They concentrated on her for the remainder of her visit, but after it Vasiht’h folded his arms and glowered at him.
“You are only wroth because you suspect I may be right,” Jahir said.
That diffused the storm gathering in the mindline, as he suspected it might. Vasiht’h started laughing. “Goddess, that makes me sound like something out of a dramatic novel. No, I’m not… ‘wroth’...! But sometimes this job…” He sighed and chuckled. “Sometimes it asks us to be things we don’t expect, I guess.”
“As the best things in life do,” Jahir agreed, pleased.
“I guess they do, at that.”
While Vasiht’h still nursed ambivalent feelings about HEALED BY HER IMMORTAL HEART, by the seventy percent point he wanted to see how it ended, if only to have something to talk about with his sisters next time they saw one another. It also kept him occupied when he wasn’t making his attempts at Ilea’s garden, or wandering the Garden District, or burning too much incense in the siv’t, or wishing he could talk to Sehvi more often. He had just opened the novel when his message alert chimed, and to his delight he found a note from Professor Palland. ‘Thought I’d see how one of my favorite students was doing,’ was all it said, with Palland’s typical terseness; he had never been a fan of electronic communication—some of the notes Vasiht’h had gotten from him in school had been almost unintelligibly short—so receiving one was a high compliment. One of his favorite students! Vasiht’h sat back, wide-eyed. Palland had been a professor for over fifteen years? Twenty? How many students had he had, and yet Vasiht’h had been one of his favorites?
He spread a reply and started typing, describing the starbase, and the satisfaction of working with clients at last, and how dream therapy was differing in practice than it had in the hothouse environment of the hospital or school clinics. As he wrote, the old vocabulary came back to him, and he found himself discussing it in the same scholarly way he’d had to write his research conclusions after the experiments. That he remembered how to talk that way surprised him, and he was a little proud of it. Maybe he’d been listening too much to the voices outside—and inside—his head about how what he was doing was some kind of unscientific quackery. Palland would have been the first to tell him that something’s inexplicability made it more of a candidate for inquiry, not less, and that science grew by its questions, not their answers.
Re-reading his message, he saw his own enthusiasm for what they were doing. He really did believe in the work. For all its challenges and uncertainties, this was where he belonged. Maybe not here in particular, on Veta, but doing this, with Jahir. It coursed through him like the breath of the Goddess so powerfully he looked toward the window, expecting a breeze. The window, being closed, provided none, and he grinned and shook his head. And then opened it. A moment later, the breeze capered through.
“And if that’s not a symbol,” he told his data tablet as he sent the message to Palland, “I don’t know what is.”
“Should I ask?” Jahir said at the door.
Vasiht’h looked up. “Just thinking. That it’s all very well to expect divine messages, but you have to make them possible before they can happen.”
Setting his shopping bags on the table, Jahir canted his head. “One would expect the Divine could arrange alternate circumstances, did one make the first impossible.”
“Which is the worst possible way to go about it,” Vasiht’h said. “If the Goddess feels she has to come after you a second time, she usually does it with a hammer.” He dug into the bags and fetched out the salad greens and a long loaf of bread with an unusual smell. He inhaled the steam rising off it and said, “Something floral? Nutty?”
“The flour is ground from the fleshy petals of a flower grown on the world where the Naysha were supposed to have been planted.”
“Flower flour!” Vasiht’h inhaled again. “What a delicate smell.”
“And a very fine crumb, you will find.”
“Which is why you brought home salad.” Vasiht’h nodded. “Well, let’s see what we can put together.”
It wasn’t until after dinner that he finally returned to the novel. He plodded through another chapter of mutual adoration and was nearly falling asleep over the narrative when What’s-Her-Name shocked him by miscarrying the miracle child. He skimmed the previous chapters, looking for any clues that the happy romance was about to veer into tragedy, but the author had left her readers utterly unprepared. Unless he was simply too unfamiliar with romances to see the signs? He turned on the commentary sidebar and was instantly inflicted with his sisters’ raucous opinions.
