“Brun is a law unto herself,” Raffa said. “Even as a fluffhead, she was, and now—we aren’t like Brun, either of us. We were born to be respectable.”
“We did have one adventure,” Ronnie said, almost wistfully. He didn’t like thinking of most of their time on the island, but finding Raffa and being comforted . . . that he could live with.
“And we’ll have each other later, or we won’t, and we’ll survive either way. Be reasonable, Ronnie: you got your aunt out of the building, but it was Brun who thought up the hot air balloon. Neither of us could have been that crazy.”
True, but he wanted to be crazy enough to live with Raffa the rest of his life, starting this moment. He started to say he’d wait for her forever, but he knew she might not. And he might not either, really. “I don’t want to leave you,” he said fiercely. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“Nor I.” For a moment she clung to him with all the passion he desired, then she pushed herself away and was gone, her light footsteps barely audible on the carpeted hall.
“Damn!” Ronnie wanted to kick the wall, as he would have before the island. He really hated it when she was right. Then he thought who might be able to help. If only he could make her understand how important it was.
Cecelia looked up from her desk to see her nephew standing in the doorway. “Ronnie—I’m delighted to see you. I’d hoped you’d come before we left.”
He didn’t answer, just gave her a sickly smile.
“What? I already thanked you for getting me out of that place—and if you don’t think I mean it, just take a look at your stock accounts.”
“It’s not that, Aunt Cecelia—and I wish you hadn’t done that, really.”
The boy didn’t want money? That was new; that was unbelievable. She looked more closely. The wavy chestnut hair looked dull; he had lavender smudges under his hazel eyes, and a skin tone that would have made her think “hangover” if he hadn’t been so obviously sober and miserable.
“What, then?” she asked, without much sympathy. She’d fixed him once; he was supposed to stay fixed; she couldn’t provide deadly danger every time he needed pepping up.
He slouched into her room as if his backbone were overcooked asparagus, and slumped into one of her favorite leather chairs. “It’s Raffaele,” he said.
Of course. Young love. She’d been glad he wasn’t still involved with Brun, since that young lady was in no mood for romance, but she’d approved of Raffa. Moreover, she’d thought the girl had more sense than to jilt Ronnie. He wasn’t bad, and Raffa was just the sort of girl to keep him in line.
“What did you do?” she asked. It must have been something he did; perhaps he’d had another fling with theatrical personalities.
“Nothing,” Ronnie said. His tone held all the bitterness of disillusioned youth. “But my parents did plenty, and her parents told her to break it off.”
“Because of—”
“Because of you.” He shook his head to stop the protest already halfway out her mouth. “I know—you’ve got every right to be angry with them—” She had more than a right, she had very viable suits in progress. “But the thing is, Raffa’s parents don’t want the families involved right now.”
“I’m not angry with you,” Cecelia said. “They shouldn’t blame you if I don’t.”
“She says they do.”
“And you’re sure it’s not that she’s found someone else?”
“Yes. I’m sure. She said . . . she said she loves me. But—she won’t cross them.”
“Idiot.” Cecelia opened her mouth to say more, and then realized the other implications, the ones Ronnie hadn’t yet seen. Her suits imperiled the holdings of Ronnie’s parents—his guarantees of future income—and might imperil any financial settlements made in the course of betrothal, exchange of assets being the normal complement to marriage. And Raffa, the levelheaded Raffa that she considered strong-minded enough to keep Ronnie in check, would not tangle her family in any such trouble either. It all made perfectly good sense, and Cecelia found herself doubly angry that the good sense could not be denied.
“She’s not, really,” Ronnie said. “She’s just loyal, that’s all.” Greedy, thought Cecelia. Carrying prudence to a ridiculous degree—the girl had money enough of her own; she was of age, she could make her own decisions. As Ronnie went on making Raffa’s arguments, as a true lover would, Cecelia found herself countering them, in the courtroom behind her eyes. Ronnie’s final declaration caught her off-balance; she’d been imagining herself as the judge, looming over Raffa as incompetent counsel. “So,” he was saying, “I thought if I could do something to prove myself . . . and maybe you would let me come along. . . .”
“No!” Cecelia said, even before her mind caught up with what he had actually said. Then more mildly: “No, Ronnie, though you are my favorite nephew and I owe you my life. This is not the place for you.”
“But I thought if Raffa’s parents knew I was with you, it would change their minds—”
“No, dear.” The dear slipped out and shocked her. She never called any of her relatives dear; had the Guernesi done something to her mind during rejuvenation? The memory of those lawsuits reassured her: she hadn’t softened. Not really. “It won’t work because you’d still be seen as a boy with a patron. You need them to see you as a man, an independent man with his own property, his own assets.” He looked at her as if he had never thought of that. Perhaps he hadn’t. He was, after all, some sixty years younger.
“Then what can I do?” he asked. Cecelia wished for a moment she had been a more conventional aunt. He would not have consulted a more conventional aunt; he would have found someone outrageous, someone who had never been married, or wanted to be, and she could have clucked from the sidelines. She felt like clucking now. Grow up, she wanted to say. Just do something, she wanted to say. But there he was, born charming and even more so with this new and genuine worry upon him. She wanted to smack him, and she wanted to cuddle him, and neither would do any good.
When in doubt, call in the experts. “You might go talk to Captain Serrano,” she said. She didn’t expect him to agree, but his face lit up.
“Great idea,” he said. “Thanks—I will.” And he bounced up, suddenly vibrant and eager again. She watched him stride out, with the spring in his step and the sparkle in his eye, and wondered at herself. Rejuvenation was supposed to rejuvenate everything; she had herself made the usual jokes about those of her friends who suddenly acquired young companions. But Ronnie did nothing for her, and she knew it wasn’t because he was her nephew. She just didn’t feel like it.
“Not that I was ever ridden by that torment much,” she muttered, as she ran over the shopping lists on her deskcomp again. She had been too busy, and too aware of the power such a passion would have over her schedule, if nothing else.
Heris saw not the spoiled brat she’d once despised but the handsome, bright young man who had become what she thought of as officer material. “Aunt Cecelia said you might be able to help me,” he said.
“If I can, of course,” she said, wondering if this was Cecelia’s obscure vengeance for Arash’s favor.
“It’s about Raffaele,” he began, and outlined his problem.
Heris recognized the implications as Cecelia had, but unlike her saw no reason not to tell Ronnie about them. She still thought of him as “young officer material,” which put her in the teaching role. She led him through the relevant financial bits, and watched his dismay growing.
“But—but Raffa isn’t that greedy,” Ronnie said at the end.
“I don’t know that I’d call it greedy.” Heris steepled her hands. “But you’re both Registered Embryos, remember? Smart, educated, trained from birth to consider the welfare of the family as a whole. I don’t think it has anything to do with wanting more things than you could give her; I think it has to do with conflicting loyalties.”