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sunchime2017-07-17 05:11 pm
forwardmomentum) wrote in sunchime2017-07-17 05:11 pm
Entry tags:
[ open post: miles ]
That's because I've got forward momentum. There's no virtue in it. It's just a balancing act. I
don't dare stop. | |
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CLAPS MY HANDS IN DELIGHT
His father, excruciatingly aware that the conservatives are wasting just as much of the Professora's time as his, rises to his feet to greet her with a bow, the other Counts perforce following. A neat little bit of weaponized courtesy, Miles notes mentally.
"Thank you, Dr. Vorthys, for making time in your busy schedule to accommodate ours once again," says Count Vorkosigan evenly, because he certainly doesn't need to put any particular weight on the words to drive the point home to his colleagues. Miles's assessment of the Professora — more or less what he was expecting from what he'd heard from his parents, though he gets the vague but delightful sense that she'll bring a bit of the unexpected — comes to an abrupt halt when his gaze falls on the young woman with her.
Oh, Miles thinks stupidly, very lovely indeed.
He finds himself briefly arrested by the sight of her. Hard not to, with those striking features, that dark hair set against her pale skin, the tall, slender figure even more accentuated by her choice of clothes. And what an interesting choice it is; it's the sort of ensemble that very well might easily clash, and yet on her it coheres into an almost timeless style. It's a rather unique look without being so unique that she stands out. It strikes Miles as uniquely her.
The clothes, however, only have so much of his attention. Is there something familiar about her, or does he just have an embarrassingly specific type? It's true that, at first glance, she reminds him of Elena in her height and coloring, but her features don't have that strong underlying Bothari bone structure, none of the hard edges Elena had uncovered in herself by the end of that hectic run in Tau Verde space. No, this young woman seems to be from another species of grace altogether, and those blue eyes are quite, well...eye-catching.
Good lord, has it really been that long since he saw another woman his age up close? Is military life getting to him before he's even graduated? A little inward sigh. No, not that. Only stupid heartbreak resurrecting itself like some swamp monster determined to drag him down into its bog.
Stop that.
He realizes he's staring. His father is giving him a peculiar look. Miles clears his throat ever so quietly and follows up with a bow of his own, as respectfully low as his father's.
"Dr. Vorthys, allow me to introduce my son, Lord Miles Vorkosigan," says Count Vorkosigan. "He's a first year student at the Imperial Service Academy. I thought this might prove to be a rather educational opportunity for him on a number of levels. Miles, this is Dr. Helen Vorthys — the University of Vorbarr Sultana's foremost expert historian on the Time of Isolation."
In the back of his mind, Miles wonders if he ought to have worn his undress greens to this meeting instead of his civilian clothes. What he's wearing is perfectly appropriate to the occasion, but he now finds himself waffling anxiously over whether or not he cuts a sufficiently military figure in them. But he supplies a brilliant smile without skipping a beat this time, nodding his head in lieu of another bow.
"How do you do, madame? My parents speak quite highly of you. It is a pleasure to meet you in the flesh. And you as well, ah..."
He looks to the young woman, faltering for lack of a name. Count Vorkosigan, apparently in a helpful mood, says expansively, "And you must be Ekaterin Vorvayne. I understand the Professora has quite the assistant on this case."
"...Miss Ekaterin Vorvayne," Miles finishes, flicking a grateful look his father's way, and offers the young woman an even brighter smile in the hopes of offsetting any previous awkwardness.
Re: CLAPS MY HANDS IN DELIGHT
It wasn't that she didn't want to be here, on a private tour of the planet's halls of power that rather shattered the memories of secondary school civics class visits to the hall of their local Count's Voice. It was just... did she, barely-not-a-minor daughter of a very minor bureacrat, actually have any right to be standing here, or was she about to be escorted out to some historically-dense hallway the second the holodisks were delivered? And if so, would she be executed if she attempted to try and move some of the poor, light-starved potted plants she'd seen earlier?
All her musings run aground in an instant as her attempt at unobtrusiveness fails spectacularly in one warmly rumbling greeting in a voice more often heard in newsvid clips.
The Prime Minister of Barrayar knows my name.
...well, then answer him, you idiot, don't just stand like the scarecrow they picture from the words 'South Continent'.
"I-- the Professora is extremely well organized. It's very easy to assist her, my lord."
She ventures a fleeting smile, then looks away to the shorter figure beside him, eyes widening briefly as more Capital gossip chains link themselves together to return a name. "--and thank you, Lord Vorkosigan. I'd heard you were on leave." Miles Naismith Vorkosigan, half-Betan, Count's Heir, mutant, nepotism at its finest... and yet, there were those near-rapturous, if rather inebriated, burblings from that one uniformed fellow at a party who'd stopped going over interminable details of military training just long enough to swear he'd follow the sawed-off maniac into fire, if it got him the same scores he'd gotten by having him in his tactics squad.
Well. He was short, certainly, but sawed-off didn't seem to apply. Indeed, he seemed less deformed and more... foreshortened. Concentrated, perhaps, with how bright the gleam in his eyes was. The lone dissenting voice against all the gossip she'd heard floated to mind again. Military tactical analysis was distinctly outside her wheelhouse, but to hear such a divergent viewpoint from the only person she's encountered who'd actually met him... She flashes a second smile, less alarmed than the one his father had received, and then ducks behind the trolley at a nod from her aunt.
