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Cordelia was on her way out for brunch with Lady Alys when she met Gregor's new security man – Vortinde, that was the name – coming up the Residence steps with the Emperor himself tucked under one arm. Vortinde looked to be in a state of subdued panic; Gregor was maintaining sideways and rather squished stoicism.

"Colonel?" Cordelia asked, stopping. "Is there a problem?"

"Milady." He bowed clumsily, hitching Gregor up on his hip. "He's had a bit of a tumble, is all. I'm just bringing him to the doctor now."

Cordelia looked at Gregor again, saw what might have been the trace of one or two tears. If so, they were the first he'd let go in the month since they'd moved into the Residence.

"Well let's see then," Cordelia said briskly. "Oh, yes, very impressive," she added to Gregor, as Vortinde swung him down and presented him for inspection. The right knee of Gregor's trousers was shredded completely away, and the skin beneath had fared little better.

"He just slipped," Vortinde explained, shifting from one foot to the other. "I never took my eyes off him, but –"

"Yes, yes," Cordelia said soothingly. Really, was it too much to ask Simon Illyan to give Gregor's security a crash course in children before setting the respective parties loose on each other? She must speak to Simon. No, she must speak to Aral, who must speak to Simon. That was the proper way to do things, it was becoming clear, where good old Barrayaran gender hierarchies intersected with imperial power. Nothing up to and including beheading one's enemies seemed to put a dent in that rule.

"So if you'll excuse me, Milady, I really ought to—" Vortinde began.

"Nonsense," Cordelia said quickly. "Can you walk, love?" she extended a hand to Gregor, who took it with pleasing alacrity. She reversed course and shortened her stride even more than usual to match him up the steps.

"But, Milady, he needs to see his physician," Vortinde protested, staying on their heels as Cordelia turned left to the lift instead of right to the Residence clinic.

"Gregor, do you think you need to see your physician?" she asked, refusing to participate in the adult talk-over-his-head game.

Gregor eyed her, his knee, and Vortinde, then rapidly shook his head. It was quite unfair of her as she knew, while Vortinde didn't, that Gregor had acquired a thriving dislike for his personal medical staff after their varied histrionics upon discovering he'd actually lived in a cave. But that was the entire problem – take Gregor to the clinic now and he'd get a series of unnecessary anti-viral prophylactics, the skin regeneration therapy usually reserved for projectile impact wounds, and a lengthy ImpSec report. If he were really unlucky, the whole thing would land on the front page of tomorrow's paper. All of which would cause Gregor to burrow down even harder behind those watchful eyes. An utterly sensible response, Cordelia couldn't help thinking, even as she worried and worried at it.

No, the bigger the fuss you made at Gregor, the smaller he seemed to get. The trick must be to make the right kind of fuss, surely. But how exactly did she calibrate her caring to say I love you with the crazed, cellular devotion that I love my Miles, just because you're you without reminding him of everything he'd lost?

She took him through to the fresher off her and Aral's bedroom, and lifted him up to sit on the counter. Vortinde, overruled and silent, hovered in the doorway. Cordelia got rid of him for a bit by sending him off to fetch a new pair of trousers for Gregor while she helped him out of the ruined pair.

And then she talked to him as she carefully washed the scrape, then applied an antibacterial patch. He watched her, solemn-eyed and attentive. He could go days without saying a word, and manage it in such a way that you hardly noticed. It was frightening, once she'd caught on, though as she'd told Aral just last night, at least they already knew he was clever. And what else will you be, quiet Gregor?

The books she'd requested on elective mutism in children said just to keep talking, and that, at least, she could do. He was still listening, thank God.

"And then just a bandage over top," she said, digging back into the fresher cabinet. "Where I come from, you get a patch of synthflesh, but cloth does just as well, even if it takes longer. Ah, here we are." Something else they needed – child bandages. Surely there must be some printed with holovid characters or galloping horses or some such. "You just press gently, and the edges will stick. Does that feel better?"

He nodded, all but expressionless, and went to slide off the edge of the counter. Cordelia ached for him suddenly, keenly, more than the baseline hurt she didn't think she'd ever get used to. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I was there, I saw it all, and whatever help I was isn't helping you now.

"Hold on," She said. "One more thing." She bent down and kissed his knee right over the bandage. "My mother used to do that," she said deliberately. "It made it stop hurting."

He looked at her, unblinking and rabbit still for a dozen long beats of that awful, waiting silence. Then he licked his lips and whispered, "mine too."

"Come in," Cordelia called, sitting back from the comconsole. "Ah, good, you're back."

Gregor stepped in, and in the moment the study door was open Cordelia could hear Miles, in full treble bellow. "You wanted to see me?" he asked.

"Yes. Come and sit down." She pushed out the second chair set beside her comconsole, acquired for this very purpose. "It's all right," she added as he padded across to her. "Nothing's wrong. Just wanted to have a talk."

He sat, folded his hands in his lap, and waited with unnatural patience. He'd gotten all Miles's share, apparently, plus a plentiful allowance of his own.

