Your brother is wounded. It's bad.

Portia's heart is in her throat as she reads the frightening words on her comlink screen. Blunt as always, Gaius doesn't sugarcoat things.

He took a blaster shot to the chest that got through his armor. Right side, not left, or he'd be dead already.

"What is it? What's wrong?" preening Apollonia turns from the mirror and correctly reads her distraught expression.

"I uh think I may have flunked my Kittat quiz . . . " Portia murmurs to her sister before she jumps up to flee to the privacy of her own bedroom.

"I don't see why you care so much about school," her disapproving older sister calls after her. "Marriage is what really matters for a woman."

Portia ignores her. With tears in her eyes and a pounding heart, she secludes herself to type back the unthinkable. Will he die?

Since Gaius is on Dromund Kaas, his reply is instant. The report I saw said he is critical with prognosis uncertain. That was from six hours ago. I don't know anything further. I'm sorry.

What happened?

The details are sketchy. Only thing that's clear is that the mission failed completely. The Lord who was leading the raid is dead. The troopers retreated after they were overwhelmed and leaderless. They got your brother out with them.

What do I do? Can I tell Mother and Appy?

No. You can't know this yet. Given who your brother is and that we're already here, Angral is planning to drop by your home to inform your family personally as Adraas' commanding officer. Angral's old school and he's into professional courtesies like that.

Portia gulps. The upcoming visit doesn't strike her as a mere professional courtesy. Instead, it sounds uncomfortably close to the official in-person military death notification visit that every family dreads.

It's that bad?

Yes.

When will Angral arrive?

In a few hours once we're finished here at the Palace. Hopefully, there will be an update from the ship by then and there will be more details to share.

I'm scared.

The Interrogator is one of the newest ships. It has current medical technology. Your brother will be in good hands.

I'm still scared. In fact, a deep sense of foreboding overtakes Portia. She types I have a bad feeling about this as she attempts to tamp down her rising anxiety.

The Joint Chiefs liked our plan but they want some changes. We're coming back in four weeks to present the revisions.

Is that good?

Very good. GTG. We're going back into the meeting now. I'll be with Angral when he comes to your house. Find me.

The comlink goes silent now. Portia is left to fret alone in secret dread of the visit with Darth Angral to come. She wants more news, but only if it's good news. Her mind, however, keeps imagining the worst. Portia knew when Cato went off to war that injury or death were possible outcomes. But somehow her big brother with the big smile and the even bigger swagger always seemed too larger than life to be mortal like an ordinary Lord. And after the tragedy her family has already endured, surely the Force will bless Darth Orderint's only son with the long life his father was denied . . . right?

When Cato's commanding officer finally presents himself at the house several hours later, Portia lets Mother receive the bad news with Appy at her side. As Lord Angral sits with them speaking in low tones in the living room, Portia slips away to intercept Gaius. She finds Lord Malgus loitering in the foyer still dressed in his ceremonial armor, waiting for his boss to finish.

"How bad is it? How bad is it really?" she demands as she strides up fast. She's agitated and nervous, wringing her hands and blinking back tears.

Gaius' long face is apologetic. "I told you all I know."

"There's no more news?"

"Not yet. I'm sorry. I wish we had an update. The ship is deep in the Rim—"

"I know, I know . . . it's a five-hour com delay at least." She's wasted a lot of time over the past few months waiting for replies from Gaius on her comlink. Portia knows better than anyone how long deep space transmissions take. She insists, "When you get back, you have to find out more. I need to know—"

"I will. I'll find out all I can and keep you posted," Gaius promises softly.

His calmness helps. Portia nods and dares to speak aloud her worst fear. "It will destroy Mother if he dies. She loves him best and always has. As it is, she's going to crumble . . ." Portia's hushed, choked voice trails off as she shakes her head and lifts a trembling hand to her forehead.

Gaius eyes her warily. "Don't you crumble on me."

"I won't." Annoyed, she shoots Gaius a hard look. "I don't crumble." She's not Mother.

He smiles gently. "I knew that."