Aunt Vorthys, bless her, lookes on at the proceedings with a smile for her niece, a gracious nod to the Prime Minister and his heir, and a mildly firm look out at the covey of counts before clearing her throat softly and stepping forward. "Gentlemen. I am ready to begin. As an aid to clarity of thought, I've had Miss Vorvayne load identical annotated copies of the proposed curriculum onto these reader pads, which she will hand around to you. If you will be so good as to cite page and line references when offering comment--"
Grateful for the chance at movement, Ekaterin picks up her armful of readers, squares her shoulders, and moves ahead to begin dispensing them to the Counts. Moving such that she's starting with the crustiest and saving the seemingly-friendly Vorkosigans for last feels like an odd little treat.
no subject
His bright smile is briefly startled into an unguarded look of surprise, though, at her first direct remark to him. "Er — you did?" he says, just off-balance enough that he forgets to play it cool. For a moment, his wild imagination indulges a scenario in which his brief but demerit-disgraced home leave was the talk of the town until he realized it was probably because Dr. Vorthys had told her.
In Miles's experience, those prejudiced enough to judge solely by his appearance usually do one of two things: look the other looked away, or stare like he's an attraction at a carnival. Miss Ekaterin Vorvayne — every syllable of her name already like music to Miles's ears — does neither. She...evaluates.
Revulsion and contempt from strangers have become so routine that its absence throws him off. Not that he was expecting anything so crass as a hex sign from this young lady; if her clothes are anything to go by, she must hail from South Continent, but she seems a good deal more...refined than his mental image of the demographic Ivan has dubbed "the country girls".
And who's leaning on stereotypes now, boy?
But the way she looks at him is...interested. Not romantically, of course — he's not that self-delusional — but rather like someone might look at a particularly fascinating exhibit in a museum, perhaps. He finds himself sitting up a little straighter in his seat, wanting to make an impression.
And then she smiles at him. Oh, Miles thinks stupidly, for the second time since the lovely young assistant walked in through the door.
The conservatives are apparently too dignified to actually audible grumble in front of Dr. Vorthys, but the knit brows and pursed lips are loud enough. They look impatient before they've even begun. Reluctant to go through this yet again, are they? Miles refrains from casting another querying look at his father, but he does wonder what Count Vorkosigan has up his sleeve today. He's carried a definite air of finality about him into this meeting.
Well, this should be interesting.
Miles favors Ekaterin with another smile as she distributes readers to himself and his father. "Thank you, Miss Vorvayne," he chirps, holding his hand out — but he miscalculates the trajectory, and quite by accident, his hand brushes hers. The speed at which he feels his ears go hot is, in the moment, more mortifying than any demerit.
no subject
The Professora's continued air of gently defiant patience suggests that if it's the latter, she's not the one with her head on the block. Which is distinctly interesting, Ekaterin reflects to herself. She's been a party to only a fraction of the hours her aunt has poured into the proposed curriculum, and she's privately irate at the thought that all that effort in research, cross-connection, historical narratives and a half-healed case of carpal tunnel syndrome could be dismissed entirely by thirty one sufficiently fossilized votes. Is her aunt simply such a historian that she's prepared to neutrally document events however they fall out, or does she know something?
It's at this moment that her hand brushes against Miles', and all thoughts of whether a game is afoot go up in a flush of heat to her cheeks and a reflexive "Oh-- I'm sorry. I--"
But, further attempts to apologize for... something (Existing? Having an ungloved hand like some maiden about to fall into dishonour in a Time of Isolation docu-drama? Calm down, you just laid hands on the Emperor's foster brother, not Emperor Gregor himself she twits herself) are silenced as the first salvo of Conservative critique unfurls itself, and she finds herself motioned to a seat beside Lord Miles by a Castle functionary with a keen eye on the clock and a desire to not lose yet another mealtime to excessive wordsmithing. She settles, with another flash of a smile in apology, and turns to watch the show.
Helen Vorthys is looking even more patient. Something is decidedly up.
no subject
Miles's desperate desire to look like anything but an awkwardly fumbling teen in front of his father only intensifies as another person gets added to that most distinguished of categories. At least his father's attention is too locked in on the proceedings to pay his teenage awkwardness much mind. An example he ought to be following. Focus. He needs to focus.
And with focus, occasionally comes clarity. This particular topic might be new to Miles, but he's seen his father in the midst of countless troublesome little battles with the Council like this over the years, and underneath his politely masked impatience is...patience, like Count Vorkosigan is the one waging a quiet war of attrition and not the stuffy old conservatives. Miles's attention sharpens and locks on, his hideous embarrassment forgotten almost entirely in his intent concentration.
Count Vorkalloner does the Professora the most basic courtesy of letting her finish her opening statement before saying, "While the...depth of your research is quite impressive, unless you are here to present to us a wholly amended curriculum, this is a waste of everyone's valuable time — including yours."
His tone turns almost gentle, no less firm but couching his words as though talking to a child. Or, Miles thinks, if you're a particular kind of old Vor, a woman. His gaze moves to the Professora to see how she reacts while Vorkalloner keeps on, opening one hand in a conciliatory gesture.
"I'm sure you see us as uncompromising old curmudgeons unwilling to budge on such a simple issue, but at the end of the day, we represent a consensus. Do you think those of us on the Council of Counts are the only objection to this distinctly galactic agenda? What about the families of those young men whose minds and careers have been entrusted to the Imperial Service Academy?" Vorkalloner waves that hand, then closes it and brings it to his chest. "Dr. Vorthys, it is not your competency or your intelligence that we doubt, but the suitability of your pedagogical theory to this particular student body. Were this vote up to the Academy instructors and not the Council of Counts, you would certainly receive the same response. It is precisely because we value your academic reputation that we are having these discussions within the confines of the Council."
Just a slightly more diplomatic way of saying that the conservatives think they're sparing the Professora considerable public embarrassment by shutting her down in private. Her composure must indeed be legendary, to bear all of that without giving in to the impulse to pop old Vorkalloner in the eye. But Count Vorkosigan, most curiously, only smiles.