"It's about sex," Cordelia said. He went abruptly pink, and she sighed. How, exactly, did this planet manage to convince its children that they ought to be embarrassed by sexuality without ever saying a bloody word about it until they were married? Answered your own question, there. "I want to explain some things to you," she went on, "and I want you to stop me and ask any questions you have, all right?"

He nodded, dubious but politely resigned.

"Good. Well, let's start with the basics." She turned to the comconsole and brought up her first slide. "Sex is something that two people can do together for physical and emotional pleasure." She paused. "Well. Generally two people. Sometimes there are more involved." She checked on Gregor, who had plastered on a face of alarmed attention. "Historically," she continued, "sex was also a means of reproduction, but I think you realize that need no longer be true." She flipped to the next slide, under the theory that you might as well jump right in, and illustrations were often most effective in this arena. Next to her, Gregor made a small choking noise. "I think it's best if we do this in two parts," Cordelia said, politely not looking at him. "First we're going to talk about how things work on Barrayar."

She'd prepared a helpful introduction to heterosexual intercourse, from the biomechanics of the male erection to the female reproductive cycle, complete with side trips about contraceptives and prophylactics and an overarching theme of respect for one's partner. From there she provided some more or less universal advice – proper lubrication, open communication, a focus on mutual pleasure with some concrete tips about the operation of female anatomy. Then she digressed into a brief discussion of the sociological changes brought about by the uterine replicator, and the reproductive benefits it could offer. This was more familiar ground, and without looking she could feel him relaxing a bit beside her.

"Right," she said, sitting back after a fruitful half hour. "Got all that?"

"Uh," Gregor said. "Was I supposed to be taking notes?"

"You can have my slides," Cordelia said promptly. "But listen, because this is where it gets complicated. Everything I just told you only happens on Barrayar between one man and one woman, and only after they're married.

"Are you sure?" Gregor said involuntarily, brow clouding. "Because I don't think that's true."

"Oh it's not," she said, beaming. "Very perspicacious, love. Do you remember a few months ago when we talked about social fictions? This is one of them. The fiction is that sex happens only between a married couple." She hesitated, not wanting to add to any confusion, but then decided to plunge on. "Another fiction is that young men engage in sexual activity before marriage, because they can't help themselves, but that young women do not."

"Wait," Gregor said, completely engaged now. "That doesn't make sense. How does that work?"

"Oh sweetheart. If you figure that out, I'd dearly like to know."

"Okay," he said slowly. "So . . . what really happens?"

"Well," she said, deciding rapidly that now was not the time for a deconstruction of the idea of social truths. "In reality, many young people have sex with each other before they're married. It's part of the courtship ritual – you want to know you're sexually compatible, after all. And sometimes, people have sex just because they want to, just because it feels good." She paused, startled to find herself editing and eliding here, as she had felt no need to in the discussion of mechanics. Tell him about hymen, sure, he needed to know that. But somehow it seemed immensely more complicated to pithily describe the morass of medieval inheritance law and classism and homophobia that continually stewed away, right beneath the surface. But of course he needed to know all of that, too. "And a lot of other things happen," she said, going more slowly. "Homosexual encounters, various kinks. Rape." She saw him startle out of the corner of her eye, alarmed by words he maybe didn't entirely understand yet but whose freighted baggage he had already begun to sense. His hazel eyes – his father's, down to the last lash – were very wide. "We'll talk about those things in a minute," she said. "But what I mean is that on Barrayar, you don't generally talk about them at all. Because of, well. Because of a lot of things. Like shame and misogyny and ideals of chivalry and virtuous femininity that -- anyway. My point is that because we don't talk about them, a lot of people get hurt. And I'm damned if you're going to be one of them. Okay?"

He nodded quickly, placatingly, a little wide-eyed. "All right," Cordelia said. "So, let's talk about homosexuality, and then perhaps we should examine gender binaries. I have more slides."

Aral came to bed late again.

Cordelia had waited up for him, propped against pillows with a new book. That morning's crisp suit was rumpled now, and the slump of his shoulders made her heart hurt.

"All right, love?" she asked, setting the book aside.

"No," he said, and then, quickly, "I need you to talk to Gregor."

"Ah." She sat up, began unplaiting her hair. "About what?"

"The company he's keeping, for one," Aral said. He turned away and stepped into his dressing room, but his voice floated out over the half-open door. "And then I have a whole list. I can jot it down if you like, but I bet you can fill it in for yourself."

"Mmm," Cordelia said noncommittally. "You've made it clear you don't like Count Vordrozda's ideas."

"Well yes, but Gregor isn't actually listening to me, these days. You still have a shot at getting through to him, though."

Cordelia took a careful breath. "Miles will be all right," she said calmly.

There was a beat of unhappy silence. "I wasn't aware we were talking about Miles," Aral said.

"He's growing up like he does everything else," she continued, "which is hell to leather and damn the consequences. But I think he finally might have reached a sort of functional equilibrium where he's clever enough to get himself out of the trouble he's clever enough to get himself in to start with."

Aral appeared in the doorway, half-dressed. "Treason," he said brusquely. "I think that's the plan. To work up a charge of treason against him. To convict him in the Counsel before he even makes it home from wherever he's gallivanted off to. I swear, when I get my hands on that boy—"

"You're going to hug the life out of him, and tell him I expect him promptly for dinner," Cordelia cut in.

