story was simply too good to keep sealed. She doubted any of it could ever be proven—she knew Alistair and Tomas too well to believe they would have left themselves uncovered—but that didn't mean no one in authority would believe it.
They had to know that as well as she did, yet they'd done it anyway. They'd done it for her, and perhaps, just perhaps, that meant it wasn't simple hate which had broken her zombielike state. Their willingness to accept that risk for her had done as much as her hatred, and that willingness sprang from its own sort of love.
Her eyes stung, and she closed them rightly, lips trembling as the tears came at last. They slid down her cheeks, silent as snow and oddly gentle. They couldn't wash away the armor she held stubbornly in place to protect her purpose, yet they cleansed it. They... purified it in some mysterious way, made it only armor and no longer ice, and she leaned her forehead against the mirror and let them come. Nimitz hopped up onto the lavatory and stood on his true-feet to clasp her upper arm in his true-hands and press his muzzle against her shoulder. His soft, inaudible croon vibrated into her as he welcomed her tears, and she turned and swept him into her arms.
She was never certain how long she wept, and it didn't really matter. It wasn't something to be measured by clocks, cut up into minutes and seconds. Trying to would have cheapened it. She only knew that when she dried her eyes again she was... different. Mike had feared for her sanity, and she knew, now, that she'd been right to fear. But the madness had passed. The lethal purpose remained, yet it was as sane as it was cold, as rational as it was obsessive.
She blew her nose, then dressed without buzzing MacGuiness. She knew where he hid her uniforms, and he deserved to sleep late. God knew he'd put in too many thankless hours hovering over her with nothing to show for it but dead-eyed silence from her.
She adjusted her uniform with precision and gathered her shoulder-length hair in a simple braid. It didn't reach very far down her back, but it was enough, and she tied it with a black silk ribbon, the color of mourning and vengeance, before she turned to her terminal.
The messages she'd dreaded waited, headed by a tearful recording from her mother and father. She couldn't have faced that without breaking before she'd heard Summervale's recorded voice; now she could listen and recognize the love in her parents' voices. More than recognize; she could feel it now.
There were others, even more than she'd feared, headed by a personal recording from Queen Elizabeth herself. Duke Cromarty had sent her a stiffer, more formal message, but the sympathy in his voice was genuine, and there were others—from Admiral Caparelli on behalf of the Lords of Admiralty, from Lady Morncreek, from Paul's CO, from Ernestine Corell and Mark Sarnow... even from Dame Estelle Matsuko, Her Majesty's Resident Commissioner for Medusan Affairs, and Rear Admiral Michel Reynaud, Astro Control Service CO in Basilisk.
They hurt. They hurt terribly, each one reminding her of all she'd lost, but it was a hurt she could bear now. She had to stop to dry her eyes more than once, yet she worked her way to the end, and two-thirds of the way through, she looked down to find a steaming cup of cocoa at her elbow.
She smiled at the offering in mingled tenderness and pain and turned her head before MacGuiness could vanish back into his pantry.
'Mac,' she said softly.
He froze and turned back to face her, and her heart twisted. He wore a ratty old robe over his pajamas, the first time, day or night, she'd ever seen him out of uniform, and his face looked old and worn—and fragile. So fragile. His eyes were almost afraid to hope, and she held out a hand to him.
He came closer and took it, and she squeezed his fingers hard.
'Thanks, Mac. I appreciate it.' Her voice was so soft he could barely hear her, yet it was her voice again, and he knew she was thanking him for far more than a cup of cocoa. His red-rimmed eyes gleamed with suspicious moisture, and he ducked his head and squeezed her hand back.
'You're welcome, Ma'am,' he husked, then cleared his throat, gave himself a shake, and wagged one finger at her. 'You stay right where you are,' he commanded. 'I'll have your breakfast in fifteen minutes, and you've missed too many meals as it is!'
'Yes, Sir,' she said meekly, and the twitch of his mouth as he fought not to smile warmed her soul.
Honor finished the last of a huge breakfast and blotted her mouth with her napkin. It was odd, but she couldn't remember a single meal between her last one on Grayson and this. There must have been some, but her memory was completely blank when she tried to recall them. She felt a fresh pang of guilt for the way she must have treated MacGuiness, but Nimitz made a soft sound, almost a chiding one, from across the table, and she gave him a small smile.
'That was delicious, Mac. Thank you.'
'I'm glad you enjoyed it, Ma'am, and—'
The steward broke off and turned away as the com terminal hummed. 'Captain's quarters, Chief Steward MacGuiness speaking,' he acknowledged.
'I have a com request for the Captain, Chief,' George Monet's voice replied. 'It's from Admiral White Haven.'
'Put it through, George,' Honor called as she stood. The com officer waited until she entered the terminal's visual range, and she thought she saw him sag a little in relief when he saw her expression, but he only nodded.
'Of course, Ma'am. Switching now.'
His image disappeared, replaced by the admirals. White Haven's blue eyes were intent, but his face was calm and he nodded courteously to her.
'Good morning, Dame Honor. I'm sorry to disturb you so early on your first morning back.'
'It's not a disturbance, Sir. How may I be of service?'
'I commed for two reasons, actually. First, I wanted to express my condolences in person. Captain Tankersley was a fine officer and a fine man, a loss not simply to the Service but to everyone who knew him.'
'Thank you, Sir.' Honor's soprano was just a bit husky, and he pretended not to notice when she cleared her throat.
'The second reason I screened,' he continued, 'was to inform you that, during your absence, Parliament finally voted out the declaration of war. We resumed active operations against Haven as of zero-one-hundred hours last Wednesday.' Honor nodded, and he went on. 'Since we're attached to Home Fleet, our own operational posture won't be materially affected, at least in the short term, but it's more important than ever to expedite your repairs.'
'Yes, Sir.' Honor felt her cheekbones heat. 'I'm afraid I haven't brought myself up to date just yet, Sir, but as soon—'
'Don't rush yourself,' White Haven interrupted almost gently. 'Commander Chandler's done an excellent job in your absence, and I'm certainly not trying to pressure you. This is for your information, not for any action I expect out of you. Besides,' he allowed himself a smile, 'it's in the yard dogs' hands, not yours or mine.'
'Thank you, Sir.' Honor tried to hide her humiliation at being caught uninformed about the state of her command, but her flush darkened, giving her away, and White Haven cocked his head.
'As your task force commander,' he said after a moment, 'I am instructing you to take some time getting yourself back into harness, Dame Honor. A day or two won't do the Service any harm, and—' his eyes softened '—I know you missed Captain Tankersley's funeral. I imagine you have quite a few items of personal business to attend to.'
'Yes, Sir. I do.' It came out harder and colder than Honor had meant it to, and the admiral's face went very still. Not with surprise, but with confirmation... and perhaps a trace of fear. Summervale was an experienced duelist, one who had killed many times in 'affairs of honor.' White Haven had never approved of dueling, legal or not, and the thought of Honor Harrington dead on the grass chilled his heart.
He opened his mouth to argue with her, then closed it without a word. Anything he could have said would have been useless; he knew that, and he had no right to presume to argue with her, anyway.
'In that case, Captain,' he said instead, 'I'll have orders cut giving you three days more of official leave. If you need more, we'll arrange it.'
'Thank you, Sir,' she said again, and her voice was much softer. She'd recognized his first impulse, and she was grateful for the second thoughts that left the arguments unvoiced.
'Until later, then, Dame Honor,' he said quietly, and cut the connection.
