"A few days." Admiral Lord Aral Vorkosigan, Lord Regent of Barrayar was far more composed and kempt than that first alarming morning. He'd forgone a shave and any dress beyond his house slacks and the first shirt he could find in his rush to the hospital. It ended up being a useless gesture, as he spent more time waiting, pushing for information before Cordelia took pity on the staff.

An intractable migraine was what they'd come down to after scans had ruled out an aneurysm, and the antibiotics stopped when meningitis was cleared, and a number of little bugs and reactions so very specific to Barrayar's flora and fauna. It left a question that Aral had some creeping suspicion he knew the answer to.

Today he was impeccable, uniform pressed, back straight, his face that perfected, political mask. He took the seat that Simon Illyan had neglected.

Gregor had the certain wan look of one whose sleep was entirely chemical, not natural. It was waxy, sickly on the boy.

"How's your head?"