Nora's gaze sharpened. "I don't like what I'm hearing, Bart."

I don't like it any better. "That's the way it is, love."

"You've known this for how long now?"

He started at the disapproval in her tone.

"Pretty much since she pulled stakes."

"And you've done nothing about it?"

"Well, what would-"

"Clan scion is a position of some influence, isn't it?"

"Well, yes, but-"

"Hmph." She shot upright. "Maybe it's not too late."

"Nora-"

She rose from their bed. "Get up from there." She stood with arms akimbo, assuming a matriarchally stern look. It was so out of place on her that he had to force down a laugh. Fortunately, he managed. He rose and confronted his wife.

"This nonsense ends today. Go downstairs," she said, "get Althea on the radio, and tell her that you're coming over right now."

"But-"

"Do it."

He shivered briefly. "Are you really going to-"

She went to their closet, pulled out the gunbelt he'd given her for their fifth anniversary, and fastened it around her. It hung fetchingly from her hips. "In her famous phrase, you betcha." She snatched her needler from the top of her dresser, glanced at the needle register and the charge state, and jammed it into the holster with a sharp thrust. "She's coming home today, like it or not. And you can tell her so."

Martin Forrestal was laboring indifferently over an autotiller fuel pump and wondering why he could no longer concentrate as he once had, when the door to his workshop crashed open with a report that foretold carpentry to come. He spun in his seat to find Nora Morelon, wearing a gunbelt and an unprecedented look of fury and striding toward him.

"Nora-"

She backhanded him across the face. The force of the blow hurled him to the floor. His workbench seat overturned and lay on its side, casters spinning uselessly in the air.

He put a hand to his cheek and stared up at the petite young woman, uncomprehending.

"What-"

"You fucking moron," she hissed. "You useless, dickless, conscienceless piece of shit. You're the reason Althea left us!"

He gaped at her.

"Do you speak the same language as the rest of us, you moral imbecile? Do you remember putting a ring on Althea's hand, hearing Charisse say 'For better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, till death do you part,' and the two of you saying 'We do?' I remember it if you don't. Or was that your evil twin?"

He could not speak. Even if the right words had come to him, he could not have replied into the face of her anger.

"But one disappointment put all of that in the recycler, didn't it, Martin? One little setback that millions of couples have faced since time began, and suddenly your wedding oath is null and void? Your obligations to your wife go to zero because she can't give you children?" She bared her teeth. "Tell me how I'm wrong, you cretin. Tell me about the get-out-of-marriage-free card you had in your back pocket for that occasion. I dare you!"

Shame swallowed him as he stared up at her. Since Althea's departure, he had not allowed himself to think of her for as much as ten seconds at a time.

Nora drew her needler with a speed and fluidity that would have done credit to a gunfighter of many decades.

"Get up from there," she grated. "You and I are going up to your room."

"Why-"

"Shut up." The needler was leveled at his chest. "You're going to mend your marriage today. You're not costing this clan any more members or causing it any more problems."

He rose uncertainly. Nora's aim remained rock steady on his breastbone.

"What's that gun loaded with?" he croaked.

She bared her teeth again. "Give me an instant's trouble, try my patience in the least little way, and you'll find out. Boy oh boy, will you find out."

When the doorbell rang, Althea dragged herself reluctantly to her cottage's front door, admitted Barton, and gestured for him to follow her to her office. She resumed her seat at her desk, shoved her computer monitor and keyboard to one side, waited as Barton settled into her guest chair, leaned back and steepled her fingers.

"You said this couldn't wait."

He nodded. "It can't. I have it on the highest imaginable authority."

She peered at him. "Who?"

He chuckled mirthlessly. "My wife."

"Ah."

Althea had seen unhappiness before, but Barton wore a version new to her. He looked as if he were about to confess to a heinous crime.

"It's basically like this," he said. "I have to convince you to come back to Morelon House with me. I'm supposed to use all my powers of persuasion, up to and including my nonexistent charm. If I fail, Nora will rip my guts out with her fingernails and use them to plug up the drafts in the hearthroom." He looked crestfallen. "She promised."

Althea's mouth fell open. Despite the melancholy she'd endured since her self-imposed exile, she could not help but laugh. It infected Barton as well.

When they ran down, she said "And what's the oh-so-formidable Nora Fitzpatrick Morelon doing while you're here trying to reason with me?"

"Althea," he said, "it might be better if you didn't know."

She cocked an eyebrow. "But I want to know, Bart."

"So did I," he said. "So I said so. And she told me. But I'm not happier for it."

She opened her mouth, closed it without speaking, and turned away to stare out the window. She struggled to keep her mind off Martin or the occasion of their parting.

"Al," Barton said, "how's the pain?"

Without looking at him, she said "It's still there. I keep it in check."

