No.

"Nothing," she says. She walks into the room and sits. Her belly fills her lap. "I saw you leaving the dining room and thought you might be upset."

"No."

"What are you doing?"

"Leaving." I stuff more things into my bag, kick the toys and blanket and whistles and memories under the bed. She makes me feel uneasy.

"Where?"

"Haven. Gren and I have a house."

"Gren," she says. "Have you asked Mish or Jason?"

"I don't need to. In three months I'll be a voting adult. I don't need their permission."

She folds her hands over the bulk of her middle. The child kicks within her; I can see her hands bounce up and down. Flesh.

"Have you at least told them?"

"They'll find out soon enough."

"They won't like it."

"Too bad."

Her forehead creases, her lips thin. I know what's coming, I know that look.

"Has someone hurt you, Hart?"

Oh, that's a nasty one, that's an underhanded one. Echoes back, years back, before the maggots, before I lost them all. Her question makes my throat tight, and that makes me angry. I seam the bag closed and throw it over my shoulder. I think of all the bitter, biting things I could say, but my throat is stiff and I won't risk spoiling my exit. Dignified silence. I turn. I step toward the door. Yes. Icy. Cold.

But Quilla stands and blocks my way, puts her hand on my shoulder, puts her hand on my chin, tries to tilt my head up to look at her. I jerk away.

"Hart. Please."

"Leave me alone!"

"I'm only trying -- "

"'Leave me alone!'" Oh, God. Oh shit. I'm crying. "Just get away from me. Go maggot with your friends. Let me go."

"Hart -- "

"Why did you have to do that?" I jab at her belly with my finger. She steps back and puts her arm across her belly. "Why weren't we good enough for you? Why did you have to go with, with him, with that man? Why couldn't you let things be?"

She reaches for me again. I push her and run from the room, down the stairs. I hear her falling. Jason sticks his head into the hallway and says something, but I don't stop. Let Quilla explain it. She'll think of something good.

I have to stop at the bottom of the hill, lay in the grasses, catch my breath. Better. Better.

Gren stands in the doorway of the house on Schoolhouse Road; peers at the few houses around this one, afraid that his new neighbors will come steal all his precious secrets. Precious, indeed. I have mastered all of them, elementary biology, elementary biomedicine, chemistry. Gren hasn't been able to teach me anything for a year or more, save how to frighten him more. Sick old man. He has his uses.

He knows, for example, how to shut up. In silence he carries my bags to my room, in silence retreats to his own niche, in silence does whatever it is that he does to prepare for bed. I walk about the house, lighting lamps, inspecting things. A good enough place. Private, despite the neighbors. And when the basement is finished, it will be a perfect place. There are people to the right and left and across the street, but behind stretch scrubby bushes and then the stream. I can walk from house to stream and no one will see. Gren doesn't yet understand how important this is.

I take my shirt off, and my skin prickles in the cool air. Draw water from the kitchen pump and heat it, gather buckets and brushes, and scrub.

Start with the front room. The original maggots, maggot-like, left a mess. It needs fixing. And Mish and Jason and Laur will exclaim over the neatness of the house that Gren and I keep, how clean things are, how nice things are.

Nothing can be wrong with letting a young boy help an old man through his final years, not in a house as neat as this.

The kitchen. The hallway. Slosh and scrub and dust and clean. A charitable deed, this, which will reflect well on all Kennerins. Yes. Sweep.

I'll let anyone in except Quilla. Except Quilla.

I finish. I put things away. I check things over. I go to bed.

My head hurts.

I didn't mean to cry.

*Part Four*

*1226*

*New Time*

*Decade*

'"Rock meeting rock can know love better'

'Than eyes that stare or lips that touch.'

'All that we know in love is bitter'

'And it is not much."'

