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Chapter Text
It's not a way out. It's only a way on. But if that is all, that is enough.
- What Passing Bells, Chapter 13
The first time Helena met the Emperor, she was too worried about falling out of her dress to be properly terrified. The dress was her sister's, and though it was much nicer than anything Helena owned, it had the tendency to gape. While her cleavage might have helped her land a job or two in the past, she suspected that Emperor Gregor Vorbarra was not likely to be impressed.
She tugged at her neckline, wished her palms would stop sweating, and thought that perhaps it was just as well that she was distracted by potential wardrobe glitches. An interview with the Emperor was not something that could be adequately prepared for, it seemed, even if one had spent years skirting the backstage areas of the high Vor pageant.
"Miss Renault?" the Emperor's majordomo said.
"Yes," she said, forcing her hands away from her cleavage. She stood and smoothed her skirts.
"The Emperor will see you now."
"Thank you," she said, and followed him back through hallways that twisted and turned until she was thoroughly turned around. She was aware that they were passing out of the public wing of the Residence and into quieter realms, with more luxurious carpeting and some very expensive art adorning the walls. They fetched up at last in front of a nondescript, unlabeled door. Helena's stomach turned over.
"The Emperor's private apartments, miss," he clarified with a significant lift of an eyebrow.
Oh hell. Helena gulped. "I think there's been a mistake," she managed, her voice unnaturally high. "I mean, I thought we – that is, I had been told the interview would take place in the Emperor's office."
"The Emperor prefers to interview you here."
"Ah –" she said, a trifle less squeakily. "Of course. Thank you." Help.
The majordomo showed her in to a small, green parlor, with a finely carved, highly polished oak table and two chairs built more for style than comfort. There was a frosty pitcher of water and two crystal glasses on the table, and she resisted the urge to pour herself some while she waited, standing, with her hands clasped before her. The Emperor would not be long, the majordomo assured her before withdrawing, and indeed only a few minutes passed before the door to – presumably – his inner sanctum slid open and he appeared.
He was . . . tall. Tall and lean, and handsome, albeit in a stern sort of way, Helena thought, while dropping into the curtsy she'd practiced for more than an hour before a mirror that morning. She thought he might have been more handsome if he'd not been wearing his House blacks, as he had for the last eighteen months. They made him look severe and very pale.
"Miss Renault," he said, and pressed her hand between his. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. Please have a seat."
"Sire," she said, and tried to surreptitiously check the state of her cleavage and lower herself into her chair with a modicum of grace at the same time. He produced a folder she hadn't realized he'd been carrying – a thick binder, actually, the front emblazoned with the ImpSec logo and her name in stark, official lettering. She'd seen it already, gone over every page of it with General Allegre, in fact, but it still unsettled her.
"You have an impressive résumé," he remarked, opening the binder. "First-class degree in child development from Vorbarr Sultana University, two years with the Vortindes, two and a half with the Vorlopouloses. All with stunning recommendations. Very impressive."
"Thank you, Sire."
"Of course," he said, glancing up, "there were many candidates with very impressive résumés. But General Allegre and I only chose a very few of them to meet with me. Two, to be exact."
She didn't quite know what to say to that. "Thank you, Sire, for the opportunity," she finally said, dipping her head.
"I met with your competition this morning. Would you like to know what she was like?" the Emperor asked, leaning back in his chair. He steepled his fingers and eyed her until she wanted to squirm.
"It would be highly unprofessional of me to ask," she said, drawing herself up instead.
"I suppose it would be. Well," he said, snapping the binder shut, "I'll tell you anyway. She was impressive. She's thirty years older than you are. Very experienced, very competent, highly . . . professional, as you say." He paused, as though waiting for something.
She held her breath, wondered if she dared. "But?" she prompted.
He smiled – or almost smiled. The corners of his eyes crinkled at least, and from everything Helena had heard, that was as close as he'd gotten to a smile in the last year and a half. "But . . ." he said, "that isn't necessarily what I'm looking for."
"I see," Helena said. "If you don't mind my asking –"
"I do not," he said, with a shake of his head.
"What are you looking for, Sire?"
"Well, Miss Renault, that has been the question from the very beginning. Would you like a glass of water?" She nodded, and to her shock he poured her one himself, his hands steady on the pitcher. "I think I've driven General Allegre almost mad with this search, because I simply could not figure out what I wanted. Or rather, I can say exactly what I want, but no one can give it to me."
She blinked, and then realized what he meant. "I am very sorry for your loss, Sire," she said, wondering if it should have been the very first thing she said.
He nodded. "Thank you. But it's also my – our – children's loss, and that's why I have been so particular. They will never –" He stopped. "They are unlikely to know the love of two parents. I intend to do my very best by them and for them, but there are demands on my time that are unavoidable. Additionally, I am – it would be generous to call me inexperienced with children."
"I see," she said, and thought she did, despite his formal, somewhat stilted phrasing. The man was three months away from being a father and he was, quite simply, terrified. Moreover, he had no partner to share that anticipatory anxiety with – a situation that countless women had been acquainted with over the thousands of years of human history, but almost never, until now, a man.
"Do you? Because I'm not sure I do, frankly. But then, I think you might have more of an idea of what to expect. I – I don't . . ." He sighed. "Miss Renault, I'm not interested in this." He tapped the ImpSec file. "I trust General Allegre to have vetted you thoroughly. I'm interested in what is not in your file."
"Well," she said, "to be honest, Sire, I'm not sure there is anything about me not in my file."
There it was again, that almost-smile. "I know the feeling," he said. "But I can assure you that there is. Tell me why you became a nanny."
Well, that most certainly was in the binder, but all right. "I'm the oldest of six, Sire. By the time the last one was born eight years ago, I was so used to changing diapers and settling squabbles, it just seemed the natural thing for me to do."
He nodded, but said mildly, "That explains, perhaps, why you did it during your university years, as a way of supporting yourself. But with your background and opportunities, you could have done any number of things once you had your degree."