"Poor Cato . . . May the Force be with him," Portia prays out loud, then cringes because that makes it sound like he's already dead. "If we can just get him home, we can get him the best care. Plus, there's an old lady at the Temple who can heal with the Force supposedly . . . If conventional medicine won't help, maybe some Dark magic will . . . "

"He's in good hands. They say we have some of the best surgical staff and medic droids in the Navy on the Interrogator."

That's encouraging, but still . . . Portia can't bear the thought of her big brother being so terribly wounded while he's far from home. Ever since Father died, Cato has been the Lord of the family. He's looked after her, Mother, and Appy better than anyone else could. Sure, he's obnoxious and overbearing at times—all brothers are. But he's long been something of a substitute father figure for her and the thought of losing first Father and then Cato has Portia deeply distressed.

As it is, Darth Angral's visit is dredging up long forgotten memories of official visits from Palace Lords as search parties looked in vain for Father's disintegrated transport. Back then, Mother had sat vigil in the same room she's in now, receiving more and more grim news until the final inevitable conclusion of 'all hands lost' was determined. Portia had been a child at the time, whisked out of earshot each time but still very aware that something terrible and life changing was slowly unfolding in real time. Even at age seven, she was astute enough to realize that nothing would ever be the same going forward.

Those dim recollections churn up childhood emotions she has never fully processed even all these years later. The loss . . . the confusion . . . the sense of abandonment . . . the feeling of unwelcome change . . . Add to that Mother's sobbing in the living room that Portia can't hear but she can sense in the Force and now Portia herself feels overwhelmed. She has long known that she has unspoken Daddy issues. She turns now to the man who, Force willing, will someday take over the role of Lord and Master as her male protector and provider, heir to the responsibility held first by her father and now by her wounded brother.

"Hold me." Portia flings herself into Gaius' arms. She doesn't care if some servant wanders in to see. She needs this. She really needs this. She's so triggered right now.

Gaius accepts and envelops her. She clings to his armored chest, wrapped in his velvet cloaked arms. This evening's hug is nothing like last night's passionate embrace. Fear for her family has eclipsed the urgency of fresh desire altogether. Last night's cocktail-of-hormones impetuosity fades into the background as pressing, threatening matters take precedence. This moment is comfort and security she suddenly desperately craves. Portia said she wouldn't crumble but here she is crumbling.

Gaius doesn't berate her. He stands firm and strong against her, like she knew he would. And that helps. His stalwart strength bleeds some into her.

"Whatever happens, it will be okay . . . the Force has a plan for all of us . . ." he soothes. And something about his conviction tells Portia that Gaius has given this same advice to himself a time or two.

"I know," she whispers back. She, like the rest of the Sith, has a fatalistic streak. It might seem at odds with her peoples' grand ambitions to shape the future, but it's not. The Dark Side has a deep appreciation for the unknowable mysteries of the Force.

Gaius strokes her hair. It's reassuring. "Be strong," he whispers into her ear. "You're very strong. Stronger than you know. Stronger than anyone suspects."

The personal pep talk helps. "I am strong," Portia echoes back his words as a mantra. "I need to be strong for Appy and Mother . . . it's what Cato will want me to do." She's the youngest and most inexperienced of the Metellus Ladies, and yet she knows that Cato respects her judgment the most. He will need to rely on her more than ever now, she realizes. Let Mother and Appy fall apart, but she will stay strong.

"Am I interrupting something?"

The voice is male, cultured, and authoritative. Portia stiffens as Gaius mutters the name "Angral" into her hair before he releases her.

"No, not at all," Portia replies with a quick reflexive lie, refusing to acknowledge that she and Gaius just sprung apart guiltily. There is no doubt that they have been caught in a compromising position. And by her brother's commanding officer, of all people . . .

Stay strong, Portia tells herself. Stay strong.

Summoning all of her poise and ignoring her racing heart, she slowly turns. Portia now inclines her head and extends her hand in imitation of Mother's grave elegance. Lady Oderint has perfected the deft social move of putting others instantly on the defensive. Hoping that she too can convey chilly aristocratic gravitas, Portia addresses their interloper as though nothing of consequence has occurred and he is the one who should be embarrassed for having jumped to conclusions.