'-Conrad Aiken'

LAUR STRODE DOWN THE HILL TO HAVEN, HER market basket slung over one arm. The midsummer sun floated overhead, bathing the landscape in warmth. The village had grown in the past ten years, from a sorry collection of makeshift houses and shops to a respectable town, complete with marketplace, school, hospital, meeting hall, and the actions and ceremonies necessary for a sense of community. Everything, she thought, had changed, and for the better. The plantation produced well; the farms and gardens kept the market supplied with a steady line of fruits and vegetables. The kasirene brought in fresh fish every other day, and the ranches in the hills kept Haven supplied with fresh meat. She even approved, albeit grudgingly, of the brewery on the outskirts of the town. At least now they were no longer dependent on kaea, that vile kasirene concoction; their own native wines improved year by year. And tomorrow was nem'mai Biant Meir, BeginningDay. This year the celebration would be long and joyous, as the Aerans remembered the day they had arrived on planet, rescued by Jason Kennerin from the political horrors of their native planet, nurtured by Mish Kennerin through a harsh winter and unhappy spring, given a home. Laur did not have to doubt the gratitude of the Aerans. It was taken for granted, and of this, also, she approved.

The marketplace teemed with householders bickering for goods and food.

Laur straightened her shoulders and marched through, nodding to her acquaintances, stopping to gossip with her friends, pretending not to notice when the line before the butcher's, the baker's, the potter's, the grocer's melted before her. She hired her favorite urchins to run her purchases up the hill to Tor Kennerin, knowing that they accepted her dictates not just through respect, but because, their errands finished in the warm kitchens of the Tor, the kassie cooks would be waiting with hot, sweet rolls and cool glasses of juice. Largesse from Aerie's lords, Laur thought. And approved.

The fishmonger's shop was the most crowded. Here Laur stood in line, for the kasirene behind the counters lacked a sense of proportion, and made her wait just as the other householders waited. She stood patiently, letting the sunlight soak through her black gown and warm her bones. Medi Lount, the sculptor, stood ahead of her and they gossiped about the offices for Aerie-Kennerin that Medi had designed, and for which she would create the statues and friezes. Haven's latest debate concerned the inclusion of kasirene figures amid the large statues, rather than in the smaller, less imposing friezes. Laur, as a Kennerin, felt that she should express no opinion, for her thoughts would carry too much weight and might tip the balance in favor of the minority. She therefore listened to Medi's harangue in silence, nodding at appropriate moments, but not paying too much attention to the sculptor's words.

The smiling, bowing kasir behind the counter sold her two large kavets and a smaller tele-tele. They packed the fish in ice and wrapped the entire bundle in grass mats. Laur looked around for a trustworthy urchin. No children seemed available. She stepped toward the edge of the crowd, hoping for a better view, and saw Hart moving through the main square. He held a large bundle in his arms.

"Hart!" she called. He did not stop. She elbowed her way through the crowd, calling his name again. Since moving away from the Tor over two years ago, he had been home only to demand money from his parents. The last time he and Jason had argued, and Hart had sworn never to return. Laur could not bear the thought of never seeing her favorite again, but he had kept his oath, and the few times she had been to his home he had not been there. Now she followed, scurrying along with complete disregard of the creaking of her muscles. Once away from the market she shouted his name again, and it seemed to her that he hesitated, then moved more quickly through the streets, dodging carts and drayclones. She set her lips, then returned to the fish vendor's and tucked the package of fish into her basket before marching down Schoolhouse Road to Hart's house. Hart might be a young man now, seventeen and out of school, but that did not give him leave to treat her badly.

She climbed the steps to his front door, caught her breath, and knocked. The house was quiet. She huffed with annoyance and banged harder, knowing that he was in, and as she waited she grew more annoyed.

"Hart, you open this door right now!" she shouted. "Hear me. You open up or I'll, I'll -- " She paused, trying to find an effective threat, and as she hesitated the door opened a crack and Hart slid out. He closed the door behind him.

"Hello, Laur," he said. His smile was, as always, both charming and mocking, but Laur refused to give up her anger. She glared up at him.

"And why do you keep me waiting?" she demanded. "Why did I have to follow you through the streets just like a dog? I suppose you want everyone in Haven to laugh at me. I'm winded and my heart hurts, and it's all your fault.

At least you can offer me a cup of tea."

Hart shook his head, his expression regretful. "I'm sorry, Laur. I'm busy right now."

"Have you got a young woman in there?" She cocked her head and looked archly at him. "It's all right. I'd like to meet her. After all, I'm sure old Laur has a right to know who you've been seeing, don't I? Not everyone in Haven is suitable."

