Clouds shrouded the sky, the stark white and gray promise of snow. As Father had mentioned, a blizzard loomed in the forecast for the entire Inland Lakes region. We had to fly out before noon to avoid the worst of it. The chartered limousine met Gerald and I in front of Knights Hall, right on schedule. We climbed inside while a gleaming custodian unit loaded our bags in the trunk.

Gerald rubbed his hands together for warmth. "Sometimes I regret choosing this place for school. Altair-7 will be paradise. I miss swimming and laying in the sun."

"So do I." I nodded my thanks to the chauffeur as he closed the door. "I'm glad Sahajia is in the summer hemisphere. It'll be a nice break."

The engine hummed, lev generators gliding over the frozen roadway toward the air terminal outside of Michigattan proper. It was about an hour's drive to the opposite side of the city. Gerald browsed the Net to pass time, his display visor glowing over one eye. Restless, I laid my head against the seat and watched the frozen landscape roll by.

There had been no farewell from Tamsin. It was to maintain the ruse of our relationship, but I was restless. A simple text message from her would lift my spirits. However, my inbox remained empty, desolate as my mood. I recalled our last meeting behind Pentworth, and the delights of her touch. The memory cheered me somewhat.

When we reached the terminal, the limousine dropped us off at the entrance platform. The robot unloaded our bags. I traveled light, as I had last interim, with only one suitcase and a carry-on. I'd brought all of my ritual tools, of course, and only the most basic clothing. My room at Highveld was furnished with a full and proper wardrobe. Such was the requirement for someone of my status, to be prepared for any occasion at our many properties.

I strode alongside Gerald, our luggage on hover behind us, and we headed for the private airstrip. The bright corridors were packed with students headed home for interim and their families, as well as the press and clamor of holiday travelers. I wasn't claustrophobic, but the bustling mass of humanity annoyed me. I was glad when we passed the security checkpoint and entered the quieter side, where only elite passengers waited for their private flights.

"Over here, son." Father and Mr. Forsyth sat upon overstuffed lobby chairs, their long overcoats and bowlers heaped on the nearest side table. He waved, a vision of affluent nonchalance and polish, one leg propped over the other knee. Cigar smoke billowed around him, emanating  the scent of his favorite imported Javana tobacco. 

They smothered their cigars and stood to embrace us.

"It's good to see you," Father said.

I threw an arm around him. "I've missed you, too."

"I know it's a trite remark, but both of you have grown much too tall since last interim," Mr. Forsyth said, tweaking Gerald's ear.

"And you don't look a day older," Gerald replied.

Father chuckled. "You have him well-versed in flattery, Archibald."

"A remarkable skill he inherited from my side of the family." Mr. Forsyth put his bowler on. "Though you've a good streak of your mother's charm as well, my boy."

"Well, let's not delay," Father said, checking the time.

"Indeed. I'll call Phyllis." Mr. Forsyth spoke to his wristcom. "My dearest lady." It  trilled in recognition, and the pulse of connection ensued.

Gerald whispered to me. "Ew. He always calls my mother that."

Father wrapped his wine-red scarf around his neck. "Won't this be fun, Gerald? You and your family will be staying with us at Highveld."

Gerald scowled. "But...I thought we were going home to Altair-7."

"We are," Mr. Forsyth said. "After the holiday. Your mother wished to accept Mr. Blane's generous hospitality. We'd be headed back to the homeworld in a week for their momentous Yule party anyway."

"Very well." Gerald's posture drooped.

Mrs. Forsyth's elegant face appeared on her husband's hologram. "Is it time, dear?"

"It is." Mr. Forsyth coughed. "We'll meet you ladies at the gate."

"Who else is with her?" Gerald asked.

"Your cousin Imogen is here, too," said Mr. Forsyth.

Wonderful. Mrs. Forsyth was bad enough. The thought of a week with Imogen made me want to head back to Chamberlayne. Gerald threw me a disconcerted glance. At least I wasn't alone in my disappointment.

Father's custodian units took our luggage, and we followed them to the boarding zone. Outside the tall observation deck windows, my family's private shuttle gleamed in the crisp morning light. Nearly a hundred feet from nose to tail, it had changed little since I was young. Streamlined curves of chromed steel, inset with perfect oval portholes, the wings and tail swept back in crescents. Crewmen hustled around the fuselage, loading and inspecting for our flight.

