Title: The Dendarii Vorbarras.
Author: lannamichaels
Fandom: Vorkosigan Saga
Rating: G
Archives: Archive Of Our Own, SquidgeWorld

Summary: The first thing Serg's boy says to me is, "hello, Grandmother".



The first thing Serg's boy says to me is, "hello, Grandmother". He's fifteen and gangly with it, looking he's not ate nor slept in months.

That'll be the stress, then, of being fifteen and Serg's boy.

I snort at him. "You're right on time," I tell him and hobble off to the basement. He follows me, likely for lack of any better idea. Foolish boy. I pile his arms high with jars of pickles and shoo him back upstairs.

Marie's in the kitchen and her eyes widen. "I didn't know we were having guests, Ma," she says.

"Who's a guest? Family's always welcome," I say. I poke Serg's boy about the elbow, though. "Better when they call first."

"Yes, Grandmother," Serg's boy says, eyes wide.

"Well, welcome, nephew," Marie says, too full of sarcasm to notice her granddaughter sneaking up behind her and grabbing the pickles. "Set the table!" she shouts after her.

Sofia, my dearest darling great-granddaughter, who can do no wrong in the world, runs off cackling.

"Gran, have you--" Ric says, and then stops. He stares around the kitchen and then starts again. "Gran, there's some flyers circling the farm."

"They'll keep the goats entertained," I proclaim and he looks behind me at Serg's boy, who I suppose has been watching all of this like it's free entertainment, so I shove him toward the sink, and he gets shoved like the only ones who push him around are school bullies. Hmph. "Wash up," I tell him.

"What do you want us to call you?" I hear Larissa hiss at Serg's son, and him mumble, "I don't know-- Greg?"

"Okay, Greg," Larissa says loudly. "Gran, we're twenty-three for lunch now, do you want to eat outside instead?"

"Why?" I ask. "So the flyers can watch us eat?"

"Gran, if we all eat in the dining room, we have to bring up another leaf, and that'll delay lunch by twenty minutes," Larissa says. "And you hate when lunch is late."

I'm being managed, but she's right. I've missed too many meals in my day. "I hope you're not playing some hide and seek game, dear," I say to Serg's boy. I pat him on the shoulder. "But they'll tell you the patio is very scenic and they happen to be right."

"I'm not hiding," Serg's boy says bravely. He could hardly say anything but.

The patio is very scenic. Marie and Judy built it for the tourists, you know. They come in for the experience. It's far enough from the goats that you can pretend they aren't shitheads, and you can see all the way to Arcadia Peak when it's clear. My girls feed them our famous goat cheese -- says so right on the packaging, old Niles used to say when he sold it, sight-unseen, to those who bought it for the name -- and they drink the mead from Judy's brother, and they split the profits.

Now, I don't need to care much about profits; Olivia -- the old Countess that was -- was very good to me. She would say, bugger Ezar and forget him, here's more shares in some company to keep under your mattress for later. And I did keep them for later, and I sent the children to university right and proper, and married them off to those who they wanted to marry with only a minimum of fuss, and when Ezar's goons started lurking around, Olivia's widower was quick at my doorstep to tell me not to worry, he'll sort it out.

Never did see Serg myself, though Martin did and he said, guess Dad's not one for kids even when it bought him a throne, and I said nope, never stay married to someone who isn't one for kids even after you've got them, but it took Martin three disasters to learn that one. He did learn eventually, though. I kept my eyes away from what Martin and Judy did in that room, as soon as it was clear Marie was making sure I didn't notice what went on, and same as when Marie went into that room later with Judy's brother Terrance. When winter comes and then in spring, there's new babies, who's to say how it all happened and when except the midwife and the grandmother. What's down in the books is what's down in the books. You can't be too precious about what's family. Who's blood and who isn't only matters if you're gonna start making babies together. The rest doesn't matter.

I can see Serg's boy trying to do the calculation, though, as we troop out to the patio for lunch. He's obediently carrying what he's been told to carry out, in a determined way that means Olivia's widower has never treated him like family a day in his life, and you know Olivia's boy never would. Shame. He should have come to visit sooner.

Larissa is kind to him, he must remind her of James, who's off on Komarr now with his chess team, and makes it short for him. Andrea's not family, she's from three towns over but got the university to pay her to look over every tree on these mountains for old graffiti and write papers about them. Colin's old Niles's great-grandson, who draws the pictures for our advertisements and does whatever Martin can't do anymore in exchange for room and board and not telling his parents he didn't enlist like they think he did. And Daphne's just visiting.

"Sofia, tell everyone what we're eating," Judy says, and Sofia excitedly rattles off the list of dishes, more entertaining than accurate. Ric chimes in with any corrections, and Scott's in the middle like always to make sure no one tries to make Ernest pass anything too heavy.

There's a tone in the conversation like everyone is trying desperately not to have it be a lull, and so Ric jumps into the blaster fire and says, "Gran, we're going to be rude and offensive for a moment."

"You will not," I say. "Pass the potatoes, dear," I say to Serg's boy.

Serg's boy passes the potatoes and asks me, "did you go to Grandfather's funeral?" Have I ever met you and just don't remember, is what he means. I can see Ric grip Serg's boy's hand beneath the table; so that must have been the whispering.

"Olivia's boy invited me," I say, "but I wasn't going to bother for someone who never bothered for me." And that secretary had butchered the invitation. 'Lady Adelaide Vorbarra', as if Ezar had been anyone when I married him. He'd barely been anyone when I divorced him. False airs flatter no one, certainly not me.