"No one in Haven is suitable," Hart said, his humor gone. "No, I don't have a woman in there, Laur. But I am busy. Why don't you come back tomorrow afternoon? We can have tea and cakes and a nice long talk. All right?" He started to open the door.

"Tomorrow's BeginningDay," Laur said. "You know very well there'll be no time for tea tomorrow. Come on, baby, my feet hurt."

"I'm sorry. I don't have the time now. Maybe next week." He slipped into the house and closed the door, and she heard the sound of locks snapping into place.

Up to no good, she thought. Something he shouldn't be doing, and not enough sense to know when he's getting himself into trouble. She pondered this a moment, glancing around the street. The square, unpainted houses were still; no one in sight. She crept around the side of Hart's house. Hart had to be protected, especially from himself. She was sure he had some unsuitable woman in there, and unless she did something he would find himself saddled with an unacceptable alliance. One scandal was enough for a family. She set the basket of fish under a bush and moved toward the first window. The sill was a good hundred centimeters from the ground; she stretched as high as she could and peeped within.

Hart's books and clothing lay piled in the corners, his boots sitting atop a stack of shirts; dirty cups and plates littered the table. Wall shelves held hundreds of vidchips and text chips, piled haphazardly. Through an open door she could see the kitchen, in an equal state of chaos, and she pursed her lips. Hart was usually so clean. It must be that terrible, filthy old man he lived with. He would have to let her in, if only to clean things up. She inspected the corners of the room with increasing boldness, but Hart was not to be seen.

She found the bedroom window, looked in, and saw equal filth and an equal absence of Hart. Gren's door stood open, and that room, too, was empty.

Puzzled, she relaxed against the wall and opened the top button of her gown.

The house had only one door; he could not have left while she was there. Then she saw the low window set at ground level -- a basement, of course. If Hart was up to something, he would be sure to do it where he could not be seen. She repressed a groan as she lowered herself to the ground, lay on her belly, and peered in the window.

The window was curtained, but one edge of the cloth had caught on something and revealed a portion of the room. She squirmed closer and heard sounds in the basement. Something moved back and forth, and she saw Gren's head for a moment. Naturally, Gren would be there. Anything involving Gren was sure to be no good, and Laur didn't like the way the old man led Hart about, teaching him evil, satiric ways. She lifted her hand to rap on the glass, but at that moment heard a muffled scream which prickled at her skin. Gren's expression was one of disapproval, and he moved out of sight. The scream ceased abruptly. Muted voices argued. Laur craned her neck, trying to see more, but she could only make out the corner of the cellar directly before her. Hart came into view, talking and waving one arm. Laur squinted. He seemed to be carrying something in his other arm. Almost as if to oblige her, Hart turned and Laur saw that he held a tiny, unweaned kassie pup in his palm. As he talked, his free hand grasped a knife and beheaded the pup. Its body shivered and was still, and Hart held up the tiny head, gesturing at it with the point of his knife, discoursing. He tossed the head and body out of sight, moved away, and returned, carrying a young kassie female in his arms. She was bound, her snout gagged, and she stared at him. He smiled at her and said something, then carried her out of sight.

Laur pushed herself upright, leaned against the side of the house, and vomited. The sun felt hot and fierce against her bare head. The stream twinkled through the bushes. She stood and moved toward it, stumbling over the uneven ground.

She should tell Jason. She should tell Mish. She should tell someone, should not let this go on. It was Gren's doing, Gren who led Hart astray, Gren in back of the entire terrible thing. She would clean her dress and go right home -- yes, go home and tell Jason. Jason would know what to do. Jason would take care of it. Jason would punish Gren for what he had done to Hart. Jason would...

She reached the stream and sat beside it, and her stomach heaved again.

The earth below her spun and lurched. She clung to a tree and closed her eyes, and Hart found her that way -- dirty, tired, terrified. She looked at him, beyond screams, and he smiled and knelt beside her. He held her basket in his hand.

"You forgot your fish," he said gently. "It's the sun, you know. It's so hot it bubbles your brain sometimes. Here, let me help you clean yourself up."

She watched as he dipped his handkerchief in the stream and cleaned her face, then passed the wet cloth over her dress.

