“No, sir,” she said. The bite of sandwich she had taken stuck in her throat. She had not even considered that he might demand their removal. The class ring on her finger—Hal’s ring, as he wore hers—suddenly weighed twice as much.

“It’s hard for you to believe now, I’m sure, but you will survive this. You have many talents, and you will find a use for them…” He took a long swallow of his tea, and actually smiled at her. “Thank you for not making this harder than it had to be. Your resignation was… masterful.”

The sandwich bite went down, a miserable lump. She wasn’t hungry; she couldn’t be hungry. She ate the rest of the sandwich out of pure social duty.

“I understand you’ve arranged transport for noon?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“You don’t have to say sir, Ca—Mistress Vatta.”

“I can’t help it,” Ky said. Tears stung her eyes; she looked away.

“Well, then. I would advise that you go out at 1130, while classes are in session. MacRobert will remain with you until your transport arrives, to deal with any… mmm… problems that may come up. Since the story broke on the early news, the media have been camped at our gates; it’ll be days before that dies down.”

For a moment she had been furious—had he thought she’d do something wrong?—but the mention of media steadied her. Of course they would be trying to get in, trying to interview cadets. Of course the daughter of the Vatta family would interest them, even if Mandy hadn’t mentioned her, and someone would be bound to have a face-recognition subroutine that would pop out her name.

“And there’s another thing.” She had to look at him again, had to see the expression of mingled annoyance and pity that was worse than anything he might have said directly. “The Bureau demands—I realize this isn’t necessary—a statement that you will consider all this confidential and not communicate with the media.”

As if she would. As if—but she took the paper he handed her and scrawled her name on it in a rough parody of her usual careful handwriting.

“You have almost an hour,” the Commandant said. “MacRobert will fetch you when it’s time.” He drained his cup and picked up one of the lemon cookies. “And—if you’ll take advice—drink the rest of that tea, and eat those sandwiches. Shock uses up energy.” He rose, nodded to her, and went out, shutting the door softly behind him.

To her shame, Ky burst into tears. She snatched the tea towel off the tray and buried her face in it. She could always claim she’d spilled the tea; she wasn’t a cadet; she didn’t have to tell the strict truth. Five hard sobs, and it was over, for now. She wiped her face, spread the tea towel out again, and set everything back on the tray in perfect order. No—her cup was almost full. She drank the tea. She ate another sandwich. Disgusting body, to want tea and food at such a time.

The silent room eased her, made calm possible. She got up and paced the circuit, looking at the titles again. Then she took down the logbook labeled Darius II on the back. Just this once—and what could they do to her if they disapproved?

When MacRobert came for her at 1127, she was deep into the logbook, and calm again.

Outside, the weather had changed, as if her fortune changed it, from early morning’s sunshine and puffy clouds to a dank, miserable cold rain with a gusty wind. Her luggage made a pile in the relative safety of the gateway arch; she stood in the shelter of the sentry’s alcove, where she could just see the street beyond, and the gaggle of reporters on the far side. She was still in cadet blue; the sentry ignored her, and MacRobert checked off her bags on a list before turning to her.

“They’ll be near on time?” he asked.

“I expect so,” Ky said. The lump in her throat was growing now; she had to swallow before she could speak.

“Good. We’ll have to frustrate the mob over there…” He cocked his head. “You’re not half-bad, Vatta. Sorry you stepped in it. Don’t forget us.” His voice seemed to carry some message she couldn’t quite understand.

“I won’t,” she said. How could he even suggest she might forget this? Her skin felt scorched with shame.

“Don’t be angrier than you have to be.”

“I’m not.” She might be later, but now… anger was only beginning to seep toward the surface, through the shock and pain.

“Good. You still have friends here, though at the moment there’s a necessary distance—” He looked at the clock. 1154. “Excuse me for a few moments. I’ll be back at 1200 sharp.”

Ky wondered what he was up to, but not for long. The chill dank air, the gusts of wind, all brought back to her the enormity of her fall from grace. She was going to have to go out there, in the cold rain, and pick up those bags and put them in the vehicle in front of everyone in the universe, obviously disgraced and sent away, and be driven home to her parents like any stupid brat who’s messed up. Like, for instance, her cousin Stella, who had fallen in love with a musha dealer and given him the family codes. She remembered overhearing some of that, when she was thirteen, and telling herself she would never be so stupid, she would never disgrace the family the way Stella had.

And now it was on all the news, whatever had actually been said, and it was all her fault.

A huge black car whizzed past the entrance, flags flapping from its front and rear staffs, and she saw the reporters across the way turn, and then rush after it. “The back entrance!” she heard one of them yell. Their support vans squealed into motion, turned quickly across the street, and sped after the black car. She glanced at the clock. 1159. She stepped out of the alcove into the archway and saw a decent middle-aged dark blue car swerving over to stop at the archway. Twelve hundred on the dot. Two men—the driver and escort—got out of the car.

“I’ll help with these.” MacRobert was back, and already had two of her bags in hand. “Vatta, you get in the car. Jim, get her trunk,” he said to the sentry. In moments, Ky was in the backseat, her luggage stowed in the trunk or beside her, and the two men were back in the car.

“Take care, Vatta,” MacRobert said. “And remember what I said; you have friends here…”

At the last moment, she stripped off the class ring and handed it to him. “You’ll know where this should go,” she said. She couldn’t keep it; she could only hope that MacRobert would get it back to him discreetly, that Hal would understand.

The car moved off, sedately, rejoining the traffic stream, and turning at the first corner; Ky glanced to the right and saw a crowd of news vans partway down that block. What, she wondered, did MacRobert want her to remember? That he was kind as well as brusque? Or how stupid she’d been?

The Vatta employees in the front seat didn’t talk on the way to their first stop, the warehouse office at 56 Missalonghi. There, the escort got out and her uncle Stavros climbed into the backseat with her.

“Kylara, my dear… are you all right?”

“I’m…” She did not want to come apart in front of Uncle Stavros, father of the notorious Stella. “I’m fine.” A lie, and they both knew it, but the right thing to say.

“We’re going over to the airfield—” That would be the private airfield, of course. “You’ll be on a flight to Corleigh; your parents had to run over there to take care of some business a week ago.”

Ky put her mind back to work: Corleigh. Tik plantations. Source of both wealth and problems, because the labor force knew all too well what tik extract brought on the interstellar market, and felt they weren’t getting enough of the profits. “Pickers or packers?” she asked.

Her uncle nodded approvingly. “Packers. The pickers got a new contract last year, and the packers insist they add more value and need another two percent on top of the five percent increase year before last.”

She hadn’t seen the sales figures for tik extract since the holiday before last. “So… what’s the quote running?”