She bit her lip, and took a few seconds to answer. She sensed, somehow, that he would not hold it against her. "The truth, Sire," she said at last, "is that I'm good at it. I like children. I like playing with children. I have a lot of patience, and children listen to me – well," she amended quickly, "most do. I offer no guarantees here." She flashed a smile, but he only nodded solemnly. "It's my gift," she continued after an awkward beat, "and it seems a waste to do something else with my life, just because it might be more prestigious."
"Do you want children of your own?"
"Someday, yes."
"Someday, but not soon?"
"I certainly have no such plans, Sire. I have no . . . attachment." Nor was she likely to meet anyone while in his employ. She knew from experience that the children would eat up every moment of time they could lay their greedy little hands on – and she would let them.
"Hmm," was all he said.
Helena cocked her head to one side. "You want to know if I will leave you while the children are young."
"Yes," he said. "I admit, that's a point in your competition's favor. She's older and more likely to stay longer. You needn't stay until they're grown, of course, but – I became all too familiar at a young age with what it was like to be left by those who were most important to me, and I'd like to spare my children the same experience. Both your previous jobs lasted less than three years."
"Both times the families had to move off-planet," she pointed out. "I would have gladly stayed longer with either of them."
"Why didn't you go with them?"
"My family is here, Sire. I didn't want to leave them. Traveling is fine," she added, before he could ask, "even if it lasts a few months, but I have no wish to leave Vorbarr Sultana permanently."
"Hmm," he said, again. He looked at her for a moment without speaking, and she had the sense that there were questions he wanted to ask, but could not. She was overwhelmed briefly by the enormity of the task she proposed to take on: raising the Emperor's children, the future of Barrayar. Good God. It's not too late to say no, thank you.
Except . . . it was. Though she had not yet met the children – the first was still tucked up safely in his replicator, the second not even yet begun – she had met him, this quiet, rather sad man in front of her. She'd found the story of his and Lord Vorkosigan's doomed romance moving and tragic from a distance; she had even shed a few tears while watching the holovised funeral. But after the first few weeks, she had spared little thought for his private grief. Life had gone on for everyone else, and it was only now that she realized that in many ways, it hadn't for him. Now it seemed he was trying at last to find a way forward and was scared to death that he wouldn't be able to, scared that he would end up hurting not only himself, but also the children who were all he would have left of his – of Lord Vorkosigan.
"Sire," she said softly, when he continued to look at her without speaking. She had the feeling he wasn't really seeing her anymore. "Let me help."
He raised his eyebrows as though startled. "I'm sorry?"
"I want to help you. I know it's going to be hard, raising children always is and by yourself – but I can help. I can make it easier."
"I don't want –" He took a deep breath. "I will raise my children, Miss Renault. I want you to know that. I won't have them grow up knowing me only as the man who appears when they've done something wrong."
And just what role did Prince Serg play in your life, Sire? "I know," she said, without missing a beat. "And I'm glad. But you can't do it alone, you shouldn't do it alone, and I can help."
He looked at her for a long moment, during which she said nothing at all. Finally he stood, and she followed hastily. He extended his hand, and she slid hers into his. He clasped it firmly. "Please," he said.
"Thank you, Sire," she said, smiling.
"I'll let General Allegre know of my decision right away. He'll contact you within the next few hours about some bureaucratic issues."
"Yes, Sire." She gathered her things and he saw her to the door.
"It was a pleasure meeting you," he said. "Will you attend the birth?"
"If it would please you, Sire."
"It would."
"Then I will." Helena dropped him another curtsy and was escorted out the way she'd come by his majordomo. An ImpSec groundcar waited for her just outside. She glanced down as she slid in and breathed a sigh of relief; apparently she'd managed to get through the interview without falling out of her dress.
She was halfway home before she realized that something was wrong: She should have been happier. As badly as she'd wanted this job, she should have been elated. The process had taken six arduous months, after all. But the truth was that all she could think about was the Emperor, and his sad almost-smile, and hope that she could be everything he needed her to be.
The second time Helena met the Emperor, it was at the birth of his child. She'd expected a media and political circus, and there were a great many people – mostly press – camped out on the lawn outside the Residence. But inside it was surprisingly hushed, and the number of people present in the room itself was small: the Emperor, Lord Ivan Vorpatril and his wife, Lady Ekaterin, a few other people Helena didn't recognize, and – gulp – the Count and Countess Vorkosigan. The major domo announced her and withdrew, leaving her in the – she tried not to think lion's den.
"Miss Renault," the Emperor said, with very little expression but a certain reassuring warmth nonetheless. "Thank you for coming."
"It's an honor to be here, Sire." She glanced around. "This is a lovely room." It was a glassed-in balcony that afforded a stunning view of the city, at the moment spread out in all its Midsummer splendor beneath a gloriously blue sky. An auspicious day for an Imperial birth, she had thought when she'd woken that morning.
"Thank you," the Emperor said. "I used to use it as a dining room, actually, for smaller functions, but it's . . . personally significant."
"I see, Sire," she said, though she wasn't sure she did. Something to do with Lord Vorkosigan, from his tone. She had the feeling she'd be walking into those landmines for quite some time, at least until she learned where the more obvious ones lay. The less obvious ones – well, if Helena's own, admittedly limited experience was anything to go by, not even the Emperor could know when and where to expect those.
"If you don't mind," the Emperor said, after only half a beat of awkward silence, "there are a few people I'd like you to meet." There followed then a flurry of introductions that made Helena's head spin. It turned out that unassuming gray-haired man talking to Lord Ivan was Simon Illyan, for heaven's sake. He seemed far more . . . benevolent than Helena had expected, all things considered. Lady Alys Vorpatril was intimidating in a completely different way, even if she didn't turn her nose up at Helena in all her prole-ness as she'd half-expected. Helena tried not to stammer too badly, but only when Lady Ekaterin gave her a wink and a smile did she think she might have succeeded.