"You must be Darth Angral," she smiles a smile that never reaches her eyes. Then she deploys her most formal demeanor. "Welcome, my Lord Angral. We are honored by your visit. Thank you for taking the time to share the news in person. We are most grateful for the courtesy." She concludes with her most graceful curtsey like she was being presented to a Lord on the Dark Council.

Gaius' tall, slim, handsome boss looks as pureblood as she is. He eyes her with interest. Is he relieved that she's not hysterically sobbing like the Ladies he left in the other room? He might be. But he definitely notes her teary eyes and stiff upper lip.

"Adraas is a valued member of my staff. We will do everything we can for him, Lady—?" Angral's eyebrows raise questioningly.

"Portia," she supplies her name. "I am Portia Metellus."

"Metellus?" Angral echoes with a furrowed squint.

She nods. "I am Cato's sister."

"Sister . . . " Darth Angral's eyes narrow as he considers this news. His gaze finds Gaius hovering silently behind her. "How do you know Malgus?" The emphasis is on the pronoun 'you,' clearly conveying that Angral recognizes the social gulf between them.

"Gaius is a friend of the family."

"Indeed?" The man is clearly unconvinced. With crisp sarcasm, Angral remarks, "That must explain why Adraas holds him in such high esteem," as he shoots Gaius a plainly skeptical look.

Portia insists, "Our family is very close to Darth Vindican's household."

"Is that so?" Darth Angral's brows rise upwards again. "Well, that's a bit awkward now, is it not?"

He's referring to the now semi-public news that Gaius slew his Master at Korriban. The rumors spread fast after Gaius' disastrous appearance in the throne room. There are versions of the Battle of Korriban that have Lord Malgus an ambitious, eager murderer and versions that portray him as a panicky, grief-stricken Apprentice who gave into the temptation to mercy. Neither is a particularly flattering portrayal. But few know the truth of the matter since Darth Malgus himself isn't talking.

Still sticking with her frosty politeness routine, Portia lifts her chin and shoots the accomplished man who's over twice her age a quelling look. "It is not at all awkward," she corrects her visitor. "We honor Lord Vindican's Apprentice who has been very kind to our friends, the grieving family."

"I see," Lord Angral nods even as it's clear from his expression that he does not at all understand this bizarre expression of loyalty. He sighs and looks her over as Gaius continues to let her do the talking. "Are you the sister who is promised to Traverse?"

She shakes her head no. "That is Apollonia. I'm still in school."

"In school?" Angral gapes. The reaction tells her that Mother's makeover has succeeded. The somber, center part low chignon hairstyle and elegant tailored dress she's wearing have made her appear mature beyond her years. "How old are you?" Angral peers at her with appalled fascination.

"Seventeen."

"Seven—Malgus, this is more bad judgment!" Angral explodes at his subordinate. "She's seventeen and Adraas' sister! What are you thinking? How could you be so foolish?"

Portia and Gaius exchange glances but say nothing. Theirs is a conspiracy of silence.

"She's your—she's the girl-no, forget it. I don't want to know." Looking extremely exasperated, the young Naval Lord sighs loudly and complains, "This is not my problem, so I'll pretend I didn't see what I just saw."

Portia bristles at his implication. "You didn't see anything untoward."

Angral snorts. "Girl, I'm not blind and I'm not stupid. But the last thing your brother needs to hear now is that his little sister is mixed up with Malgus."

"Gaius is a friend of the family! Darth Azamin introduced us!"

"As you say, my Lady." Condescending Angral makes no pretense of believing her. Rather than argue the point, he orders a retreat to his subordinate. "Let's go. We need to catch the next shuttle to the rendezvous point."

Gaius nods respectfully, "Yes, my Lord."

Darth Angral pauses to glare at her. He looks like he wants to say something—a warning or a reprimand. But instead, he declines. Lord Angral marches away fuming in dignified silence.

"Yikes . . . " Portia breathes out when he's through the front door.

Gaius shrugs it off. "He's always like that. He won't tell your brother. It's fine."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. He likes me."

She's dubious. "That's what you said about Azamin . . . "

"He didn't expose us either."

