The hytex provided access to an old holo of Jason arriving at Layabout alone, looking even more drawn and haggard than he looked now. His father, Hans, greeted him with an embrace, genuine tears running down the older man’s face. It was an oddly public reunion, given that the Bettelhines never had to use Layabout if they didn’t want to, but the Porrinyards didn’t know whether to find anything suspicious about that. The public venue may have been nothing more than an acknowledgment, by Hans, that the boy’s absence and unknown plight had been mourned by his world’s general public as well.
Following that, the two of them had taken the Royal Carriage, either this car or the other one, back down to the surface, and Jason had disappeared from sight for almost two years, his doings explained away by regular Bettelhine updates to the effect that he was “recovering” or “getting to know his family again.”
Sixteen months after his return, Jason was guest of honor at a ball held at the main Bettelhine estate. From precedent established by the practice among prior Bettelhine offspring, and the sheer number of articles about all the beautiful and bright-eyed young ladies from both continents who’d been invited to meet Jason at the affair, the occasion had amounted to a cattle call for consorts of high social standing, with Jason expected to determine in the few minutes he would have to dance and converse with those few that caught his eye whether there were any he considered of special interest. Local news sources around Xana identified this girl and that girl as the one they expected Jason to call again, but the absence of any further gossip implied that no Cinderellas ever received any followup visits from this particular prince.
The Porrinyards wondered if Jason might be hiding homosexual preferences, since there were worlds stupid enough to make that a secret worth hiding, but a few seconds of paging through Xana’s social register confirmed that several previous past cattle calls of this type had catered to Bettelhine offspring intent on meeting candidates of their own gender. As long as there were always new generations capable of carrying on the Family name and running the Family business, the Bettelhines didn’t give a damn how the parts interfaced.
No, it was just as likely that Jason was a true neuter. Or that he might be as close to Jelaine as I’d supposed. Or that his demons were still tormenting him one way or another.
In any event, Jason had started to travel again, this time with Family approval. He made a few public appearances on Xana before moving on to other systems in Jelaine’s company, traveling alongside Jelaine and other Family members to worlds that included Tchius, Vlhan, and my own home, New London.
That trip had taken another year.
Then they’d returned, and Jason had disappeared from sight for a few months before surprising everybody by appearing beside his father at executive functions.
Jelaine had also been present at a number of those, as quietly radiant as she had been during our own brief meeting, but the same was true of several other Bettelhine siblings. She’d also been romantically linked to a number of eligible bachelors during that time, even if none of them had lasted long enough to become more than dalliances. But she was still young.
Her reserve, like Jason’s, might mean something. And it might not.
Oscin sat on the edge of the bed, brooding. Skye, lying on her side beside me, looked just as disturbed. Something about Jason Bettelhine’s story bothered them, in ways deeper than the ones that bothered this limited single-skull.
I had to ask. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Try.”
They hesitated. “It’s just a feeling. Not even anything I can define.”
“Try.”
The Porrinyards always know how to express themselves. It’s a gift that comes with being your own committee. But now, for the first time I could remember, they needed to grope for their answer, before producing a tone more halting than any I’d ever heard from them. “His life…has much in common with the broken singlets who became Oscin and Skye. A boy like that, living like royalty, but determined to flee his gilded cage—he’s either running to something, or away from something.”
The words hung in the air for a moment, before Skye finished alone. “Leaving our homeworld was a…difficult decision for us. But our singlets knew that we could never go back. He returned under his own power. What did he want?”
“His inheritance,” I guessed. “His family. His home. A place to feel safe again.”
“Maybe.” The answer seemed to acknowledge all of those possibilities without believing any of them. “And maybe he had just figured out whatever he wanted to figure out, and needed the Bettelhine resources to accomplish whatever came next….”
5
THE BIG LIE
The chime alerting us to the dinner party in the parlor was as affected as everything else in the Bettelhine Royal Carriage. It was a sylvan tinkle, the kind of sound that could only have been tolerated by people who frown with fey disdain whenever reminded of their social obligations. Maybe I was reading too much into it. Maybe the moment I’d found myself thinking I’d had enough of the Bettelhine lifestyle came when the Porrinyards and I rose from the bed and found ourselves transfixed by an amenity that began with our old linens rolling into the bulkhead, continued with mechanisms in the bedframe unscrolling their replacement, and ended with puffs of mist wrapping everything in a nice, rueful emphasis on nice, floral scent to keep things embossed with perfection until our return.
I moaned. “Oh, come on!”
The Porrinyards grinned. “Must make it convenient for any murderer who wants to dispose of forensic evidence.”
I remembered the Claw of God and did not think the comment funny. “Must.”
It didn’t take us long to get ready. I don’t own any formal clothing. But my usual severe black suit would do, as would the Porrinyards’ matching white, especially if they wore the buttonless slipon jackets they donned whenever they wished to stress their status as a matching set. I don’t wear makeup either, though both Porrinyards have been known to, depending on local custom. There was little to be done with our hair either, thanks to their skull bristle and my own longstanding habit of keeping mine short with but a single, defiant shoulder-length lock along my right cheek. This might or might not be acceptable by Xana’s standards, but to hell with the other attendees if they thought otherwise. We weren’t here to dazzle anybody.
We emerged to find the parlor inhabited by assorted Bettelhines and associates already deep in the tiresome mill-around-and-chat that always makes me want to leap off the nearest balcony.
I caught a glimpse of a tall, elegant redhead in a silvery gown that left much of her back bare, disappearing through the doorway into one of the suites. Her movements looked familiar, but I didn’t see enough to place her.
I saw a nervous couple in their late fifties, the man all high sweaty forehead bald but for a spiral spit curl, the woman beaming with a desperate contact-high that did not translate to leaving the protection of the alcove where she and her husband huddled like frightened cats. When her eyes met mine she looked away in a hurry, as if afraid that even that moment of contact would be seen as impudent.
Jason Bettelhine was across the room, in discussion with two men I didn’t recognize, both dressed in black suits of identical design. The taller of the two glanced our way, revealing Bettelhine features beneath a helmet of premature silver. Probably the brother Jason had mentioned. Unlike Jason, he was not smiling. The third man was balding, shiny-faced, shorter than either Bettelhine and pale in ways that went beyond mere complexion. He could stay in the sun and tan himself to a crisp, and he’d still be pale beneath the skin, all the way to the bones. He glanced my way too, and nodded in recognition.