(no subject)
Regan's been doing a lot of thinking, these past few days.
About the things that are easy to think about. Strategy, political maneuvers, her role and Gabriel's in laying ground work. It's a time for change, her husband said; directed change, with new hands to guide it.
About things she doesn't want to think about. Simon. River. The gŏushĭ bùrú human interest story that tore their lives apart. About your sister is fine, Simon.
About things she almost succeeds in not thinking about -- and then trips over a memory, a thought, lets her guard slip that fraction too much, and it all creeps in. About experimentation and operations, and permanent effects. About the way her husband's white-knuckled hand and level voice did not tremble when he said Besides, it can't be worse than what they'd do to them now if caught. Trust me, Regan.
(And her own voice, the choking feel of her own taut, desperate fury: Gabriel, are you trying to destroy this family? I won't have it.)
(And the feel of her fingers on the commpad, punching in a call.)
And about... above all, about I've seen them.
Two years, since Simon disappeared.
Five, since they sent River off to school. A school that wasn't. She was fourteen, then, a little girl.
Nineteen, now. Nineteen and four months and twenty days. Almost
(there are effects)
a grown woman. Legally adult.
There are gulfs, in their marriage, since things began to fall apart. Too many things unsaid, too many brittle broken edges to dance around, too many things she dares not bring into the open.
But still. But still. Regan Tam is wife and mother. And she has always loved her family -- well, if not wisely.
Gabriel's in his study, working. And so, now, Regan makes her way down the hallway, and leans against the doorframe, waiting for him to notice.
About the things that are easy to think about. Strategy, political maneuvers, her role and Gabriel's in laying ground work. It's a time for change, her husband said; directed change, with new hands to guide it.
About things she doesn't want to think about. Simon. River. The gŏushĭ bùrú human interest story that tore their lives apart. About your sister is fine, Simon.
About things she almost succeeds in not thinking about -- and then trips over a memory, a thought, lets her guard slip that fraction too much, and it all creeps in. About experimentation and operations, and permanent effects. About the way her husband's white-knuckled hand and level voice did not tremble when he said Besides, it can't be worse than what they'd do to them now if caught. Trust me, Regan.
(And her own voice, the choking feel of her own taut, desperate fury: Gabriel, are you trying to destroy this family? I won't have it.)
(And the feel of her fingers on the commpad, punching in a call.)
And about... above all, about I've seen them.
Two years, since Simon disappeared.
Five, since they sent River off to school. A school that wasn't. She was fourteen, then, a little girl.
Nineteen, now. Nineteen and four months and twenty days. Almost
(there are effects)
a grown woman. Legally adult.
There are gulfs, in their marriage, since things began to fall apart. Too many things unsaid, too many brittle broken edges to dance around, too many things she dares not bring into the open.
But still. But still. Regan Tam is wife and mother. And she has always loved her family -- well, if not wisely.
Gabriel's in his study, working. And so, now, Regan makes her way down the hallway, and leans against the doorframe, waiting for him to notice.