"MALGUS!" It's the boss snarling impatiently from the breezeway.

Gaius rolls his eyes and whispers, "See you in a month," before he hurries out the door to join him.

Rattled Portia now dutifully heads back to the living room to be another shoulder to cry on for Mother. But by now Lady Oderint has already locked herself in her bedroom. Appy is left sitting alone weeping by herself. Her sister starts wailing something about 'what if Traverse is hurt next?' because naturally with her sister it's all about her. When Portia tells her sharply to focus on Cato, Apollonia abruptly quits the room, snarling that she wouldn't understand because she's a child still.

Whatever. Secretly relieved to be left alone, Portia sinks down on the sofa to think. Minutes later, her comlink starts buzzing.

Is there news? No. It's Gaius texting her on a different topic.

Keep up your sword practice. I didn't get a chance to tell you that.

Will do.

Babe, I mean it. The big issue for the Sluis Van attack is allocating battle assets. It's not that the Joint Chiefs don't like my plan, it's that my plan pulls too many resources from the homeland defense. Lately, we've picked up credible enemy chatter about a counter-invasion.

Oh no. That's not good. The Jedi are coming here?

Unclear. But they're talking about it. The revisions I'm making are to plan the attack using fewer men and fewer ships. We need to shift battle assets to defense from offense.

Oh Force-this is really happening?

You'll probably be seeing more civilian defense drills. The Palace is going to raise the homeland threat level up a notch. Whether they announce that publicly or not is unclear. They don't want to cause panic.

I'm panicking! First, Cato's hurt and now this. Could this day get any worse?

If the intel firms up and it looks like a counter-invasion is truly happening, I will give you as much notice as I can.

How much time will that buy me?

Who knows? But if I tell you to leave, you need to leave without delay. Understand?

Yes. Cato had told her much the same thing before he left. So, are you talking about the Jedi coming in two weeks or in two months? What's the timeframe?

No one knows.

That is not reassuring.

It's not a new risk. In some ways, the risk is the same that it's always been. Just be vigilant and prepared to act.

I hate this war.

Peace is a lie. War is inevitable. But the Sith endure. Be strong, my Lady.

I'm trying.

GTG The boss is off his com call and heading this way with lightning in his eyes. Time for my latest lecture.

Half an hour later, Portia is still brooding alone in the living room when Gaius starts blowing up her comlink again.

Still waiting for our transport to be refueled. No news yet on your brother.

Okay. Well? How bad are we busted this time?

Angral told me he had absolutely no intention of getting involved in a private matter even if it included an underage girl and two Lords under his command. Then, he proceeded to rip me a new one anyway.

Did he at least appreciate the irony?

Nope. He told me that I am the best military strategist he's ever seen but I'm the worst, most self-destructive idiot he's ever met.

Oof. Ouch.

I got a twenty-minute lecture this time. Angral is a prissy bitch, but he actually swore at me. I didn't know he had it in him. Like I almost laughed when he said the word fuck. It sounded so wrong coming from him.

Cato says he's a little formal.

Actually, Darth Angral, youngest ever ship commander and pride of the Imperial Navy, pissed and swearing at underling me might be my new spirit animal. Like he's my #careergoals right there.

I thought you said he liked you.

'Like' might be too strong a word currently. 'Tolerate' is better.

Does anyone like you?

So far, just you. Angral thinks I'm after you for your money and for your family connections. That I'm being strategic with you like I am strategic about the war. It's more than that. You and I have something real and it's special.

I know that.

Do you? Because more and more, I wish you weren't a Metellus. If you were a colonial girl or just some minor Lord's daughter, this would be a lot more doable. In some ways, your background complicates things as much as my background does.

I never thought of it that way.

I'm in this for you. I need you to know that.

I know that.

Okay, good. Because I can't stop thinking about you and about last night.

Same. Four weeks can't come fast enough. Sorry you're in trouble with the boss.

He was already pissed at me from the Palace.

? I thought you said it went well.

