Private Whatever Common People Do

[Reima Vitalis]

When George had insisted that they meet, Reima had flatly rejected coming to the flat -- in George's parlance -- because she had no interest in being under her mother's roof again, let alone risk running into her. Natasi Fortan was the bruise in George and Reima's relationship that they kept bumping accidentally so it never really stopped hurting. George was her heir, Crown Prince to the Renascent Republic and the First Imperial Crown-in-Exile, the inheritor to what little was left of Natasi's life's work. To Reima, she was the cold, remote, aloof woman who insisted she was Reima's mother, without ever having shown the slightest interest in fulfilling the role. George was living a life of divided loyalties, it was true, and Reima regretted it. But there was no way around it.

Instead, George had agreed -- however reluctantly -- to meet her at a hotel bar in the Senate district.

Reima's heeled shoes clicked officiously on the marble as she entered the lobby and crossed over to the bar area. After scanning the area, she saw her brother in one of the booths. His hair had become dark, oddly enough, when it had been sandy for years after being almost gold when he was a little boy. He was looking at the table, the drink menu in his hand but unregarded. He had That Look™ -- the one he got sometimes since returning to the land of the living, the look that said he was there again, reliving some moment of his captivity in the Netherworld.

Reima hurried over and slid into the both opposite him. "George," she said flatly when he didn't look up. "Sorry I'm late. It was murder getting a taxi from the squadron's spacefield. Did you order already?" Without waiting for an answer, she lifted a finger, signaling to the bartender. When he came over, she asked for a pair of gin and tonics, and when they were alone once more, she turned to her brother, who had apparently snapped out of his reverie. As she had ordered, her hand had groped within her handbag for her cigarette case and snapped it out.

"Her Imperial Majesty must be going mad about that," said Reima, gesturing with the slim cigarette case at the fuzz around her brother's jaw and chin before drawing it back and snapping it open to extract a cigarette. "Can I tempt you? I got a few cartons in my last package from Auntie Petra. Foxfield Golds."

 

[George Vitalis]

He had been watching the stone hands of a stone grandfather clock standing in the stone great hall of the stone Herevan Hold before Reima appeared, a vision in a smart traveling dress and a blazer tailored to within an inch of its life. His sister was almost too slim, too sleek. He half-rose and the two exchanged kisses on each cheek before they settled into the booth.

"Mummy is much too busy to notice what's on my face," George said as he examined the cigarettes. "And what Mummy doesn't know won't hurt her, hm? I guess there's no way you would tell her I'm having a smoke, right?" He helped himself to a cigarette and took the attached lighter, reaching over to light his sister's cigarette before lighting his own and returning the lighter to its place. He took a deep draw, closing his eyes momentarily before exhaling.

"God, that's good," he muttered. "How is Aunt Petra? Last we spoke there had been a drop-off in any interference by those New Imperial pigs, but now of course there's this Empire of the Lost to contend with. I don't suspect anyone has had any chance to offend them yet. Although perhaps I could. Have you ever heard of anything so idiotically named? Is it a government or an emo-pop band?"

The waiter appeared with their drinks and dropped them off before returning to the bar. He rested the cigarette on an ashtray after another drag and picked up his drink. "Your good health, Reima," said the prince, lifting his drink to his sister before taking a sip of his own.