Aral scowled. "You're not listening to me. I'm talking about treason." He said the word like it hurt him. It meant something different to him, something cataclysmically awful, bound up in that idea of sovereign loyalty that he felt to the bone and she could only ever experience through a lens of detached social interest. She loved the boys she had raised; in him the same personal ties also lassoed him to that great abstracted thing called The Imperium that poor Gregor was still staggering under.

Miles had it too, just as bad as his father, which was just one reason she knew her boy was doing no such thing. And Gregor knew it too, somewhere behind the frustrated belligerence. So did Aral, of course.

"Miles will be all right," she said again. "We have to let him make these mistakes if he's ever going to make it out of his teens alive. You know that. All we can do is be here, ready to help when he asks us to."

"Yes," Aral said. "Which is why I need you to speak to Gregor. You can make him understand what sort of mistake he's – ah." Aral stopped, shook his head, then laughed without humor. "Apparently we weren't talking about Miles, after all. Over two decades in politics, and you can still do that to me without breaking a sweat."

"I tend to get at you before you've had coffee or late at night," Cordelia said dryly, then waited.

Aral tipped his head back, breathed in and out slowly several times. Then he turned silently and went back into the dressing room. He was still quiet when he emerged a few minutes later and slid into bed beside her. Cordelia waved her reading lamp off and scooted down to lie beside him, quiet in the dark. He threw an arm around her, kissed her hair, then seemed to drop directly into exhausted sleep. This was wearing him to rags, Vordrozda and Gregor and Miles's mess.

Miles was out there somewhere testing his wings, trying to make up for things he thought he lacked but which he actually had in abundance – a future, for one. And Gregor was right here at home, beating himself against the bars of the cage just to know that he could. Snatching either of them out of the air now would be nothing short of cruel. Cordelia closed her eyes in the dark, bit her lip, set herself to wait.

"Where is he?" Cordelia asked, beaming.

The Vorbarra armsman stepped aside silently, and Cordelia hitched up her full skirts to hurry across to Gregor. He lurched up from a back-contorting slump, looked around wild-eyed, then oomphed pleasingly as Cordelia thumped into him for a hug.

"Oh, sweetheart," she said, laughing a little as she pressed him close. "They weren't kidding, were they?"

"Sorry, sorry," Gregor muttered into her shoulder. He was shaking.

"Hush," Cordelia said, and hung on when he would have pulled away. She couldn't remember the last time he'd let her do this in comfort. She rubbed his shoulders, petted the uncharacteristically rumpled hair, and waited while his breathing steadied. "There now," she said, easing back and looking down at him. "Goodness, what have you been doing to yourself?"

His smile was a little ghastly. "Didn't get much sleep last night."

"Last month, more like," Cordelia said briskly. "Well, nothing to be done about it now. Have you eaten something?"

"More or less," Gregor said vaguely, craning around her to see the chrono.

"We've got an hour," Cordelia said, redirecting his attention firmly. "Now, why don't you tell me what this is all about, hmm?"

"Oh, you know. Nerves." He laughed self-consciously, rubbing his hands together. "Weren't you nervous on your wedding day?"

"Not that I recall," Cordelia said thoughtfully. "Then again the whole thing has that two-dimensional feel you get through stark terror, so maybe I'm wrong." She paused contemplatively. "The honeymoon is crystal clear, though."

That made him laugh, at least. "Point," he said.

Cordelia eyed him a moment, then nodded to herself. Gregor was one of those naturally intense people who had trained his nerves out under the whip of unrelenting stress. Still, there was stress and then there was this. The only person who could help him now was currently dressing in the Residence guest house, and Cordelia quickly discarded the idea of arranging a quick, restorative liaison. Alys would put her foot down with resounding force, and those were quite sharp heels she was wearing today.

"It's all right," she said, patting his cheek. "I didn't actually come in here to talk you down."

"You didn't?"

"Well, everyone thinks I did, but not really. I actually just wanted to catch you alone now, while I can, since it will probably be the last time for a while."

"Oh?" he leaned back a bit, anxious on mere reflex at this point, poor thing.

Cordelia cupped his face in both hands, deliberately kissed his forehead. "You've figured most of this out yourself, but here it is anyway," She said. "Listen to each other as much as you can, and when you can't manage that, don't go to bed angry. And when you can't manage that, at least have angry sex." He snorted out a laugh, and she grinned. "Be grateful every day, because it doesn't matter how long you have, it won't be long enough. I think you've got that one down, maybe even too well." He nodded, mouth twisting. "And, just. Hang on to it." She shook her head, a little misty-eyed. He'd done something miraculous here, making this happen, like he'd leapt up and snatched a falling star with his bare hands. "I've never been more proud of you," she said. "So hang on for your life – for both your lives – and be sure it's joy. You got that?"

"Yes ma'am," he said softly.

"Atta boy." She beamed, quite sappily no doubt. "Now, Alys is sending in some people to make sure you don't actually look green on the holovid." She kissed his forehead one more time, just because she could. "Go get 'em."