It did. But I told the Joint Chiefs not to waste time if they think the Republic might invade. Because the best way to preempt a counter-invasion is to put the enemy on the defensive. Engage them at Sluis Van and get them worried we're heading next to raze their Mid Rim and you won't need to defend Dromund Kaas.

Is that a controversial point?

Angral thinks that you shouldn't offer an opinion to a superior unless it is solicited. I violate that maxim regularly.

Let me guess—like daily?

Try hourly. When we get back to the ship, I'm going to the infirmary first thing to check on your brother.

Oh, thank you! But can you do that without looking sus?

I have a hard ass reputation to maintain and your brother owes me a report. Time to go see how he's doing because I want that damn report wink MTFBWY, future Lady Malgus.

After that exchange of messages, her comlink goes dark. A long and agonizing wait begins. There is no further news that night or later the next day as Gaius continues his long flight back to his ship.

On Monday morning, Portia goes to school but keeps her comlink with her at all times. When a teacher objects to the device on her desk, Portia responds that she's waiting for news on her injured brother. She's not watching funny pet videos on the holonet, she's monitoring family matters. That explanation earns her immediate empathy. For everyone—even the colonial teaching staff—has loved ones at the battlefront. And, as the Sacred Heart of Darkness School for Young Ladies teaches, a girl's calling in life is to support, obey, and encourage her family.

Not really wanting to go home after school, Portia attends the Temple circle. She adds Cato's name to the prayer list for missing in action, wounded in action, and killed in action parish family members. And though she is still striving mightily to remain strong, Portia sheds a tear as the priest Darth Rampart commends their Dark souls to the Force in the recitation of an ancient Kittat prayer. "Sed et si ambulavero in valle mortis non timebo lucem quoniam vis mecum; et habitabo in domo tenebrae in longitudine dierum . . . " Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall not fear the Light because the Force is with me; and I shall dwell in the house of Darkness forever.

It is all very sobering.

So much has happened so fast. Potia spent a night in Gaius' arms, emerging virgin still but far from chaste. They parted pledged to one another, but those promises, while sincere, are far from certain. In this current environment—with the threat of a genocidal invasion looming—it feels like anything could happen. But most importantly, her beloved brother could die. Would that remove an impediment to her future with Gaius or just shift the role of objector to her uncle or her grandfather? Portia doesn't know. But it's not an issue she cares to think much about.

She has always assumed that she would never turn against her clan. It would be unheard of for an aristocratic girl like herself. But Gaius has her rethinking all sorts of long accepted social truths. He doesn't bother adhering to social limitations—why should she? But what might it mean to defy her family's wishes? She wants their blessing, of course. Still, the nagging thought persists that their blessing may never come . . . and what then? And will any of this matter if the Jedi really do come?

Her thoughts wander now to her unofficial fiancé. Gaius is so intense. He walks in the room and it's like the air vibrates from his Force imprint. He's not the urbane, sly joking social type like Cato's friends. Gaius is overtly eager and unflinchingly ambitious. Conflict accompanies him everywhere. If someone's not picking a fight or finding fault with him, then Gaius is stirring up trouble himself. He dares anything, and that is both unsettling and reassuring. For if ever there were a man for these turbulent times, it's corrosive, decisive, and insightful young Darth Malgus. But for all his criticism and zeal for reform, one thing shines through: Gaius Veradun loves the great, flawed, messy Sith Empire. He's an accidental Lord, but he wouldn't have it any other way. His role, as he sees it, is to make a better future for his people—Lords and commonfolk alike. And as unpredictable as he is—the man doesn't play by the rules—he has been dependable for her. That's an intoxicating combination, honestly. For Gaius at once challenges Portia and supports her.

Could she—would she—defy her family to marry him? Portia thinks now of the story one of the Temple Ladies told her about a forbidden elopement. Is that her best strategy to become Lady Malgus? She hopes not.

Finally, news on Cato's condition arrives. Portia reads it again and again as relief washes over her.

