"I'm sure there are, but I don't know who. . . ."

"Perhaps the maids will. We don't want publicity when we take the children out."

The little crocodile of children from Briary Meadows Primary School being herded through the public rooms as part of their field trip acquired a short tail. They didn't pay much attention; they were tired of glass-fronted cases full of trophies, letters, gifts to this or that famous person by another famous person, the rooms of interesting furniture which they could not touch, the silken ropes on which they were not supposed to swing, the constant admonitions to pay attention, be quiet, quit straggling or crowding.

The children had been promised a stop at Ziffra's, the famous ice-cream parlor, if they were good, and only a steady murmur of commands kept them from trampling one another on the way out the door.

The nursemaids, now wearing the green smocks of adult helpers in the school, complete with dangling nametags, brought up the rear, each with a toddler on her hip.

Outside, the remaining media scavengers waited for any sign of Brun or her children, but ignored the confusion of piping voices and busy adults. They had seen bright green buses with the school name arrive, and crowds of obvious schoolchildren arrive, teachers hustling them into neat lines

and adult volunteers scampering to catch the inevitable escapees. At least one such field trip arrived every day; the Palace had always been a favorite tourist site, and busloads of children, retirees, and convention attendees showed up so often that no one in the press corps paid them any mind.

Now, as the chattering youngsters piled into the buses, and the harried adults counted, compared notes, and shut the doors, they ignored the confusion, keeping an eye out instead for the return of Lady Cecelia, whose limousine waited at the other end of the car park.

A half hour later, Cecelia left, smiling into the holo lens and accepting congratulations on her win in the Senior Trials. She fielded a couple of questions about her breeding program, expressed sympathy for Bunny's family, and stepped into the waiting limousine, which took her to the medical center where Kevil Mahoney was still listed in critical condition.

And later that afternoon, the two school volunteers whose green smocks and nametags had been borrowed for a time walked out the service entrance with other Palace staff who lived offsite. No one paid attention to them, either.

Miranda listened to the silence and felt something shift inside her mind. She had not really been able to hear the twins, but knowing they were not there, that she could not hear them even if she walked down the hall, tipped her toward some distant horizon. She glanced at the clock. Was it still so early? Surely Cecelia had not been able to get them offplanet yet. She could check . . .

she stopped, her hand outstretched to the comunit.

No. As if it were a robotic arm she were operating, she concentrated on her hand, and brought it back to her lap.

They were gone. They were gone forever.

Lightness filled her, as if she were a transparent husk of herself. She might blow away . . . but of course that was nonsense. She was tired, very tired, and-

"Mother?"

Weight and darkness returned so suddenly she could hardly breathe. "Yes, Brun?"

"You do think they'll be all right."

"Of course." Miranda took a deep breath. "Cecelia is reliable, in her own way, and she will make sure of it."

"Good." Brun came into the room tentatively, as if she were unsure of her welcome. "I feel . . .

strange."

Of course she felt strange. No one could survive what she had survived, and not feel strange, the moment life gave time to stop and notice.

"Sit down," Miranda said. "Have some tea." Cecelia had not even finished hers. Brun sat as gingerly as she had come in. They nibbled pastries in silence for awhile, then Brun set down her plate.

"What's going to happen with the family holdings?"

Not the question Miranda had expected, but one she was glad to deal with at the moment. "It's going to be very difficult," Miranda said. "When your father mobilized the Fleet to go after you, he antagonized a lot of people, his own family included."

"Too much for one person," Brun murmured.

"It wasn't their daughter," Miranda said. "And it wasn't your decision; it was his. But Harlis gained ground with the rest of the family then-he'd already been working on it, claiming that Bunny was spending too much time and energy on Council business, and neglecting the family

interests. He said Buttons was too young and inexperienced; he started demanding silly, time- wasting reports, and nitpicking everything. Buttons has had a lot to learn in only a few years, but he's doing very well. It's just that Harlis promises he could do better. And now-well, he's determined to get Sirialis."

"That's stupid," Brun said, with some of her old arrogance. "That's not profit; the place has

never made a profit-"

"That's partly Harlis's point. He claims it could, if it were managed properly. Which does not, of course, include foxhunting . . . or only as a commercial enterprise. He's strong on commercial enterprises. I don't know if you've kept track of the branches he manages-"

"No," Brun said.

"You can look it up later, then. He thinks Sirialis would pay as a mature colony prospect-"

"Bring in colonists!?"

"Yes. In his view, the planet is full of wasted space that ought to be put to profitable use.

Buttons pointed out the agricultural areas, but he insists that this is not enough, and he's claiming that Bunny's title was only a life one. Kevil had been working on this, before the attack, but-but now he can't help either."

Brun scowled. "I wonder if dear Uncle Harlis had anything to do with the assassination."

"No, dear. It was not Harlis." That came out with more emphasis than she intended, and Brun looked at her with dawning comprehension.

"Mother-you know something? You know who did it?"

"I know it wasn't Harlis." Damn, she'd have to figure out something, or Brun would go charging

off, straight into danger again.

"You don't believe it was the NewTex-?"

"No. Although that's still the official line, I do not."

"Then who?"

"Brun, I am not having this conversation with you. Not now, at least. We need to talk about your

father's family, and their probable actions, and some of the other economic matters. These things must be dealt with now. Your father's murderers . . . can wait."

"The trail-"

"Will never be too cold. Brun, please. For once in your life listen to me-we must be careful."

Brun had blanched at that; the muscles along her jaw bunched. "I want to go to the Guernesi Republic."

"No. I need you here."

"For what, an exhibition?"

"No, for an ally. If we are to defend our position, we must all help. Your sisters are already

busy-up to their eyeballs in their family responsibilities, but trying to line up support. Buttons and Sarah are both working flat out. I need help, someone whose loyalty is undoubted-I need you."

"Oh . . ." Brun looked past her, into some distance Miranda could not imagine.

"You were willing enough to help Cecelia," she said, and hated the sharpness in her voice.

"You really need me?" Brun asked.

Miranda gave her a sharp look. "Of course-no, let me say that more precisely. Yes, I need you. No

one else can do what you can; no one else in the family has the training and experience."

"You're serious . . . but you've never needed me. I'm just the troublemaker . . ." Still, an uncertain note had come into her voice.

"No. You're the one who can survive trouble. Brun, please-help me."

Brun's face twisted. "I don't know if I can . . ."