MANDARA: Sehvi, you have totally redeemed yourself. This book is now awesome.
TAVYI: How can you say that?? This is awful! How can they have a happy ending now?? This is going to haunt them for the rest of their lives!!!!
NINEH: I am more confused at this book’s sudden decision to become one with science. Why’d she do that, after building us up to the grand finale of halfling child in the perfect nursery with all the ducks?
KAVILA: It was swans.
NINEH: Birds. Whatever. My point is, why the miscarriage?
SARDA: Maybe she wanted to do a comforting-hurt sort of storyline? I’ll be really disappointed if she doesn’t go there. We need lots of cuddles and crying together, and growing together through this traumatic experience… right?
TAVYI: This was not supposed to be a realistic book. I resent realistic stuff happening in it. Can I rewrite the ending?
SARDA: Only if you share!
MANDARA: I like the horror ending! This is far more interesting than the direction it was going.
KOVRAH: Meh. They should have portrayed her crying against his chest on the cover if they wanted to go where it’s going now. Does it get better?
SEHVI: It gets worse, actually. In the best of ways.
KAVILA: This is cruel and unusual punishment, Sehvi. I thought you liked us!
SEHVI: Family should have shared experiences. Awful, melodramatic, and irritating ones as well as good ones.
TAVYI: She’s got a point. You’ve got friends to have good times with. When you need someone to share the trauma of a badly written book with you, that’s when you go to family.
Vasiht’h set the tablet down and looked over at his friend’s bed, where Jahir was also reading. Sensing his attention, Jahir glanced at him and though his expression was too shadowed to read clearly, his inquisitive glance felt in the mindline like a gentle touch on the hand.
“We’re family, aren’t we?” Vasiht’h asked.
To his relief, Jahir did not answer immediately. At last, he replied, “What else, with love?”
He did not have to reassure Vasiht’h of that love. Everything they’d been together had demonstrated it beyond any doubt. Smiling, the Glaseah put his tablet on the night table and fluffed up his pillows. As he made himself comfortable amid them, Jahir asked, “Was there a reason why you asked?”
“I just wanted to hear the answer.” Pulling the blanket over himself, Vasiht’h said, “Sometimes, I think that’s all we need.”
He thought that would end the discussion, so he was surprised when Jahir said, “Like the window.”
“The window?”
“If we would hear messages from other people, we should make it possible for them to be shared. Yes?”
Vasiht’h grinned against his pillow. “You never stop thinking, do you.”
“I fear not.” A trickle of humor through the mindline. “I hope it never stops interesting you.”
“It won’t,” Vasiht’h said. “Good night, arii.”
“Rest well, my friend.”
/Now is the time,/ Jahir said to Vasiht’h.
/Are you sure?/
Watching Ametia pace, Jahir knew. How he knew, he couldn’t have said… only that something in her agitation, in the well-worn rut of her diatribe, in the viciousness of her disappointment and frustration, spoke to him, clearly as the bell from the spire of Ontine Cathedral. /Now
is the time./
/It’s all yours, then./
“…and then I ended up right back where I started,” Ametia finished. “As usual.” She stopped prowling, folding her arms and striking a martial pose Jahir was sure was subconscious. The thwarted warrior, overlooking the grounds of the battle and seeing no way to win. “People are idiots.”
“You don’t actually believe that,” Vasiht’h said.
“Oh don’t I?” She dropped onto the sofa. She sighed, flattening her ears. “No, you’re right. But it’s too easy to be cynical about the entire process.”
“When you see its end,” Jahir said.
“Its inevitable end,” she agreed. “Because people will always coalesce into tribes and turn on other tribes.”
“This you do not believe, either,” Jahir said. “Or you would have ceased your efforts.”
“What if I just can’t give up? I’m stubborn.”
“But tremendously intelligent, educated, and incisive,” Jahir said. “So not likely to waste your time.”