"How?"

She shrugged. "By refusing it my attention. By not permitting it to affect me."

"Are you able to work?"

She spread her arms to encompass her desk, her computer, and the file cabinets she still could not manage to obviate. "Does it look as if I've been playing games? I broke the billion-deka mark eight months ago. In paper assets, anyway. Rothbard alone knows what I'd net if I were to liquidate."

"What about the spaceplane?"

"Gathering dust and cobwebs."

"Oh."

They sat in silence for a long moment.

"I can't imagine that you're happy about all this," Bart said.

She shrugged again. "I don't let myself think about it."

He nodded. "I know how that works. I did a lot of not thinking about it before I married Nora. About a lot of things, too."

She snorted. "Have you kept in touch with your old clan?"

"I have," he said. "Things are a lot better over there now. Keeping Dad gainfully occupied with something other than his plots seems to have done Clan Kramnik a lot of good, to say nothing of the money."

"You're not going back, I trust?"

He scowled. "Not a chance. I'm a Morelon now." The scowl vanished as he leaned forward and fixed her with a look of assessment. "What are you?"

The question stopped her breath in her chest. She flattened her palms against the surface of her desk and leaned toward him.

"What," she said slowly, "gives you the right to ask me that?"

His gaze hardened, and she sat back once more.

"Seven years ago," Barton said, "you came to Kramnik House with a proposal of marriage. Shortly after that, you rescued me from imprisonment at my father's hands, brought me to Morelon House, brushed Charisse aside, found me a room and some changes of clothes, and told me to make myself at home. And shortly after that, you co-officiated at my wedding to your cousin. We are kindred, Althea, just as much as if we'd had the same parents. That gives me whatever rights I might need to try to repair a rift in my family. Today or any other day."

He rose and glared down at her.

"I know I can't compel you to come with me. I've seen what you can do. I'd have to be an idiot to match my physical prowess against yours." His eyes softened. "Anyway, that's not my style. So I won't try to command your cooperation. But that's not my style either. All I can do is ask. Plead, really."

He extended his hands in supplication.

"Come home to your family, Al. We miss you. All of us. Martin, too. Will you please give him a chance to show you? Is the love you remember enough to move you, or does your clan scion have to get on his knees and beg?"

Althea rose, circled her desk, wrapped her arms around Barton Morelon, buried her face against his shoulder, and released a flood of tears.

Althea followed Barton up the stairs to the bedroom level. He brought her to the door to the room that was once hers, halted and stepped aside.

"Go on in," he said. "It's still yours. Yours and Martin's."

She reached for the knob, drew back, and looked at him again. "What about-"

"Charisse?" Barton grinned. "That's my job, Al." He waved at the door. "Go in and do yours."

She summoned her courage, twisted the knob, and pushed through.

The room was exactly as it had been before her departure: uncluttered, perfectly orderly, and almost obsessively clean. Clearly, her absence had moved Martin to alter little about his habits.

Martin sat at the foot of their bed. He looked distinctly uncomfortable. The reason was on open display: he was garbed in the traditional wedding costume most recently worn by Barton. It fit him poorly; the jacket, shirt, and trousers threatened to rip along all their seams.

The reason for Martin's garb and discomfort stood a few feet away, needler in hand. Althea could not remember ever seeing Nora look so fierce. She glared at Martin as if she were determined to hold him in place by the pressure of her gaze alone.

Demure little Nora has apparently been hiding a few assets. That glare would stop a charging elephant.

I wonder if she's ever fired that gun.

Nora glanced at Althea for a split second before returning her attention to Martin.

"About time you got here." Nora waved her needlegun at Althea's husband. "I have no idea what you saw in this idiot that made you want him for a husband, but it's time for you to decide if it's still there. Yo, asshole, get up from there and greet your wife as she deserves."

Martin rose, the seams of the wedding costume creaking in a dissonant multipart accompaniment.

"I'll be heading back to my guy, if you please." Nora holstered her needler, headed for the door, turned and smirked. "Don't damage him, Al. He's not as tough as he looks."

"I know," Althea murmured.

Nora shut the door behind her.

Althea stood still and stared at her estranged husband, uncertain how to proceed. He looked just as uncertain.

Presently she said "Well, I'm back. Is that to your liking, or not?"

"Al-"

"I haven't got much to offer you, Martin," she said, "I'm a forty year old woman whose husband departed her bed after she turned out to be incapable of bearing his children. He never explicitly said that was the reason, but it seemed clear enough at the time." She strove to keep her tone soft, though the words remained harsh and unyielding. "Maybe it's time we got it all out in the open."

She folded her arms across her breasts and waited.

Presently he said "It wasn't entirely my idea." He held up a hand before she could reply. "I accept the responsibility, but...it wasn't entirely my idea."