High heels clicked against the polished tile floor, drawing all male attention in its approach. Mrs. Forsyth strutted toward us, shoulders and head high, slim hips tilting with each nimble step. A green tweed skirt and matching jacket clung to her figure sure as skin, a pillbox hat pinned smartly upon her brunette coif. The veil drawn across her brown eyes glowed with an inset display weave, allowing her a Net connection with fashionable convenience. Shopping bags dangled from her long fingers like overripe fruits near to bursting.

Imogen had grown inches, now sixteen, her gangly adolescence filled into grace. She trailed shadow-like, neck and legs slender yet tense, a doe's uncertain beauty. A sheath dress of pale blue chiffon rippled about her, wisping divergence from the blunt lines of her brunette bob. Her gray eyes fixed upon me, one side of her lips lifting in a coy smile. It had been nearly a year since I'd last seen her, and she'd flowered into unexpected loveliness.

I stared like a knave. Even Gerald's mouth hung open, studying his cousin wide-eyed.

Mrs. Forsyth's stately profile rose a notch as she shook Father's hand. She leaned toward her husband for a kiss, but a smile never crossed her face. Her calculating gaze flicked from Gerald to me. "Aren't you boys a fine sight?"

Gerald replied with a single nod. So much for a relaxing holiday. The two female relatives he despised most leered about him, and he was a world away from his beloved Fairside Manor. 

Mrs. Forsyth presented her hand to me, the little finger bearing her silver skull ring extended.  I bowed and kissed it, in more than one show of respect. I loathed her as one of Olfar's murderers. Time and patience. I could abide. Mother's plot gaped like a pit trap beneath them all.

Father grinned at the gesture, and clapped my shoulder. "That's the way, son. A lady always deserves such treatment. I'm proud of you."

Imogen never extended her hand, but the flush in her cheeks clued she'd like a kiss, too. No matter how pretty or charming Imogen was, my heart belonged to Tamsin.

Our shuttle captain, Mr. Nealson, entered the terminal. He tipped his hat to Father. "The shuttle is ready, Mr. Blane. We depart at your convenience."

"Let's be off, before this dreadful weather arrives," Father said.

We walked outside, onto the air strip. The shuttle hummed, almost joyous in its greeting. The fission engines glowed shrill blue in their rounded cowlings. Lacy snowflakes already drifted from the darkening sky. Mr. Nealson and the crew bowed as we ascended the boarding ramp. Their blue and rust uniforms flaunted the signature colors of Blane Industries.

Gerald and I buckled ourselves into adjacent seats in the entertainment niche. To our dismay, Imogen chose the seat across the table from us. Gerald rolled his eyes, but said nothing. I remained aloof.

Father and Mr. and Mrs. Forsyth took the plush chairs beside the circular observation portal. Father's new valet, a thin, twitchy fellow named Mr. Gilliam, rushed from passenger to passenger, fastening restraints and ensuring our comfort.

All was clear for launch. We taxied to the end of the runway. Thrusters roared, our bodies pressed to the plush leather and velvet seats, and we shot into the frigid atmosphere. Wind turbulence rattled the hull a while, but soon we broke through the thick clouds. The welcome kiss of sunlight blazed through the glass.

"May I lower the blind?" Imogen asked, squinting against it.

"If you like," I said.

Her dainty fingers reached for the pull cord, and she smiled at me.

I looked away, pretending I hadn't noticed the flirtation.

"Will your Father mind if I order something from the galley?" Gerald glanced at the nearby custodian units.

"Help yourself. You may as well, Miss Forsyth."

"Thank you." Imogen's voice had matured into a woman's purr. She wore darker make-up now, eyes smudged with kohl at the edges, full lips glossed peach. In spite of myself, I recalled how tempting those lips had been when she'd stolen my kiss in Olfar's tomb. Those tight little breasts had pushed against me, almost begging for my touch. Desire shuddered through me unbidden, and I quelled the sinful reverie before it took further root. Imogen could never match the sweetness of my beloved.

Minutes later, the robots delivered a plate of cheese, bread, and fruit, and a carafe of fresh white grape juice. We cleared it quickly, and the adults followed suit by ordering brunch plates. Afterward, Gerald observed his cousin with detached curiosity.

"If you'll pardon my asking, why are you staying with us for interim, and not with your mother?" he asked.

