . . . her branch of the Aranlake Sept made up a much greater percentage of the even larger and older Barraclough oak.

Cecelia pushed that back down. She wasn’t the sort of person who worshipped a family tree; people didn’t get to choose their parentage. Pedar’s mannerisms, more pronounced in old age and despite several rejuvenations, had been there from the day she first met him, at someone’s birthday party. He wanted to be a protector . . . bad luck for him that she didn’t need protecting.

“I’m fine, Pedar. I’ll be fine—I’ll grieve, and then I’ll get over it.”

“Why don’t you let me take you to dinner?”

As so often, the kind impulse that was exactly wrong. “Not tonight, please. I just want to go back and cry a little. Another time, perhaps.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” Pedar said, and bowed politely. Go away , Cecelia thought, as loudly as she could while holding a polite smile that made her face ache. He bowed again and left.

She and Bunny had laughed about Pedar, from time to time—trusting each other not to share that fact. His stiff little bows; his exaggerated courtesies; his passion for antique clothing and sports even more useless than foxhunting and eventing.

She would never have Bunny to laugh with again. She would never see that long, foolish face come alight with intelligence, with his quick wit. She would never warm herself at the glow of the love between Bunny and Miranda . . . a love she had watched grow and deepen over the many decades she’d known them both.

Tears ran down her face, and when Dale came back to the office, she was curled into the big chair, and didn’t hear him step in, then quietly close the door behind him when he left again.

The day of Bunny’s funeral dawned clear and cold. Miranda woke before dawn, and watched the light seep into the eastern sky. She lay still beneath the covers, feeling the weight of them, reluctant to leave that warm nest and face what would be a long and difficult day. Their room—her room—was not cold, but she had not felt warm since that first horrible moment when they’d told her Bunny was dead.

A faint click, then music so soft she could barely hear it—the music she had chosen herself. She reached over and punched up the volume—no sense in that slow crescendo if she was already awake—and threw off the covers in one angry gesture.

Bunny was dead. Nothing would change that, not the music, not the dawn, not whatever mood she was in. Beneath her feet, the carpet was still soft and thick. Around her shoulders, the fleecy jacket warmed her.

Bunny was dead. She was alive, and beautiful (she heard people whispering, and after all it was true) and very, very wealthy.

Faintly, through the closed door, she heard a lusty cry.

Wealthy, and the grandmother of bastards whose fathers were, if not dead, criminals and no doubt partners of those who had killed Bunny.

Miranda had not told Bunny how she felt about those babies. Grandmothers were supposed to have a natural love for grandchildren, but she could not see those boys as anything but vandalism perpetrated on her daughter.

Bunny had seen it differently. Bunny had assumed she would love them, if Brun couldn’t; Bunny had assumed she would organize their care.