[ Miles too is at a loss. He'd hoped for a bit of relief, perhaps, in one person in this camp knowing his real identity. Now it seems rather more like a double burden. Two possible vectors for unmitigated disaster instead of one. God. He needs a drink. No, he needs to go home. Away from this mad part of history and the hex signs and his grandfather's unflinching judgment.

He sits for a moment, dropping down on a stone that had been sheltered under a nearby tree branch. No snow on it. Exhaustion adds lines to his face to go with the permanent creases from pain and frailty. ]

I'm ... obviously not going by Vorkosigan here. Gran'da would probably kill me if he knew. [ For the time travel, for his apparent mutancy, for being an accidental spy of sorts ... Many reasons, all of them justifiable. ] I thought it unwise to claim Naismith for my own. Doubly so now that you have.