that arguing, and bad language, too." She didn't mention the other things she had found there by accident. Men and women with no clothes on, doing things she had never imagined they could do.
"Lord Thornbuckle's funeral was today," Hazel said.
Prima knew that. Everyone knew that. Even with the vid turned off, there was no way to avoid knowing that the Speaker of the Table of Ministers, whose daughter had started all the troubles, had died and was being—not buried, because they didn't do that here, but . . . but whatever they called it, today.
It was all his fault, really. Prima wanted to believe that, wanted to believe that if that one arrogant blond man had not been so bad a father that his daughter had fallen into captivity, then she would still be Prima Bowie, first wife of a Ranger, safe and happy in the household she had known—had helped make—since her wedding.
That was a comfortable thought. All his fault, and Mitch the innocent dupe of heathens. Herself an innocent victim. The children . . . Prima sighed. Try as she might, she could not convince herself—quite—that it was all Lord Thornbuckle's fault. Or even his daughter's, though she loathed the tall yellow-haired woman.
"Prima—" Hazel was leaning forward. "I'm sorry, but—I really need to talk to you about your plans."
"My plans?" Prima stiffened, her fingers pausing for a moment in their busy work. "What do you mean?"
"Everyone wants to know what you are going to do—about the children's schooling, about supporting yourself—"
"Supporting myself!" Prima fastened on that; she was not about to discuss sending the children out to one of the heathen schools. "But the Serranos promised protection—"
"Protection, yes. But there are hundreds of you, all told—they can't afford to support all of you, not like this—"
Like this, in a warren of indoor rooms in a tall building, with windows that looked out on more tall buildings. Prima would have given anything for a bit of ground to walk on, sky to look at.
"And there are laws about the children, about schooling."
That she could answer. "I am not sending my children to some heathen school to be taught vileness—"
"There are religious schools," Hazel said. "I brought you a cube—"
A cube. Which she could access only with a cube reader. A machine. Machines, the parsons had always said, would make women lazy.
"I need to change my name," she said abruptly. Hazel looked surprised. "I'm not Mitch's Prima anymore," she said. "Ruth Ann was my birth name, and I should be Ruth Ann again."
"Ruth Ann," Hazel said softly, tasting it in her mouth. "It's a pretty name."
"It sounds strange to me; no one's called me that since my parents, years ago."
"Didn't they keep calling you—?"
"No, it wouldn't have been fitting. I was Prima Pardue from the day I married Mitch, and Prima Bowie from the day he became Ranger." She fidgeted a bit, wishing she didn't have to ask what she wanted to know. "Hazel . . . I never see anyone like Simplicity, even on the vid, when I do watch it. Surely your people have children that turn out . . . not quite . . . right?"
"Not many," Hazel said. She flushed; Prima knew something forbidden was in her mind. "I know you don't like to hear it, but—people do tests and medical treatment even before babies are born, to be sure nothing is wrong with them. Then, if something happens during pregnancy or birth, they fix it."
"Fix it." Like a door? But people weren't doors and shutters and shoes and . . . "How can you fix a mind?" she asked, greatly daring.
"I don't know." Hazel's flush faded. "I'm still young; I haven't finished my schooling, and I never studied any medicine."
"Could they fix . . . Simplicity . . . now?"
"I don't think so," Hazel said. "I can ask. But I think they have to be younger." She cocked her head. "But Prima—Ruth, I mean—there's no
"Lord Thornbuckle's funeral was today," Hazel said.
Prima knew that. Everyone knew that. Even with the vid turned off, there was no way to avoid knowing that the Speaker of the Table of Ministers, whose daughter had started all the troubles, had died and was being—not buried, because they didn't do that here, but . . . but whatever they called it, today.
It was all his fault, really. Prima wanted to believe that, wanted to believe that if that one arrogant blond man had not been so bad a father that his daughter had fallen into captivity, then she would still be Prima Bowie, first wife of a Ranger, safe and happy in the household she had known—had helped make—since her wedding.
That was a comfortable thought. All his fault, and Mitch the innocent dupe of heathens. Herself an innocent victim. The children . . . Prima sighed. Try as she might, she could not convince herself—quite—that it was all Lord Thornbuckle's fault. Or even his daughter's, though she loathed the tall yellow-haired woman.
"Prima—" Hazel was leaning forward. "I'm sorry, but—I really need to talk to you about your plans."
"My plans?" Prima stiffened, her fingers pausing for a moment in their busy work. "What do you mean?"
"Everyone wants to know what you are going to do—about the children's schooling, about supporting yourself—"
"Supporting myself!" Prima fastened on that; she was not about to discuss sending the children out to one of the heathen schools. "But the Serranos promised protection—"
"Protection, yes. But there are hundreds of you, all told—they can't afford to support all of you, not like this—"
Like this, in a warren of indoor rooms in a tall building, with windows that looked out on more tall buildings. Prima would have given anything for a bit of ground to walk on, sky to look at.
"And there are laws about the children, about schooling."
That she could answer. "I am not sending my children to some heathen school to be taught vileness—"
"There are religious schools," Hazel said. "I brought you a cube—"
A cube. Which she could access only with a cube reader. A machine. Machines, the parsons had always said, would make women lazy.
"I need to change my name," she said abruptly. Hazel looked surprised. "I'm not Mitch's Prima anymore," she said. "Ruth Ann was my birth name, and I should be Ruth Ann again."
"Ruth Ann," Hazel said softly, tasting it in her mouth. "It's a pretty name."
"It sounds strange to me; no one's called me that since my parents, years ago."
"Didn't they keep calling you—?"
"No, it wouldn't have been fitting. I was Prima Pardue from the day I married Mitch, and Prima Bowie from the day he became Ranger." She fidgeted a bit, wishing she didn't have to ask what she wanted to know. "Hazel . . . I never see anyone like Simplicity, even on the vid, when I do watch it. Surely your people have children that turn out . . . not quite . . . right?"
"Not many," Hazel said. She flushed; Prima knew something forbidden was in her mind. "I know you don't like to hear it, but—people do tests and medical treatment even before babies are born, to be sure nothing is wrong with them. Then, if something happens during pregnancy or birth, they fix it."
"Fix it." Like a door? But people weren't doors and shutters and shoes and . . . "How can you fix a mind?" she asked, greatly daring.
"I don't know." Hazel's flush faded. "I'm still young; I haven't finished my schooling, and I never studied any medicine."
"Could they fix . . . Simplicity . . . now?"
"I don't think so," Hazel said. "I can ask. But I think they have to be younger." She cocked her head. "But Prima—Ruth, I mean—there's no
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