She snorted. “Very flattering. Is there a point to this particular line of discussion?”
“That you should consider applying your considerable energy to the beginning of the process, rather than wasting it on its end. Where you yourself have observed people to be too set in their ways to easily change.”
“Ah?” She cocked a brow. “This sounds interesting. Go on.”
“The city’s primary school is seeking a principal,” Jahir said. “A position of significant responsibility, charged with shaping the direction of the school and its donors. You would acquit yourself magnificently in such a role, and it would give you the opportunity to target the problem closer to its source. Yes? Surely such children are young enough to respond to your call for clemency toward other species?”
/Goddess, I think you finally shocked her speechless./
Apparently he had, for Ametia was staring at him, her ears sagging and eyes wide.
“Perhaps I spoke out of turn?” Jahir said, cautious.
“You want me. To herd littles around. I am not a parental type.”
“Principals don’t teach,” Vasiht’h said. “They administrate.”
Ametia was tapping her fingers on her leg now, as she did when she was thinking at her fastest. “Still. Children.”
“They’re just people who haven’t grown up yet,” Vasiht’h said.
“But they’re so unfinished—”
“Is it not that finished quality what dismays you about your current students?” Jahir said.
She eyed them. “You are double-teaming me.”
“We’re just talking you out of talking yourself out of it.” Vasiht’h grinned. “It’s just an idea, but you have to give it a chance before you shoot it down.”
“Ah!” She showed teeth, eyes lighting. “Yes. Let’s debate.”
The remainder of the hour was the most lively one they’d logged as therapists thus far. Ametia’s notion of debate was strenuous, and she enjoyed every word of it. Vasiht’h did his best, but partway through it he said, /You are so much better at me than this. How can she keep going??/
/This is her entertainment, arii./
/It’s not mine!/
/I shall carry the flag for Lennea, then./
/You really think she’d work out for it? She says she finds children impossible!/
/Do you think she’s right?/
Vasiht’h was silent through the next few exchanges, which involved whether the school board would be as insufferable in its own way as the university board of trustees. /No. I think she has two separate needs tangled up together. She needs to feel intellectually engaged with people. And she needs to feel like she’s doing something important. Teaching was a way to give her both those things at once./
/Perhaps you should say so./
/Me??/
Jahir hid his smile, shook his head a little. /Do not make the mistake of thinking yourself less intelligent because you dislike conflict, arii. You have your own wisdom./
Vasiht’h’s ears sagged. /You mean that?/
His partner looked at him then, the honeyed eyes gentle. /Can I lie to you thus?/
The warmth that drifted through the mindline, like the first rays of a sunrise on a soft spring morning… Vasiht’h flushed, and couldn’t look away.
“So,” Ametia drawled. “Are the two of you having a moment? Should I take a bathroom break?”
Vasiht’h cleared his throat. “It was about you, actually.”
The Harat-Shar chuckled. “Oh really. Go ahead, then. Though we’re not done with this discussion, Long Tall One.”
“I remain at your service,” Jahir said. “But I believe Vasiht’h’s observation is pertinent.”
“I like pertinent. Go ahead, then. Awe me.”
“Do you do this to all your students?” Vasiht’h asked, rueful.
She laughed. “Yes. They’re more honest when I fluster them first.”
Vasiht’h shook his head and sighed, but it was a fond sigh. He liked Ametia… as a client. As a professor she would have intimidated him straight back out of the classroom. “You need conversation like this, don’t you.”
“I don’t like being bored, no.”
“And the university gives you that.”
“Sometimes,” she said, dry. “When it’s not cloaking rank stupidity in pretentious dialectics.”
“You also want to feel like you’re accomplishing something worthwhile.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” she asked, studying him with that distant amusement.
“Why did you decide to go into teaching?”
“Because I have learned a great deal, and disseminating that knowledge is important.”
