The Law of Becoming: 4 (The Novels of the Jaran) by Kate Elliott Page A

they’ll have to waive the consent. Everyone knows both our parents are crazy—”
    “Then they’ll take Anton and Evdokia and the new baby away from Mother.”
    “It would serve her right,” muttered Ilyana fiercely.
    “How can you say so?” demanded Valentin, flaring. “It would kill her.”
    “It will kill you—!”
    “I don’t care! It’s better than here. I hate it here!”
    They both heard the exhale of the door opening on the landing above. Ilyana started and twisted to look up, but Valentin did not move. He had the ability to remain utterly still, like a statue, like a body unanimated by soul.
    There, on the landing, looking down on them as an angel regards mortals from on high, stood their beautiful father. The most beautiful man on Earth. Everyone said so. Well, he never said so, but he didn’t have to. And his reputation was all the more astonishing because golden-blond hair and a pale complexion and that peculiarly piercing blue of the eyes hadn’t really been fashionable for a hundred years or more. He had made it so, or at least, for himself.
    “Hello, heartling, you’re back early.” His expression, severe, softened as he regarded her.
    Always, she betrayed herself. Always, she smiled, and her heart melted. “Heyo, Daddy,” she said, just like a little girl again, wanting to make him proud of her. “We finished all week’s homework, too. Kori and I are gonna apply to go Frejday to see the rehearsals of her Uncle Gus’s new piece, the one about Shiva and Parvati.”
    He didn’t have to say anything. He could simply radiate approval. She basked in it. Then his gaze shifted to Valentin’s back. The world darkened. Her fingers, still cupping Valentin’s shoulder, tightened, as if with this shield she could protect him.
    “You must apologize to your mother, Valentin,” said Vasil emotionlessly.
    “Come on,” said Ilyana to her brother in a low voice, nudging him with a knee. She didn’t have the strength right now to play spectator to this endless battle of wills. “You can take the baby out to the garden while I make dinner.”
    There was a long hesitation, but finally Valentin stood up. As if that was his cue, Vasil disappeared back inside the flat and the door inhaled shut behind him.
    “What did you say?” Ilyana whispered as they climbed the seven steps together, pausing on the landing. Valentin shrugged. She growled at him, then snaked her foot forward toward the toe panel. Hesitated. Always, that split second hesitation before going inside. Always, she had to consciously press the panel with her foot, rather than reflexively tapping it, because she dreaded what was inside. The door whisked open.
    Scent and smell and sight, all conspired in this wave that swelled over her every time she came home. Humiliation and loathing together.
    All the internal walls in the flat had been torn down, leaving it a single space. In this space her mother had put up her great circular felt tent, surrounding that tent with two smaller tents as well as a cunningly devised fire pit that really wasn’t one but looked like one. Not one transparent window looked onto the street or onto the garden and the alley. Not one stretch of plain white wall betrayed that they lived in a khaja building, in a great khaja city, on a planet far distant from the planet and the lands which had given them—well, all of them but the two littlest ones—birth. Because her father was a famous actor, they had resources to draw on. Her mother liked to think it was because he was a Veselov and she an Arkhanov, princely scions of the most important tribes in the jaran, that they had access to such tribute, but Ilyana knew better. Because her father was rich and courted by the rich, he had done what his wife wished: He had paid or bartered to have projection walls installed in place of the windows and the regular walls. So that when you stepped into the flat, you stepped into another world: You walked into a jaran