"We went," Marie says, gesturing to herself, Caroline down the table, and Martin still absent in town. "It was the polite thing to do," she says pointedly. I shrug her off. She was too young when I kicked Ezar out for never being around. Of course she's sentimental; she never had to live with that man and remember it.

"Polite would have been him attending any of your weddings," I say mildly. "That, he was invited to."

"He was a little busy at the time," Marie says to Serg's boy, who nods like he has any idea what Ezar was doing instead of attending weddings, which was nothing that couldn't have been planned around, if you ask me. None of my children were married in a rush. "He sent very thoughtful gifts."

That's apparently too much for Caroline, who stops arguing with Patti about how food goes in your mouth and not your hair, and says, "Really? Yours was thoughtful?"

"Your other grandmother sent very expensive gifts," Judy tells Serg's boy. "Expensive, delicate, breakable... I could go on. She signed Ezar's name to them and I suppose it's possible he knew about them. Every single baby received a crystal rattle, delicately carved, with emeralds."

"We still have the emeralds," Marie says. "Your mother sent them, too, once it was her turn to be polite to us."

"Ah," Serg's boy said and he looks uncomfortable and then at Sofia, five years old and born after his mother died. He's probably wondering who has been sending gifts in his name and if they're any more appropriate than that.

This is not how you treat guests at your table, but I'm the one who called him family first, and my children have inconveniently good memories for these little details. "Lady Cordelia has been much more sensible," I tell him firmly. "She sent towels. You can never have too many towels."

"Yes, the goats like them, too" Colin says.

Serg's boy -- Greg, I suppose, if we must -- blinks and says, a little desperately, "I guess that's better than toys you can't give a baby."

"Much better," Caroline says, smiling at him reassuringly.

If they're talking, there isn't enough food in their mouths.

"Did Sofia cook all this food so it goes cold on the table?" I ask everyone.

There's a chorus of 'no, Gran' from almost everyone, except for Sofia, who pipes up, "I'm not being rude, Gran!"

"Of course not, darling," I tell her. "You're the best behaved at the table."

She beams at me with the look of a child who knows where the candy comes from. This is why she's my favorite.

Everyone behaves like they were raised properly through the rest of the meal, at least where I can see it. There's far too many looks sneaked at Greg, but he doesn't seem to mind it much, so I don't say anything about it. And Greg, for all that he's new to being at home here, is the first to help clear and clean up. Someone raised him properly, even if it wasn't Olivia's boy.

"Do you want to see the goats?" Ric asks Greg once everything is cleaned and put away. "I have a change of clothing that will fit you." Greg agrees with alacrity.

I cross my arms across my chest as I see Caroline go straight for the backroom where we keep that infernal machine the children insisted we buy. I've never touched it myself but I know well enough what she plans to do. "If Olivia's boy wants him back before he's ready to go, he can come here and get him himself," I tell her.

Caroline pinches the bridge of her nose. "Ma, to the rest of us, he's Lord Vorkosigan and the Lord Regent."

"And your father happened to be the Emperor, what does that have to do with anything?" I ask her. "You always tell me you're too busy, you have to look at your marketing figures, so go look at your marketing and don't go tattling."

"Ma," she says despairingly, "there's no talking to you sometimes. The current Emperor is out with the goats wearing Antoine's old boots, and Martin is going to have a panic attack once he checks his messages. You might be perfectly comfortable with this situation, but none of the rest of us are. So, yes, I'm going to call Lord Vorkosigan and tell him that Greg is welcome here as long as he wants to stay. Why is that too much for you?"

"Olivia's boy hasn't been feeding him," I sniff at him, and she throws up her hands and storms inside anyway to tattle.

Daughters. Thirty years she lived in the city, telling me I was overbearing, then one day she decided I'd gotten old and came back here to start ordering me around. There's no talking to her when she gets an idea in her head. She's too much like her father. I should have slept around, it would have saved me the grey hairs.

I go to my chair on the porch, beneath the sign that says Vorbarra's Famous Goat Cheeses. The paint is peeling. I'll need to get Harvey up from town to touch it up. His father gave me a lifetime warranty on the sign and I mean to see it out.

One of the flyers is parked just outside the property line; Olivia's widower's doing, no doubt. I squint at the pilot until he turns out to be Avery Wallins, Audrey's youngest. He waves sheepishly at me.

None of the rest of the flyers have landed. Hmph. An idiot, I am not.

"Scott, go take Audrey's boy some cake," I call back into the house.

"Who? Why?" Scott comes out, drying his hands on his apron. He follows my gaze. "Huh? Why?"

"He brought Greg to the first home I swear that boy has ever had," I tell him. Scott slowly begins to grin. Yes, yes, we all remember their flirtation from six summers ago; I could have picked Billy instead. "Are you waiting for an engraved invitation?"

"Sorry, Gran, I need to change my shirt first," he says and disappears toward the side house where he keeps his bedroom. He's quick about it, at least.

Sofia darts outside and sits down on the smaller rocking chair next to me. She hands me my reading glasses and the book I'd left on the couch, and in exchange, I open the candy wrapper she sneaks underneath the book.

"I like Greg," Sofia tells me. "But he can't have my room."

I turn her around so I can fix her braid. "Don't worry, darling. There's space for everyone." It took a long time to build and the building has never stopped, but that's life for you. Ezar never set foot here, but Greg is welcome. That poor boy.

And maybe the next baby will get a family visit instead of that unreadable calligraphy the Imperial secretaries call a letter. That'd be better than Ezar ever did.