Good news: he's going to make it. Your brother is out of danger and listed as critical but stable. The flashburn missed the shoulder joint and mostly hit the lung. The docs did surgery to transplant lung tissue from a brain-dead KIA trooper. Adraas won't like it, but he's got a lowly colonial lung in him now. From here, he needs to heal. It won't be fast. Rush it and the docs say his body might reject the transplant. Adraas will be here until they are satisfied that the new lung works and will stick. If not, they'll have to decide whether to try another transplant or to just let him live with one lung. You can live with one lung but you can't do much. Assuming all goes well, Adraas will get transferred to a medical frigate for transport back to Dromund Kaas. Best case scenario means you see him in person in about a week. I'll keep you posted.

Portia can't contain her joy. She types back Thank the Force! And thank you! How soon until Mother receives the official word? I know I can't tell her the news myself. But I'm dying to tell her the news!

She'll know in a few hours. I just complained to Angral to have someone send her a com. I uh offered an unsolicited opinion to my superior again. Sorry, not sorry.

You are the best! I can't thank you enough!

Thank me in person when I'm home next.

Hope this tides you over. Portia sends him another thirst trap picture.

Six days later, rapidly improving Cato comes home for medical treatment. Portia is the representative from the family to meet his transport. Mother couldn't possibly be up and dressed at this early hour and Apollonia declares herself squeamish. That leaves Portia to appear alone at the still-dark hour, standing stalwart with an officer beside her on an empty landing pad.

Does anyone know she's only seventeen? Probably not. Mother's makeover—and maybe the gravity of the situation—have her appearing more mature than her years. While she waits, someone mistakenly refers to her as Lady Adraas. Portia doesn't bother to correct them.

In the end, there isn't much to see or do. The transport unloads several medical capsules, including Cato's. She can't speak to him because he's heavily sedated. All she can do is peer down at him, noting the slight rise and fall of the sheet that covers his chest. He's alive and breathing. That much is clear. His right arm and torso are heavily bandaged. So while his healing wounds are severe, there is nothing gruesome to witness. Satisfied, Portia climbs into a transport to accompany the patient to the hospital. There she meets with several doctors to discuss his care. Then, Portia sits vigil by Cato's bedside, waiting for him to awake.

It's three hours later when the sedatives begin to wear off.

"Por . . .tia . . ." Cato says her name and it comes out a soft, slurred, slow groan.

It immediately gets her attention. She's so surprised that she drops her comlink she's using to text Gaius. "C-Cato! You're awake!" She beams at him.

Slowly, her brother's eyes flutter open and start to focus. "Por . . . tia?" His voice is stronger now, more certain. He, of course, recognized her by her Force imprint.

"I'm here." She stands and reaches to clasp Cato's left hand. She squeezes it as words spill fast out her mouth. "You're home on Dromund Kaas. This is a hospital. You're safe. You're being treated for your injuries. Everything will be alright." That last part is the important information. She says it again. "Everything will be alright. The doctors say in time you will make a complete recovery. Minimal scarring, too."

Cato seems to digest this news, but it does not reassure him. His head falls aside on the pillow, facing away. It is several moments before he speaks.

"Cato?" she worries softly.

He starts croaking words out. "We lost the battle . . . Dirge is dead. The air support bombed the wrong coordinates . . . we were ambushed . . . no backup . . . our coms were jammed . . ."

"Yes." Gaius has told her the gist of what happened. How it was a cascade of mistakes and misjudgments by multiple parties. How the Republic is getting wise to the Sith raid tactics. But she doesn't want to dwell on that. She wants to focus on Cato's recovery. Right now, his health is what matters most.

"You were transferred home this morning. They have treatments here they don't have on your ship."

"I remember someone telling me that . . . I think . . ."

"You have been kept sedated since the surgery. They said it might be confusing to you."

"I remember doctors and droids and Malgus . . . The random was there for some reason . . ."

"How do you feel?"

"Like shit."

"Shall I get the doctor?"

"No. I'm going to feel like this for a while, I suspect."

She frowns. "Are you in pain?"

"My right arm is numb. No, wait—my whole right side is numb."

"That's right. They want it numb. Mother's here. She just stepped out." Mother will be elated to learn that Cato's finally awake. "I'll go get her—"

"No!" Cato's head whips around on the pillow. His eyes plead with her. "Stay. Don't leave me. Don't get her. Please. Not yet."