The Count and Countess were last. She had seen them on the holovised funeral, after which they'd disappeared almost entirely from the public eye. She'd heard rumors from various sources of . . . well, of a lot of things. An estrangement between them and the Emperor, for one. Health problems for the Count, for another. It seemed that the latter, at least, was true; Helena was pretty sure he hadn't walked with a cane a year and a half ago, and though his hands engulfed her own, they were thin, cold, and trembling slightly. The Countess smiled when she shook Helena's hand and thanked her for helping them.
"My pleasure," Helena said, and privately hoped it would be true. She was coming to appreciate more and more that "a difficult situation" – as General Allegre had called it that very first interview – didn't even begin to describe it. The somber atmosphere was more befitting a wake than a birth. But she noticed suddenly that no one wore official mourning garb. Perhaps they were trying then, if not for their own sakes, then for the sake of the little one about to join them. She could only hope.
"Well then," the Emperor said, when the introductions were completed. "Perhaps we should begin." There was a singular lack of enthusiasm in his voice, Helena thought; he sounded . . . reluctant, almost. Anxious, definitely. She watched him as the medicos made a few last minute preparations, and didn't think she was imagining the slight whitening around his lips.
Helena hung back as the various family and friends – who seemed rather more eager than the soon-to-be proud papa – formed a circle around the Emperor and the replicator. The Emperor hesitated for a long moment over it, his lips moving soundlessly, his eyes squeezed shut. Then he opened them and popped both latches at the same. The top of the replicator came open and he stepped back quickly for the medical staff to sweep in and start cutting away the various organic and synthetic innards to reveal – goodness – Barrayar's future Emperor. Helena stood on tiptoe to see over the shoulder of the tall gray-haired commodore in front of her. The Crown Prince was a little damp at the moment, she saw, but tiny and perfectly formed, with none of the squashed redness of body-birth babies. He seemed reassuringly unhappy as well, squalling all throughout his medical exam, until the doctor finally wrapped him in a blanket and placed him in his father's arms.
Helena had been present for a number of births before: her three youngest brothers and sisters, as well as a number of her former charges. She'd found there was a certain stunned expression, unique to that first moment when the baby was placed in a new parent's arms and it sunk in that they couldn't give this one back. She privately termed it the Good God, what have I done? expression. And there was definitely some of that on the Emperor's face as he gazed down at his son, but there were other emotions warring for prominence as well, too many and too fleeting for her to read. She could not, she thought, even presume to guess what he felt in this moment. Finally, mouth twisting, he ducked his head and handed the child to the new grandmother. The Countess leaned in to ask him something and he blinked, glancing up at the rest of them at last.
"Alexander," he said, into the utter silence of the room. "Alexander Miles. Sasha."
Prince Alexander Miles, Helena reminded herself. Crown Prince of Barrayar. Such a long title for someone so small.
There followed – well, Helena couldn't actually call it a party. There was food and champagne, though not enough toasting for a proper Vor gathering, in Helena's experience. She sipped at a champagne flute, nibbled at the truly superb array of appetizers , and waited for her turn to hold the Prince. He was putting up admirably with being passed around, she thought. The guests not currently holding the baby talked amongst themselves, and Helena skirted the edges of the various small groups, trying not to look like she was eavesdropping too shamelessly.
"– doesn't look well."
"He looks a sight better than he did a year ago."
"That's not saying much . . ."
True enough, Helena thought, glancing toward the Emperor. In the months right after the Lord Vorkosigan's death, rumors had circulated about the Emperor's health. The whispers had been fed by a string of holovids of him looking gaunt and exhausted, until many people were of the opinion of it wasn't merely a matter of a broken heart, but something much more serious, some grave malady concealed. The rumors had been quashed quickly enough, but suspicions had lingered for months, until time eventually did what the Emperor's public relations team couldn't quite manage. Now, in Helena's opinion, he merely seemed too thin and too weary.
"– think he'll manage to ram it through the Council?"
"Who would dare vote against it? We need a real heir. And for better or worse . . ."
"Somehow I don't think they'll see it that way."
"Leave it to Gregor. He knows what he's doing."
"I hope you're right . . ."
Helena suddenly viewed the small gathering with different eyes. She'd assumed it was out of deference to the bittersweet circumstances of the birth, but she'd somehow forgotten that Prince Alexander wasn't quite . . . legitimate. She knew – everyone knew – that the Emperor and Lord Vorkosigan had been officially betrothed in a hasty bedside ceremony just before he slipped into his final coma, but there was a faction that called its legitimacy into question on several counts: They said it had lacked unbiased witnesses, proper ceremony, decorum, tradition. Lord Vorkosigan had never been confirmed by the Council. And in any case, the Emperor's adversaries argued when pressed to the last, betrothal wasn't marriage.
And yet . . . Helena didn't pretend to know much about high Vor politics – or any other kind of politics – but she thought it might be rather more difficult to argue against a living, breathing Imperial scion. She bet the Emperor was banking on that as well.
"– think of the nanny?"
"She seems very nice, but rather young. I confess, I had thought Gregor might choose someone a bit more experienced –"
"Miss Renault?"
Helena jumped. Countess Vorkosigan, who held the Prince and looked positively aglow with grandmotherly satisfaction, smiled. "I'm sorry for startling you. I was wondering if you would like to hold Sasha?"
"Yes, of course," she said, and accepted him from the Countess. She tucked him close, arranging the blankets around his face, and couldn't help staring in fascination. The Prince's eyes were closed, his perfect little bow of a mouth making a suckling motion, as though he were dreaming of nursing. Helena glanced up, feeling suddenly as though she'd been neglecting her duties – no matter that there were easily a dozen people, eager and able to see to the Prince's needs, in this very room. "Countess, do you know if someone fed him?"
The Countess nodded, and the corners of her mouth turned up in a way that made Helena recall Gregor's own near-smile. "Gregor gave him his first bottle, just a few minutes ago." She paused, clearly observing Helena with her grandson and probably trying to decide if she approved or not. At last she made a noise of – well, Helena certainly hoped it was satisfaction, because God help her if it wasn't. "Would you mind if I had a word?"
"Not at all," Helena said, and allowed the Countess to steer her away from the crowd, toward the large windows facing the city, which was now glowing faintly in the setting sun. She waited for the Countess to begin, and, when she didn't, tried to find more ways to fuss with the young Prince.
