Free Local Custom by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee

and talking at the same time to the experts—like Jerzy."

    Shan laughed and adjusted his grip on the spoon. "Yes, Ma."

    Anne shook her head and pulled her mug out of the wall unit. The acrid smell of chicory-laden synthetic coffee substitute—'coffeetoot,' according to most Terrans—was nearly overpowering. Er Thom stifled a sigh. Anne loved real coffee. He could easily have brought her a tin—or a case of tins—had he any notion she was reduced to drinking synthetic.

    "Done," Shan announced, laying his spoon down with a clatter.

    "How about the rest of your milk?" His mother asked, sipping gingerly at her mug.

    "There is no need," Er Thom said, quietly, "for you to—cheat yourself of a meal. I can easily tend our child today."

    She looked down at him, brown eyes sharp, face tense with reawakened caution. Er Thom kept his own face turned up to hers and fought down the desire to stroke her cheek and smoothe the tension away.

    "That's very kind of you, Er Thom," she said carefully, "but Rilly—Marilla—is expecting Shan today."

    "Then I will take him to her," he replied, all gentleness and reason, "and you may eat before you go to teach your class."

    "Er Thom—" She stopped, and, heart-struck, he read dread in her eyes.

    "Anne." He did touch her—he must —a laying of his hand on her wrist, only that—and nearly gasped at the electrical jolt of desire. "Am I a thief, to steal our son away from you? I am able to care for him today, if you wish it, or to take him to your friend. In either case, we will both be here when you come home." He looked up into her face, saw trust warring with fear.

    "Trust me," he whispered, feeling tears prick the back of his eyes. "Anne?"

    She drew a deep, shaking breath and sighed it out sharply, laying her hand briefly on his shoulder.

    "All right," she said, and gave him a wobbling smile. "Thank you, Er Thom."

    "There is no thanks due," he told her, and shifted away to allow her access to the meager cupboards and crowded counter. "Eat your breakfast and I will wash our son's face."

     

    "NOT COMING TODAY?" Marilla looked grave. "He isn't sick, is he, sweetie? Pel said there's a horrific flu-thing going through the creche—half the kids down with it and a third of the staff." She sighed, theatrically. "Pel's working a double-shift. Naturally."

    "Naturally." Anne grinned, Pel was always finding an excuse to work double-shifts. Marilla theorized—hopefully—a late-shift love-interest. Anne privately thought that Marilla's fits of drama probably grated on her quieter, less demonstrative daughter.

    "Shan's in the pink of health," Anne said. "His father's visiting and the two of them are spending some time together."

    There, she thought, it sounds perfectly reasonable.

    Marilla fairly gawked. "His father ," she repeated, voice swooping toward the heights. "Shan's father is visiting you?"

    Anne frowned slightly. "Is that against the law?"

    "Don't be silly, darling. It's only that—of course he's fabulously wealthy."

    As a matter of fact, Er Thom never seemed at a loss for cash, and his clothes were clearly handmade—tailored to fit his slim frame to perfection. But the jacket he wore most often was well-used, even battered, the leather like silk to the touch.

    "Why should he be?" she asked, hearing the sharpness in her voice. "Fabulously wealthy?"

    Marilla eyed her and gave an elaborate shrug. "Well, you know—everyone assumes Liadens must be rich. All those cantra. And the trade routes. And the clans, too, of course. Terribly old money—lots of investments. Not," she finished, glancing off screen, "that it's any of my business."

    That much was true, Anne thought tartly, and was immediately sorry. It's only Marilla, she told herself, doing her yenta routine.

    "Rilly, I've got to go. Class."

    "All right, sweetheart. Call and let me know your plans." The screen went dark.

    My plans? Anne thought, gathering together the pieces of Comp Ling One's final. What