Cato looks so vulnerable that Portia instantly sits back down. "I won't."

"Mother . . ." Cato sighs heavily. "I'm not up for her drama . . . and I'm not ready to be the hero son she wants me to be just now . . ."

"What does that mean?" Portia is confused. But looking at Cato's bleak face, it begins to dawn on her that more than his body has been hurt in battle.

Her brother visibly swallows as he speaks in a ragged, hoarse voice. "Portia, I don't think I can face her in defeat as a failure."

"Failure? You're not a failure! Don't talk like that."

"We lost half our men. Dirge too. And we failed our mission. Father would never have performed so badly. Darth Oderint never lost a battle," he gripes sourly.

"Stop talking like that." In fact, she hates the comparison.

But Cato seems fixated on it. "Father had a perfect war record."

"Yes, but he was fighting poorly armed, disorganized colonial rebels, not the Galactic Republic."

"He would have won. Father could do anything . . ."

"But he still died," Portia snaps back with deep resentment for that fact. For as superlative as her sainted father had been, he was mortal in the end. All his career glory never did anything for the bereft little daughter he left behind. And it cast a long shadow and set an impossibly high standard for his only son.

Portia changes the topic. "The doctors are very optimistic. The surgery on your shoulder gave you a new lung and saved your arm. Now, you just need to heal. The bacta bandage is helping, but they want to put you in a tank full of bacta. It's some new treatment they are using for flashburns that is getting great results. They say it speeds up muscle regeneration by months and it dramatically reduces scarring. Cato, if all goes well, you could be healed and swinging a sword in a month to six weeks."

"Does Mother know all of this?"

"She does now. I told her everything once the doctors' prognosis was good. I waited because I didn't want to worry her."

"I understand." All in the Metellus household—even including the servants—have long practiced paternalism to shield Lady Oderint from things that upset her. When it comes to bad news, there is a need-to-know standard for Mother.

"So . . . you've been the one handling things about me? Talking to doctors and the Navy?"

Portia nods. "I thought that was what you'd want. Was I wrong?"

"No. Where's Appy?"

"She's at home. She uh doesn't like hospitals."

"No one does. How is Mother holding up?"

Portia answers truthfully. "Not well. But today she's mostly holding together. She's been so worried. She broke a vase yesterday throwing it at the downstairs maid. But I think she felt better afterwards. It kind of helped."

"How's the maid?"

"Mother has poor aim. She's fine. And she feels as sorry for Mother as we all do. I gave her a bonus and she promised not to quit."

"Good solution," Cato approves.

"This brought back a lot of memories for Mother—"

"I figured. First Father, now me, right?"

"Yes."

Cato manages a brief smile now. "Thank the Force that you were born into the family. I know I can always depend on you. If you're this competent at seventeen, you're going to make some Lord an excellent wife. So, what time is it? What day is it?"

Portia answers.

"Why aren't you in school?"

"I'm skipping school today." And the Temple circle too.

"Mother is okay with that?"

"You're worth it. And besides, she hasn't noticed. She's been too upset." But not so upset that Mother didn't have the presence of mind to tell her to reapply lipstick just five minutes ago. Appearance is paramount for Lady Oderint, and she is a stickler about it even in a crisis. If the Jedi come to kill them, Mother is apt to tell her to go change into a better dress so she will look good for her martyrdom.

Cato is worried about her missing school. "Is this going to cost you valedictorian?"

Portia shrugs. "It's just one day. And if it does, I don't care. I get tired of being the smart girl sometimes. Mother seems to think that could be threatening to young Lords . . ."

"Not to the right one. Don't worry. I'm not letting you marry any idiot who's intimidated by your brain."

"Thanks."

Cato falls silent now. Portia waits for him to talk, but he doesn't speak. So, she observes her brother's brooding expression and tight jaw. He must sense her scrutiny because again Cato averts his face. Is he upset? Maybe embarrassed? Or is it discouraged? The Force reflects a jumble of emotions she can't quite pin down.

"Are you sure you're not in pain?" He looks like he's in pain. She can sense pain in the Force.

"I'm fine."