"I'm very glad you came today," the Countess said, just when Helena had started to think she would never speak at all.
"I wouldn't have missed it for anything," Helena said. "I've found that it makes a significant difference, whether or not I'm present for the birth."
"Yes, I imagine it does," the Countess said, and then did not continue. Helena started fidgeting, under the guise of swaying to soothe the baby, who looked perfectly content in his cocoon of blankets. The Countess watched, one hand clasped over the gleaming black onyx at her throat, until – at long last – she blinked and seemed to see Helena once more. "I'm sorry, dear," she said, shaking her head. "Today has been rather fraught."
"I understand, Countess."
"I'm not sure you do, entirely." She sighed. "It should have been their first anniversary, did you know?"
Helena blinked. "No," she said. "The original, um, intended date of the wedding was never made public."
"That's right. I'd forgotten." The Countess looked almost startled. "Well, it would have been. That should give you some idea of Gregor's . . . mental state. I think it might be too soon for this, but there's certainly no turning back now."
"I'm sure everything will be fine," Helena said awkwardly. "How long will you and the Count be staying?"
"We've moved back to Vorbarr Sultana," the Countess said, with a strange twisting of the mouth that did not seem entirely happy. "We want to enjoy our grandson." Helena followed her gaze across to the room to the Emperor, who was chatting half-heartedly with Lord Ivan and his wife, but really just staring in bewildered adoration at his son in Helena's arms. Less than an hour and you're utterly besotted. Excellent. That stood to make Helena's job easier; nothing was worse than a parent who didn't care, and those were a dime a dozen among the Vor, Helena had found. "And I fear," the Countess added, looking back at Helena, "that we have been . . . remiss in certain other areas."
"I'm sorry?" Helena said.
"After Miles died . . . that was such a terrible time for all of us, and such things can either draw people together or drive them apart. I'm afraid that in our case it was the latter. Hindsight isn't very useful, and at the time it felt like there was nothing else we could possibly do, but now, I think it was the very worst thing we might have done." She looked away, out the window and over and beyond the Midsummer glory of the city.
So the rumors of an estrangement had been on target, at least to some extent. Difficult situation, indeed. What in the world have you gotten yourself into?
Fortunately the Countess didn't seem to expect a reply. After brief pause, she drew a deep breath and said, glancing back toward Helena, "In any case, I thought you should know. We've dug ourselves a great, dark, muddy hole and all jumped in together, and now we're trying to get out. Not the best circumstances in which to have a child, but he does provide incentive." She smoothed the thick thatch of dark hair that lay curling on Sasha's forehead.
Do they expect the Prince to be the one standing at the top of that great dark hole, holding the rope and hauling them up one by one? Helena wondered a bit desperately. Or was that to be her job? Something of her thoughts must have shown in her face, because the Countess suddenly gave a short, startling laugh, and lay a hand on her arm. "I'm sorry, Miss Renault," the Countess said. "I didn't mean to scare you."
"You didn't," Helena lied. Though truthfully, at this point she hardly felt it mattered. She'd been scared ever since she'd accepted the position. Now she had a list of security codes and blueprints of the Residence to memorize, and tomorrow Allegre was going to make her demonstrate the steps she should take if the Residence were ever taken by force. Presumably she'd never need to know, since the Prince's personal security force would be there, but just in case . . . Truly, it was the just-in-cases in this job that were going to be the death of her. What were a few family issues on top of that? As a nanny, she'd been privy to more than her fair share of awkward family moments. She doubted anything the Vorkosigans and the Emperor might come up with could rival the pure mental trauma of walking in on Lord Vortinde and his mistress on the dining room table.
"Well," the Countess said, not looking as though she believed Helena one bit. "I'm glad Gregor chose you."
"You don't –" Helena cleared her throat. "You don't think I'm too young?"
"No, I'd say you're just young enough," the Countess said. "I've seen your file, and the file of the person who came in second. A bit of youthful energy is just what we need, I think. And a sense of humor. If raising one half of his genetic parentage was any indication," she added wryly, "you're going to badly want both." She held her arms out for her grandson, and Helena relinquished him. "No," she said, tucking her grandson close once more, "you'll do fine, Helena. Just fine." She winked as she turned away, almost conspiratorially, and Helena somehow managed a smile in return. She only hoped it looked more certain than she felt.
After that, Helena lost track of how many times she met the Emperor. Their days settled into a comfortable, domestic routine that was unusual only in how quickly and easily it established itself. In all her previous jobs, Helena had experienced a period of awkwardness, while she and the family adjusted to each other; she had expected much of the same here, but she proved strangely and happily mistaken.
The Emperor made a habit of eating breakfast in the nursery after his morning security briefing. There were always groats and eggs laid out, but he never touched them until after he'd given Sasha his first bottle of the day. This gave Helena, who was not really a morning person by nature (and who was also up several times a night with the prince), the chance to eat something and, even more importantly, drink a cup of coffee. When the bottle was empty, the Emperor handed the Prince to Helena, who propped him on her shoulder and rubbed his back until he gave a princely burp. The Emperor usually stayed to drink a cup of strong black coffee and pick at a bowl of groats. The first time this had happened, Helena had been left with the unnerving question of how to make small talk with the Emperor, but that had turned out not to be a problem. She found she could ramble at length about pretty much anything having to do with the Prince and the Emperor would – well, not so much listen as smile and nod politely while staring in paternal fascination at the little bundle on Helena's shoulder.
She saw him in the evenings as well, whenever his day ended or he had a short break. If he came early enough, he often gave the Prince his bath or sat with him and his bottle in the elegantly carved antique rocking chair by the window. After a few attempts at conversation, Helena resigned herself to the sofa and a handviewer, and left the Emperor and the Prince to each other. It was a few minutes of quiet in a job that left Helena with very little time to herself. She often found herself ignoring her handviewer in favor of enjoying the gentle creep of the day's end, the quiet creak of the rocking chair, and the change in light from bright sunset to deep, mellow twilight.
