"Only one brother?" said Andrew Wiggin. "Only me?" The Speaker for the Dead stepped forward and embraced his sister. But did Miro see awkwardness there, too? Was it possible that Valentine and Andrew Wiggin were shy with each other? What a laugh. Valentine, bold as brass--she was Demosthenes, wasn't she?--and Wiggin, the man who had broken into their lives and remade their family without so much as a da licenca. Could they be timid? Could they feel strange?
"You've aged miserably," said Andrew. "Thin as a rail. Doesn't Jakt provide a decent living for you?"
"Doesn't Novinha cook?" asked Valentine. "And you look stupider than ever. I got here just in time to witness your complete mental vegetation."
"And here I thought you came to save the world."
"The universe. But you first."
She put her arm around Miro again, and around Andrew on the other side. She spoke to the others. "So many of you, but I feel like I know you all. I hope that soon you'll feel that way about me and my family."
So gracious. So able to put people at ease. Even me, thought Miro. She simply handles people. The way Andrew Wiggin does. Did she learn it from him, or did he learn it from her? Or was it born into their family? After all, Peter was the supreme manipulato
r of all time, the original Hegemon. What a family. As strange as mine. Only theirs is strange because of genius, while mine is strange because of the pain we shared for so many years, because of the twisting of our souls. And I the strangest, the most damaged one of all. Andrew Wiggin came to heal the wounds between us, and did it well. But the inner twisting---can that ever be healed?
"How about a picnic?" asked Miro.
This time they all laughed. How was that, Andrew, Valentine? Did I put them at their ease? Did I help things go smoothly? Have I helped everyone pretend that they're glad to see me, that they have some idea of who I am?
"She wanted to come," said Jane in Miro's ear.
Shut up, said Miro again. I didn't want her to come anyway.
"But she'll see you later."
No.
"She's married. She has four children."
That's nothing to me now.
"She hasn't called out your name in her sleep for years."
I thought you were my friend.
"I am. I can read your mind."
You're a meddling old bitch and you can't read anything.
"She'll come to you tomorrow morning. At your mother's house."
I won't be there.
"You think you can run away from this?"
During his conversation with Jane, Miro hadn't heard anything that the others around him were saying, but it didn't matter. Valentine's husband and children had come from the ship, and she was introducing them all around. Particularly to their uncle, of course. It surprised Miro to see the awe with which they spoke to him. But then, they knew who he really was. Ender the Xenocide, yes, but also the Speaker for the Dead, the one who wrote the Hive Queen and the Hegemon. Miro knew that now, of course, but when he had first met Wiggin it was with hostility--he was just an itinerant speaker for the dead, a minister of a humanist religion who seemed determined to turn Miro's family inside out. Which he had done. I think I was luckier than they are, thought Miro. I got to know him as a person before I ever knew him as a great figure in human history. They'll probably never know him as I do.
And I don't really know him at all. I don't know anybody, and nobody knows me. We spend our lives guessing at what's going on inside everybody else, and when we happen to get lucky and guess right, we think we "understand." Such nonsense. Even a monkey at a computer will type a word now and then.
You don't know me, none of you, he said silently. Least of all the meddling old bitch who lives in my ear. You hear that?
"All that high-pitched whining--how can I miss it?"
Andrew was putting luggage onto the car. There'd be room for only a couple of passengers. "Miro--you want to ride with Novinha and me?"
Before he could answer, Valentine had taken his arm. "Oh, don't do that," said Valentine. "Walk with Jakt and me. We've all been cooped up on the ship for so long."
"That's right," said Andrew. "His mother hasn't seen him in twenty-five years, but you want him to take a stroll. You're the soul of thoughtfulness."