His tone makes a mockery of his words. Cato is not fine. Not at all.

"No one's blaming you," she whispers softly.

He shoots her a look and gripes, "Yeah? How would you know?"

She knows because Gaius sent her the internal report on the matter. Dead Darth Dirge received the brunt of the responsibility, along with a few others. But she can't admit to that specific knowledge without explaining how she knows it.

So, Portia settles on a different answer. "Darth Angral was in town right after you got hurt. He came by the house personally to share the news. He made very clear that no one blames you."

"Angral came himself?"

"Yes. Mother hated the news, but loved the gesture. She's so formal, you know . . ."

"So is Angral," Cato remarks, adding glumly, "He should have been Lord Oderint's son, not me. He could measure up to the legacy."

"So will you," Portia insists firmly.

She now tries to encourage her brother again. "Darth Malgus was with Angral when he came by the house." That's technically true, as is her next sentence: "Malgus told me the same that Angral told Mother-that you are not to blame for the mission."

"Malgus was at the house?" Cato frowns and sneers, "Has someone counted the silver?"

"Don't be like that. He was fine."

The comment earns her a look. "I thought you hated him. You threw him into a tree."

"Rosebush."

"Same difference."

Portia looks away, suddenly worried that her face or her thoughts will betray her. "He's okay. He kind of grows on you."

Cato sniffs, "Not on me."

"You told me he saved your life once," Portia reminds him. "That was enough for Malgus to grow on me. As far as I'm concerned, he's always welcome at our house. Anyone who has your back is a friend of the Metellus family."

"You know that random killed his own Master, right? They say he admitted it to the Emperor."

She nods. "I heard it was a mercy killing. That's what Malgus told Lady Vindican and she believes him. Julia too."

Cato brushes off the point. "Well, whatever. No one really knows what happened. Malgus isn't talking and Angral told the rest of us to shut up about it."

"Then the matter is settled."

"I don't trust him. So he saved me . . . that doesn't make him trustworthy," Cato snarls. "He's no hero. That one's a villain."

Now again, Portia is anxious to change the topic. She frowns down at her exhausted and pale but very much alive big brother. "You gave us quite a scare. Cato, Mother's not the only one who couldn't bear to lose you." She reaches to squeeze his hand again.

He squeezes back. "I gave myself quite a scare. I thought I was joining the Force there for a bit."

Portia glances over her shoulder. "Mother will be back soon."

"I'm going to pretend to be asleep."

"Cato—"

"Cover for me, will you? I feel awful and I'm not up to Mother's tears. There's always tears . . ."

"Fine," Portia relents, "but I'm telling her that you woke up while she was gone but talking to me tired you out."

"That's a good story. We'll go with that. How soon do they put me in that bacta tank thing?"

"Tomorow, I hope. You have to wait your turn. There are several other wounded Lords ahead of you."

"Anyone we know?"

"No."

"Good. Look," her brother begins with a grimace, "I don't know what the official press is, but the war's not going well. I worry there are going to be a lot more wounded and killed Lords. Already, we've lost far too many enlisted men."

"That's what Malgus said."

"I hate that guy, but he's right. It's fucking annoying how often that guy is right."

"Shhh! Here comes Mother." Portia senses the imminent approach of Lady Oderint. "Quick! Close your eyes."

Cato complies. But with eyes shut he whispers fast, "I like that new hair. It's different but I like it."

Portia reaches up to pat at her low chignon. "It was Mother's idea."

"I figured. It makes you look older."

"She's trying to get me married."

Cato cracks one eye and objects, "You can't get married yet. Who will run the family while I'm gone? Mother and Appy together don't have half your good sense."

"Your wife will run the family, that's who. Mother's trying to get you married too."

"Another list?"

"Yes. A very lengthy, annotated list."

"Shit. I'm definitely not up for that discussion right now. How about neither of us gets married while the war's on?"

Is that offer sincere? If so, Portia immediately accepts. "It's a deal."

"Little sister, I love you." He squeezes her hand.

She squeezes back. "I love you too."

"Save me from Mother if she melts down, will you? Make her leave."

"I'll try." Portia makes no promises.