Six weeks after he was born, Sasha was confirmed by the Council of Counts as the Crown Prince of Barrayar and Heir to the Imperium. What would have normally been taken as a given had been considerably more complicated, as Helena understood it. A spate of public appearances by the Prince in the days preceding had helped win public opinion onto his side, and then the Emperor had . . . well, Helena wasn't exactly sure what he'd done, except that it made him seem even more weary than usual during his evening visits to the nursery. All the same, she thought as the confirmation drew closer, he seemed less stretched than he had when they had first met. Wearied as he was by the confirmation process, it was not the same bone-deep weariness she had sensed in him at the beginning. It was normal tiredness from too much to do and only twenty-six hours a day to do it in.
All the same, she was glad for both father and son when the confirmation passed successfully and she was able to retire the very stiff and much-despised Vorbarra House uniform in miniature. All it was lacking to be truly and properly Vor-ish, the Countess had pointed out dryly, was Baby's First Dress Sword. Helena was very glad that someone had shown uncommon good sense and she would not have to worry about being skewered while changing his diaper.
A week after the confirmation, Helena asked for and received the evening off to go home for her sister's birthday. The family evening, the first she'd been able to attend since the Prince's birth, was a welcome respite, but also strangely awkward; her family, though very proud, still didn't quite know what to make of her new appointment. She was a little discomfited by the whole experience, and felt more grateful than she would have thought to catch an autocab back to the Residence.
She had expected to find the nursery dark and still, as the Prince should have been put to bed hours ago. But to her surprise there was a sliver of light under the door. She pushed it open silently and found that the light over the rocking chair had been left on, albeit dimly, and the Emperor was there, asleep with the Prince in his arms.
She hadn't the faintest idea what she should do. The Prince seemed secure enough, and very content, and she knew the Emperor suffered from insomnia; he often came into the nursery late at night, giving purpose, she suspected, to his sleeplessness. Attuned as she was to the slightest noise from the nursery, she inevitably awoke, and lay awake, listening, until he left again. Thus, she was loathe to wake either of them. But the Emperor was sleeping with his head on his shoulder, which she knew would give him a terrible crick and possibly a headache come morning. Finally – gathering up her courage – she placed a hand lightly on the Emperor's shoulder.
He woke instantly, with a startled gasp. "Sorry," Helena said, at first freezing and then snatching her hand back. "I'm sorry, Sire, I just got in and you were –"
"No, thank you," he said. He rubbed the back of his neck. "I would have been in no fit state tomorrow if I'd spent all night in this chair. I didn't mean to fall asleep at all."
Helena lowered herself to sit on the edge of the ottoman across from him. "Holding a baby is very soothing," she said. "I've often found it to be so."
"Yes," the Emperor said, staring down at his son in bemusement. "I admit, I never expected . . ." Caught up in sudden parental fascination, he didn't finish his sentence. At last he looked up, as though startled to find her there, and said, "I'm sorry, Miss Renault. How was your evening?"
She blinked. "Fine, Sire," she said.
"Your family is well?"
"Yes, very," she said, and when he continued to look at her, she felt compelled to add, "A little strange at the moment, but very well."
"Strange?" he repeated. Helena was reminded that he'd been an orphan since the age of five; that he had no siblings; that he had known family, perhaps, in the Vorkosigans and their wide network of extended friends and relations, but he might still find the closeness of a family like her own to be somewhat fascinating.
"They don't know quite what to make of, um, this," she said, with a gesture that encompassed the nursery, the Prince, and himself. "Or, well, I think it's more that they don't know what to make of me, now."
"Certainly they're proud of you."
"Oh yes, of course, but . . . families always remember everything about you, especially the stupidest and most embarrassing things you ever did in your life." She made a helpless gesture, and, since the Emperor was looking at her as though he expected her to go on, continued recklessly, "When I was six and he was two, I fed my younger brother dog kibble." His face broke into a rare real smile, and she smiled back, pleased to have amused him. "So you see, they're a little baffled by why I should now be put in charge of helping to raise the Crown Prince. Pleased, but just a little puzzled." She had, of course, expected a lot of good-natured teasing; that her family might be too intimidated to do so had never occurred to her until this evening.
"I see," he said, in a grave tone belied by his smile. "I have to say, Miss Renault, that incident was not mentioned in your ImpSec file."
"Wasn't it?" she replied. "I thought for certain it was."
"How did you get him to eat it?"
She grinned outright at the memory. "I told him it was chocolate breakfast cereal. He ate the whole bowl, apparently never noticing that it tasted nothing like chocolate. Honestly, Sire, I'm not sure who comes off worse in that story, him or me."
The Emperor smiled again, leaning his head back and looking pleasantly sleepy. "Once, when we were growing up," he said, turning his head a little to the side, "Miles dyed the water in the fountain in the entrance hall yellow."
Helena laughed, covering her mouth with her hand so as not to wake the Prince. The Emperor was smiling, and rocking a little at the same time. "I have a dozen stories like that," he said. "He was always up to something, from the moment he could walk. Occasionally I took the blame, since I was less likely to be punished, but I think his parents always knew who was behind everything."
"Parents usually do," she agreed.
He sighed, his faint smile dropping away. "I worry I won't."
She tilted her head to match the angle of his own. "You will, Sire."
He shook his head. "Miles would have, I believe. It's so odd," he said, not looking at her. "When he died, I never expected to be even as content as I am now. But in some ways, I miss him so much more than I ever did before." He paused, rocking almost imperceptibly, and Helena held her breath. She would not have spoiled these precious confidences for anything in the world. "Grief is strange," he finished, and looked to her at last. "Have you lost someone?"
"My maternal grandmother," Helena answered quietly. "I was named for her. We were very close, especially since she lived with us for the last few years of her life." But losing a grandmother was different, it was the natural order of things. It was not like losing Lord Vorkosigan must have been. "I've been lucky, I suppose, Sire."
He nodded, and said nothing. He needed rest, she thought, eyeing the dark shadows under his eyes, but seemed reluctant to leave. "Would you like a cup of tea, Sire?"