Imogen rested her chin on one palm. Her eyes shone with the trace of a tear, but she blinked it away. "Mother isn't well. The usual ailment. The doctors said it would be best if I leave for the holiday, so I won't disturb her. It's nothing new, as you know."

"Oh." Gerald's expression flashed with rare sympathy. "I'm sorry to hear it. Please give Aunt Therese my well-wishes when you next see her."

Imogen sighed. "I shall. Thank you for your condolences."

Therese Forsyth had been unwell for as long as I could remember, and her many self-inflicted illnesses were no secret among society. She'd been on the Society News Hour several times over the years, gossip spilling about her alcoholism, and her many stints in rehab. Her husband--Imogen's father, and Archibald's younger brother--had died a decade before of a heart condition, leaving behind a small fortune. Therese had squandered it on herself and her averse habits, leaving little hope of an inheritance for Imogen. Imogen's best chance of a stable future relied on her choice of a husband. If she wanted wealth, she'd have to marry it, and this was no secret among the rumor-mongers either. Some part of me pitied Imogen, as bothersome as she was.

Imogen flicked a dark strand of hair behind one ear, and took the last slice of mango from the platter. "How are things at Chamberlayne?" she asked, slipping the fruit into her mouth. It was an obvious attempt to divert the subject from her own pathetic situation.

I answered. "Quite well, thank you. The first year is flying by."

"It goes by much too quickly." She wiped her fingers and dabbed her lips on an embossed napkin, then tossed it onto the empty bread tray. "I can scarcely believe I'm but six months from graduating  at Lysandras Prep." She attended an all-girls school on the colony known as Hesperion-Grand, where she lived in mild affluence with her mother.

"Excuse me a moment." Gerald rose to use the lavatory, leaving Imogen and I alone. The robots removed everyone's dishes, and the adults settled into the soft buzz of a business discussion among themselves.

"Have you chosen a university or major yet?" I asked, wondering what sort of life this lost and rather unfortunate girl intended for herself.

"No." Her attention eased toward me, and she rested her left hand upon the tabletop, the skull ring flashing her reply. "There are more important pursuits to undertake before I choose a path within the ordinary world." One wink told me everything her words didn't. Her role within The Order meant more than her actual career, apparently.

I wondered why. "Does your mother condone a delay in your studies?"

She shifted in her seat, crossing one ankle over the other. The gemmed buckles on her shoes winked like tiny stars. "Only one person in my family intends any sort of good for me. You know full well who it is."

I glanced at Mrs. Forsyth.

Imogen leaned over the table to whisper. "Auntie Phyllis has great plans for me." Her gray eyes shaded like fathomless mirrors, capturing my reflection within their depths. "And for you. Darling Senever." She smiled and reached for my hand.

I snatched it away, pretending to cover a cough.

Gerald returned just in time. He stretched and paced a bit. "Six hours to Sahajia. I've never liked long flights. Think I'll look at the Net a while, if you don't mind."

"Not at all." I scooted aside as Gerald returned to his seat.

Imogen shrank into sullen silence, tracing distracted circles with one finger on her armrest. Her face was like stone.

I felt bad for her, though I didn't want to encourage her fondness. In a feeble attempt to be a gentleman, I tried to cheer her with something she liked. "Miss Forsyth, there's a plentiful selection of books in the system. My father adores a library aboard all of our vehicles. Would you like the access code?"

Her lip trembled so slightly it might have gone unnoticed, and she refused to look at me for the rest of the flight. "That would be nice."

The flat oblivion of her voice raked across my heart, and a wash of guilt swallowed me, its source a mystery. Why should I care for this odd, forlorn misfit of a girl, whom I'd only shared one kiss with, and never wanted to kiss again? I was glad when she donned her display visor, those haunting eyes finally veiled from my view, no longer tormenting me.

Whatever plans Lady Selketh had in store for Imogen, and for me, I didn't care at the moment. I reclined my seat and put my feet up, and tried to nap, but found no rest. Dreams tossed and roiled in my mind, a meaningless slur of forms and meandering power. Through the week ahead, I planned to keep a healthy distance from Miss Imogen Forsyth, the all-too alluring Initiate Maeve. Hopefully she'd take the hint, and leave me the hell alone. It might break her heart, but it ensured the sanctity of my own.