“So why not do that through a primary school, and get your intellectual conversation somewhere else? Where you don’t have to deal with the politics and the… ah… pretentious dialectics?” Vasiht’h asked. “If there’s one thing kits are good at it, it’s being earnest. They’re the opposite of fake.”
“And where exactly would I find this intellectual conversation outside my job?” Ametia asked, arch.
“Maybe you could talk to any coworkers you have now that you like?” Vasiht’h said. “There’s no reason you can’t stay friends with them.”
“Or you might start a salon,” Jahir said.
/You did it to her again,/ Vasiht’h said, grinning.
The shock didn’t last as long this time, because she broke into a peal of laughter. “A what? Like something out of a… a human historical novel!”
“Is that where it hails from?” Jahir asked, with that ingenuous tone Vasiht’h knew was hiding so much. Amusement. A sweet interest. And memories that he could sense only as a fog, or a taste. Cream on the tongue. The sound of harps.
“I admit, the idea is compelling, despite the absurdity. Or maybe because of it.” Ametia tapped her nose, still struggling with her laughter. “Ametia, grand dame of the salon. Come for intellectual amusements! Debates on epistemology! The newest compositions for harp and terspichoric lyre! Wine and imported cheese, explicated at length by visiting sommeliers!”
“You came up with all that off the top of your head?” Vasiht’h asked, bemused.
“She would make a grand mistress of a salon,” Jahir agreed.
Ametia lost herself to another full-on bout of laughter.
“I have to imagine the kind of people you’d meet at a salon would make great donors to a primary school,” Vasiht’h added. “They’d be rich and interested in education.”
“And dedicated to the preservation of their legacies?” Jahir said.
“You two are fantastic!” Ametia wiped her eyes, still chortling. “Battleangel. What a thought.”
“But a compelling one?” Vasiht’h reminded her.
“Despite its absurdity,” Jahir agreed.
She snickered. “Stop! Or I’ll pull a gut muscle.” She exhaled, oozing back on the couch. “Ah, that was good. I needed that. It’s almost as if you
all think there’s some way for all this to happen.”
“We do, remember? We mentioned the school is looking for a principal at the beginning of this conversation,” Vasiht’h said. “It’s what made us think of you.”
Ametia sat up abruptly. “Lennea. This is why Lennea’s been so scarce lately, isn’t it? It’s her school that needs help?”
“They’ve made her acting principal,” Vasiht’h said.
“What!” Ametia jumped to her feet. “That’s a horrible fit for her! She hates administration work! Why did they do that?”
“They haven’t found any better candidate?” Jahir said.
Ametia fisted her hands. “What!” And then planted those fists on her hips. “Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?”
“Maybe we didn’t want you to feel obliged to rescue your friend until you decided you wouldn’t mind the job without the extenuating circumstance?” Vasiht’h said.
Ametia pointed at them. “That… is actually a very good point. So thank you. But I need to speak with Lennea immediately!”
“Just don’t do anything rash?” Vasiht’h said.
“Rash!” She snorted. “Of course not. Why else have we been discussing this so vigorously for an hour? So I could knock the stuffing out of it, see where it’s vulnerable. That’s the purpose of debate. It clarifies one’s thinking.”
“As long as it clarified yours?”
“You did well enough, for therapists.” Ametia grinned, flashing her fangs. “Especially you, Tall Pale. I could get used to bouncing things off you.”
“As I said, we are here to serve.”
“Next week, then,” Ametia said, and marched out of the office.
She left a vacuum behind her when she deprived the room of her enormous presence; feeling it, Vasiht’h said, “She’s wasted as a professor. She needs to be a mover and shaker somewhere.”
“Perhaps this will be the moment where she decides to make that transition.”
Vasiht’h hmmed. “Do you think we convinced her?”
“I don’t know,” Jahir admitted, and if the mindline was right that possibility tickled him.
Vasiht’h laughed. “You liked that! I didn’t think you’d enjoy fighting like that.”
Dreamhearth Page 22