"Oh," he said, stirring at last in the chair, "no, thank you, Miss Renault. It is very late. But perhaps another time?"
"Gladly, Sire." She watched as he went to the crib and tucked Sasha in carefully, hands lingering over the blankets. She stood and waited awkwardly until he had finished fussing. When at last he turned back to her, she saw that whatever had made him so honest and open just now was gone.
"Good night, Miss Renault," he said, with heavy formality.
She responded with equal formality, and concealed her disappointment in her nod. "Good night, Sire."
When he was nearly two years old, the Crown Prince got a little brother, Prince Aral Serg, Lord Vorkosigan and heir to the Vorkosigan Countship. His birth could not have been more different from that of his older brother; there was no hushed, wake-like atmosphere, no whisperings about his legitimacy or rumbles about the timing. It was held in a small, comfortably appointed parlor rather than the glassed-in dining room, the significance of which she now understood all too well. Attendance was still limited to close family and friends, but there was a great deal of excited murmuring as the Emperor prepared to pop the latches on the replicator.
Far from being relegated to the fringes this time, Helena, the Crown Prince balanced on her hip, stood with the Count and Countess Vorkosigan. The Countess, hands clasped together in clear grandmotherly eagerness, graced Helena with a wink and a smile, which she returned. Her initial intimidation aside, Helena had found a useful and unexpected ally in the Countess, who was more willing than most to say things that generally Were Not Said, especially when it related to Lord Vorkosigan. Helena had found herself badly in need of a clue on occasion in the last two years, and the Countess had provided it without ever making her feel awkward or ignorant for not having known. Add to that the fact that she was nearly the only person who could make Sasha mind when he was not in the mood to do so, and she had quickly become one of Helena's very favorite people.
Sasha suddenly gave an unusual emphatic wriggle in Helena's arms. She shifted him subtly so he could see better, and he stared around at the proceedings with wide gray eyes. He was clearly confused and no wonder – for what may well have been the first time in his short life he was not the center of attention. Despite both the Emperor and Helena's best efforts over the last nine months, it seemed that Sasha had not quite grasped the changes that were about to occur in his life. Helena kept one eye on the replicator and one eye on the Prince as the medicos cut tiny, squalling Lord Vorkosigan out of the replicator, and then washed and examined him. Sasha seemed merely bewildered and a bit curious at first, but as the noise went on appeared more and more annoyed. He squirmed and scowled, grabbing a fistful of her dress and finally demanding, "Stop, Miss Heyena, stop it."
In about a year and a half, if we're lucky. She hugged him tighter and said, "You cried too, when you came out of the replicator."
"Did not!"
She smiled at him, trying to distract him from the fact that his Papa was holding the new baby now, and soon his beloved grandparents would be too. "Think about it, sweetie. You're in there where it's all dark and warm and cozy, and then you come out and it's cold and loud and everything is too bright."
He seemed to consider this, turning back to watch. The Emperor, still tall and handsome and rather severe, but much less pale, held the new baby with a practiced ease he'd not possessed at Sasha's birth. Sasha, who was definitely beginning to grasp that baby brother meant (for the moment at least) mainly annoying crying bundle of blankets that will take attention away, scowled mutinously. When the Emperor handed the young lord over to Count Vorkosigan, the frown deepened even further, and Helena, sensing that the festivities were about to be marred by a truly royal temper tantrum, caught the Emperor's eye. He reached over immediately to take Sasha from her, leaning in to whisper something Helena couldn't hear to his – now oldest – son. Sasha's scowl lightened considerably, but did not vanish.
"Perhaps, Sire, Prince Sasha would like to hold Prince Aral," Helena suggested diffidently.
The Emperor cast her a relieved look and nodded. "Yes, an excellent idea, Miss Renault." There followed a short flurry of activity; Helena settled Sasha on a settee and sat on one side while the Emperor sat on the other, the better to keep the baby from rolling off Prince Alexander's lap and onto the floor. The other guests gathered round at a respectful distance, and the Countess settled her youngest grandchild on her oldest grandchild's lap. Everyone held their breath. Aral blinked deep blue, unfocused eyes up at Sasha, who stared down at him in dubious fascination.
"He's your little brother," the Emperor said softly to Sasha. "So you need to help us take care of him." Sasha didn't answer, but reached out to touch the thatch of dark, damp hair on top of the baby's head with a promisingly gentle finger.
"He looks like you did, Prince Alexander, when you were a baby," Helena said after a moment. "Don't you think so, Sire?"
The Emperor cleared his throat. When he glanced up, she saw that his eyes were rather bright. Her own throat tightened unexpectedly in sympathy. "Yes," he said, only a little roughly. "You both look like your Da."
Helena knew better than to contradict him in this, since it was clearly what he wished to believe, and perhaps it was only that she had never met Lord Vorkosigan in person, but she thought that they both had a profile very much like the Emperor's. Sasha, certainly, was coming to resemble him more and more, though what was genetics and what was hero-worshipping imitation, she couldn't say. Still, there was definitely something of Lord Vorkosigan in him as well: the gray eyes, for one, and perhaps certain mulish tendencies.
Sasha's patience lasted only a few minutes longer. He began to squirm, and when the Emperor reached to take Aral away, he didn't protest in the slightest. He slid off the settee and, tugging on Helena's hand, asked plaintively if he could have one of the cream cakes laid out on the table. She let him have two, an unexpected treat, and then took him off for his nap, where he demanded four long stories in exchange for consenting to lie down quietly. He would have demanded more, Helena suspected, except halfway through the last story the exertions of the morning caught up with him and he fell asleep despite himself.
She left him with one of the maids to look after him, and returned to the party, which had shrunk somewhat. Lord Ivan and Lady Ekaterin remained, as did Lady Alys and Simon Illyan, and of course the Vorkosigans, but everyone else seemed to have left. The Emperor offered her a glass of champagne and she accepted, not wanting to seem too greedy to hold her new charge. But he must have seen something in her face, because he did not make her wait very long.