"You've got to be more careful," he said as he worked. "At your age, just a little sun can hurt you. You forget things, and sometimes you see things that didn't happen. You must have stood in the marketplace for too long. You ought to make Mim do the marketing, you shouldn't have to do it yourself. Here, move your chin a little. Good. I'll bet that Mim refuses to do the work, right? She made you come down and do it all yourself, and she knows how hot it is. It's not fair the way she takes advantage of you. There, that's a bit better. Are you feeling all right now?"

Laur nodded. Hart smiled at her again, then picked her up. She stared at him, her mind blank.

"I'll help you get home," he said. "What you need is a glass of cold water and some rest. You have to take care of yourself, Laur. I don't want to lose you."

She felt tiny in his arms, and saw a picture in her mind of Hart carrying a kassie through the cellar. But that was an illusion, she thought in confusion. Too much sun. Hart wouldn't do a thing like that.

"Remember the time I stole your fish?" he said. He carried her through the trees and up the hill. "I was about ten, wasn't I? And you were so mad at me. Remember that, Laur?"

She nodded.

"You made me eat fish for an entire week -- breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Oh, how I hated that." He laughed and she smiled. A long time ago.

Hart. It's all Mim's fault.

He stopped a few meters from the kitchen door and set her on her feet.

"There," he said. "You don't want to let anyone see that you're weak, do you? It wouldn't do for them to think that you're getting too old. Mim might want to take over everything, and that would not be right."

Laur nodded and straightened her shoulders, and Hart patted her back.

"That's right. You go in and take a long rest, and I won't say a word about your sunstroke. After all, it can happen to anyone when they're made to stand in the heat. Right? Sure. I'll come up tomorrow during the feast, and you can come down next week and have tea and cakes with me. I've got a good cook; you'll like it. All right, Laur? Is that all right?"

She nodded and he kissed her cheek, smiled, and walked down the hill toward Haven. She clutched her basket and moved toward the house, feeling the sun beating on her head. She'd make Mim do the marketing from now on. It wasn't fair that she should have to do it, not at all. Imagine, forcing her to go into the sun, with her health so delicate. Mim was up to something, she knew it, but she'd catch it for this, sure enough. Mim would really catch it.

Jes stood before the glass in his room and surveyed himself with dissatisfaction. The soft blue shirt was fine and gave him an air of poetic distraction of which he approved. But the pants were wrong, the blue neither mixing nor melding with the blue of the shirt. Besides, they were too baggy around the ass. Hard work on the 'Folly' had slimmed and tautened his body, and none of his clothes fit well enough. He stripped the pants off and threw them on the pile of clothes covering the bed. The white pants, perhaps? But they were dirty, stained with engine grease on both knees, and there wasn't time to wash them. The yellow? No, he'd look like some stupid knocker just off the dirt. Yellow pants and yellow shirt? Too much like a uniform. He wondered if Jason had any pants he could borrow, then remembered that he'd outgrown his father's pants two years ago. He stood, naked from the waist down, and glared at his clothes niche.

Someone knocked on the door. "Just a minute," he called and scrambled into the first pair of pants he could reach. The door opened as he seamed them together, and Meya came in.

"Jes? Can I come in?"

"You are." He pushed clothing from a corner of the bed. Meya closed the door and sat. She held a package in her hands.

"Getting dressed for tomorrow already?" Her eyes twinkled. "You'll get yourself all wrinkled, and then nobody will make eyes at you."

"Of course I'm not, lumpkin. I'm just trying to decide what to wear is all."

"Huh," she said, surveying the piled bed. "You're making more of a mess than anyone else. I've been all around, and even Quilla's playing with her clothes. She's got the prettiest clothes for the twins, just wait until you see them. Tabor's coming. Why don't you just wear your spacer's suit? It looks good."

"Because tomorrow's a party, lump. When you go to a party, you get all dressed up." He sat beside her on the bed. "But I can't decide what to wear.

Everything's either dirty or it doesn't fit or the colors aren't right. Maybe I won't go to the damned party at all."

"Taine'll be mad at you," Meya said. "And she'll spend the whole night dancing with someone else, while you sit at home all angry because you don't have anything to wear."

"You shut it, you little wise-ass!" Jes said. He tickled her and she rolled about on the clothes, chortling and gasping. "I'll teach you to make fun of your elders. There!"