She had missed having a baby to hold, she thought, as she quietly removed herself and went to sit on one of the window seats. Though the arrival of Prince Aral meant that she was about to have a good deal more to do and a good deal less sleep, she found herself glad of it. They had perhaps waited longer than they ought to have done, she thought, glancing up from her considerationat last and seeing Count Vorkosigan sitting with his wife, their hands clasped together. It was not inconceivable that the last two years could have seen the Vorkosigan Countship come empty without an heir.
"And what do you think, Miss Renault?" the Emperor asked, startling her. In her contemplation of the new prince, she had not heard him approach.
"Think, Sire?" she replied, making room for him on the window seat.
He reached out and let the baby grab his finger in one tiny fist. "I'd like your professional opinion."
She blinked, and then realized he was making a very rare, very dry joke. She smiled. "All fingers and toes accounted for, Sire. A good head of hair, always an excellent sign. And a sweet disposition, it seems, which stands to make my job easier. All in all, Sire, he's the handsomest baby I've ever seen, excepting Prince Alexander, of course."
"Of course," he agreed, returning her smile. He went on smiling at the baby, who blinked up at him very slowly with an extremely grave expression.
"In perfect seriousness, Sire," she said quietly, "he is indeed a beautiful baby."
"Thank you."
Later that night, after the celebratory dinner had ended and both children were in bed, Helena settled herself in her small room with her handviewer and a cup of herbal tea, listening closely for the cries from the nursery that would inevitably come. She had barely sat down, however, when there came a quiet knock at her door – and not the nursery door, but the other one, which hardly anyone ever used. She had no idea who might come knocking at this hour, except, perhaps, the Emperor. But he always used the nursery door, and waited until she had invited him for tea before entering her apartment. She glanced into the mirror to make sure she was presentable, and opened the door.
It was, in fact, Countess Vorkosigan. Helena blinked. "Countess Vorkosigan, I – please come in."
"I'm sorry for surprising you like this," the Countess said, stepping inside. "I'd hoped to be able to have a word with you this evening, but you were rather occupied."
"Yes," Helena said ruefully. Convincing Sasha to eat his potatoes and not smear them in his hair or anywhere else was quite the challenge these days. "Would you like some tea?"
"Thank you, yes." She sat in Helena's one armchair – the same one the Emperor always sat in when she had him for tea – and glanced around. "I've always thought this was rather small. Have you thought about asking Gregor for something larger? I'm sure it could be arranged."
"It's not too small for just one person," Helena replied, pouring hot water over the tea leaves and wondering what in the world the Countess was doing here. "It's connected to the nursery, and that's really all that matters, after all, especially now, with the baby."
"Hmm," the Countess said, accepting her tea with a smile. "And that's quite all right for you? I've often wondered at Gregor's decision not to hire a night nurse."
"He asked my opinion on the matter, Countess, and I said I would do just fine without one. Children don't react very well when they wake in the middle of the night to a relative stranger, after all. And there are a number of maids who assist me on a regular basis."
"True," the Countess said, sipping her tea. "You're very dedicated."
"Thank you, Countess. I take my job seriously."
"Gregor thinks highly of you, you know. He speaks of you often."
Helena felt the back of her neck and her ears turn red. She ducked her head. "Thank you, Countess."
"You must know already though. You and Gregor seem to be very close friends."
Helena raised her head, startled. "I – I would not presume. I am a Servant of the Inner Chamber, Countess. Nothing more."
"Nonsense, Helena," the Countess said firmly, "you are a great deal more. To all of us, but especially to Gregor."
"Countess," Helena said, swallowing against a suddenly dry throat, "I think you misunderstand. I see the Emperor every day, of course, but we aren't – I'm not –"
"He talks to you, Helena, does he not?"
"Yes, of course, we talk about the children –"
"Not just about the children. He confides in you. He's talked to you about Miles, hasn't he?"
Helena froze. She had no idea what to make of this conversation. She had always had an easy relationship with the Countess; she admired her intelligence and her humor, and even if she hadn't her obvious adoration for her grandchildren would have endeared her to Helena anyway. In a strange way, she almost considered her a friend. Except for that very first time at Sasha's birth, she had never found her the least bit intimidating. But there was something about this conversation that frankly intimidated the hell out of her. Perhaps it was the subtle set of the Countess's face, or the faint lines around her mouth. There was something just a little frightening about it all. Forbidding, even.
The Countess must have seen a flicker of Helena's thoughts on her face, because she suddenly sighed, and reached out and covered Helena's hand with her own. "I'm sorry," she said, very gently. "I'm not . . . blaming you for anything. I am, however, concerned."
Helena blinked. "Concerned, Countess?"
The Countess didn't answer immediately. She removed her hand from Helena's and took a sip of her tea. Looking down into it, rather than at Helena, she asked again, "Does Gregor talk to you about Miles?"
"Sometimes," Helena said, with the utmost care. "Usually only when he's very tired."
"He doesn't talk to us about Miles, you know," the Countess said, glancing up, and Helena sensed suddenly an air of weariness about her that she had not sensed before. "Never to Aral, anyway. Very, very rarely to me. He is afraid, I think, of what we might say if he did."
"I'm sorry," Helena said, not knowing what else she might possibly say. She had become aware, of course, of a constant tension between the Emperor and the Count and Countess. At the beginning it had been almost palpable; more recently, scarcely noticeable. But always present nonetheless. It clearly wore on the Emperor – and, it would seem now, on the Countess as well – but ultimately it was none of her business, as it fortunately seemed to have no effect on the children.
"So am I," the Countess said, glancing back down at her teacup again. "Especially because I think it's entirely our fault, and I've no idea how to change it. But," she added, straightening, "that isn't why I came." She looked at Helena, pursed her lips, and then shook her head, setting her tea aside with an almost brisk gesture. "Goodness, this would be so much easier on Beta Colony."
"Countess?" Helena asked, confused.
"Helena, do you think Gregor might be in love with you?"
The question was so sudden, so direct, so very simple, that for a moment Helena didn't think she'd heard correctly. She blinked once, then twice, opened her mouth to speak and then could not bring herself to say anything at all. The Countess watched her, and when she didn't speak, said, "I have seen no impropriety in his behavior, or in your own. Once I would have spoken to him directly, but I fear now . . ." She frowned. "Things are better between us," she said, as if trying to reassure herself, "but I fear they will never be what they once were. I thought – if he were in love with you, I thought you might know."
Helena flushed deeply. "Countess, I promise you, the Emperor would never – and neither would I. My relationship with him is purely professional. We are perhaps, as you said before, friends. We do talk, from time to time. But I would never – " She swallowed hard. "I have seen it before, Countess. It ends badly."
"I never for a moment doubted you in any of that," the Countess said. "But that isn't what I asked you. Do you think Gregor is in love with you?"
Helena swallowed. An uncharted universe, replete with possibilities, was opening in her mind. It was dizzying, strangely exhilarating, and yet – false. "No, Countess," she said, her voice strangely hollow even to her own ears. "I do not believe he is."
"I see," the Countess said. She set her teacup aside and examined Helena with unnervingly close scrutiny. "And you, Helena? Are you in love with Gregor?"
Helena hid her face behind her teacup. She had never dared to put it in such words, even to herself. She admired the Emperor greatly, enjoyed their time together, certainly. Occasionally lay awake, hoping to hear him enter the nursery so that they might drink a cup of tea together and talk about nothing in particular. She had quashed any suggestion of hiring a night nurse – which he had in fact made several times in the face of her obvious exhaustion – because it would most certainly put an end to those nighttime visits, which were not, in the strictest sense (or, if she was honest with herself, any sense), proper. To have him confide in her as he apparently did in no one else was intensely flattering and, at the same time, rather frightening. She thought him brilliant in his own, quiet way, and very perceptive. He was a wonderful father. And extremely handsome, especially on the rare occasions when he smiled. Most especially when he smiled for her.
She had assigned the innocent label close friendship to all of this. Helena, who had always prided herself on her ruthless realism, suddenly felt like a naïve schoolgirl. Oh God. What fools these mortals be – and I have been a fool indeed. What could I have been thinking?
"Yes," she said at last, very weakly. She felt rather like she might pass out. "I rather think I am. Oh hell." She leaned over and put her head on her knees. "Do you think he knows?"
The Countess was silent for a long moment. "No," she said at last. "I think not. If you are right about him, then I think you need not have fear of that. Gregor has been most single-minded these last four years in his devotion to my son's memory. To his own detriment, I fear. He has never noticed the affections of anyone else. I had almost hoped, inconvenient as it would be . . ." She sighed, and Helena sat up slowly. "I do think he might feel something toward you," she continued, "but I doubt he ever examines it closely enough to recognize it for what it is. Or what it could be."
"What it can never be," Helena whispered.
"Not on Barrayar," the Countess agreed, with a note of what sounded strangely like regret. "In another time and place, you might have offered each other much happiness. And I want so badly for Gregor to be happy again."
Helena covered her face in her hands. "I wish I'd never realized."
"It is, almost certainly, easier not to realize such things," the Countess agreed. "But that is also a loss."
The Countess was right, Helena supposed. In a way she was glad to have realized. Still . . . the difficulties that suddenly presented themselves were overwhelming. She twisted her hands in her lap. "Countess, what should I do? I can't quit, not with Prince Aral just born. It would take months to hire another nanny, and I as good as promised I wouldn't leave while the children were young."
"It is, of course, your decision," the Countess said. "And I'm so very sorry, Helena, for having been to the one to force you to make it. But I will say that I believe you capable of going on as you have been, knowing what you do now."
Helena wished she felt the same. She hoped that the Emperor was as blind to others' affections as the Countess seemed to believe, or she would indeed be in trouble. She thought of all those late night conversations, here in this very room, with her sitting on her bed, very often in her dressing gown . . . Oh God. To go on with them would be excruciating; but to end them would be a different kind of horrible altogether, and he would never know why. Perhaps it was simply hubris to believe it would make any difference to him at all, but if he never confided in even the Count and Countess as he did in her . . .
"I won't leave," she said at last.
The Countess nodded. "I'm relieved to hear it. I doubt we could find anyone else as capable."
"Obviously I'm somewhat less capable than I thought," Helena muttered, "or I would never have gotten myself into this situation. I knew better. I know better."
"Helena, I fell in love with Aral when we were on opposite sides of a war," the Countess said, with unexpected sharpness. "Perhaps that does reflect on what kind of soldier I was or wasn't, but I choose not to think so. People often fall in love when it would be far more convenient not to, but that doesn't seem to have much of an effect on anything."
Helena nodded, looking down at her hands in her lap.
The Countess set her teacup aside. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"No, Countess, thank you," she said, past lips that felt rather numb.
The Countess stood then, and Helena scrambled up belatedly to see her to the door. "I am sorry," she said.
"Don't be," Helena said, just managing to smile. "As you said, to never have known would have been a different loss altogether."
To Helena's relief, the Countess seemed satisfied with this. Once she had gone, Helena sank onto the bed and put her head in her hands. A different loss perhaps, but one I would have been blissfully unaware of.
Never mind. It wouldn't change anything. She wouldn't let it. To lose what friendship she had with the Emperor out of mourning for what she could not have with him would be foolish and unnecessarily painful for them both.
Still, when she heard him enter the nursery that night, she lay very still in bed, feigning sleep. She prayed the young Prince wouldn't wake crying and force her to face him just yet. But all remained mercifully silent, save his quiet footsteps as he paused outside her doorway, as though hoping she'd wake, before leaving as quietly as he'd come.
In the weeks that followed, Helena could not help distancing herself. When he came to the nursery at night she pretended to be asleep if she could, and carefully did not invite him for tea if she couldn't. He seemed at first confused, and then concerned, asking her if she was sure she was happy. She said it was only that she was tired, and he seemed satisfied – no one, after all, would think it unusual, as she was up four or five times a night with Prince Aral. She breathed more easily and finally, several weeks after her visit from the Countess, she invited him for tea again. He seemed relieved. She tried not to feel more than she ought to at this, and failed.