“I will ask Dr. Fellowes.” But he did not turn away; instead, he stood and regarded Arabella for a moment. “You must not blame yourself,” he said. “You made your best attempt at negotiations.”
“That was hardly a negotiation,” she sighed, and though she acknowledged the captain’s sentiments she still felt horribly responsible for their predicament. “It was barely even a plea.”
“It was the best that could be done under the circumstances.”
But still the responsibility nagged at her. It had been her astronomical explanation that had set Simon upon the path to Mars, her failure to arrive in time that had allowed him to create this horrific situation, her lack of understanding that had left her helpless in the face of unbending hostility. “My father would be horribly disappointed in me, if he yet lived,” she said.
“If he were disappointed in you, Miss Ashby, he would be a fool. And, from my experience of you, I cannot believe that you are descended from fools.”
She felt a tiny smile creep onto her face at that. “I suppose I cannot help feeling as I do. I was taught from a very young age to own up to my failings and seek to make amends.”
“Your father taught you well.” He sighed, fractionally; had she not known him so well she might not even have noticed it. “Yet now, it seems, it is too late for any amends to be made, and it is left to us to defend ourselves as best we can. I will speak with Dr. Fellowes about your brother.”
But even as he bowed and turned to leave, something in his words nagged at her.
Was it, truly, too late for amends to be made?
Who, indeed, was it who had taught her to own up to her failings?
“Khema,” she whispered.
The captain paused. “I beg your pardon?”
“Khema,” she repeated. “It was my itkhalya, not my father, who taught me the value of personal responsibility, which Martians value so highly.” She looked up at the captain. “There is, perhaps, one way this violence can be brought to a close. But it would come at a terrible price.”
*
They found Simon in Michael’s chamber, kneeling at the bedside as though saying his prayers before sleep. “He seems to be resting more comfortably now,” Dr. Fellowes said as they entered. “The fever has abated, and I believe he may regain consciousness soon.” But despite his optimistic words, Michael’s unmoving face looked waxy and gray.
With grim resolution, Arabella turned from her brother to Simon. “Cousin,” she began, then hesitated. “May we have a private word with you?”
Simon stood, a questioning look in his eye, but retired with Arabella and the captain to a quiet corner of the bedchamber.
“You have said,” she murmured privately, “that you would do any thing to atone for your errors.”
“Any thing within my power…,” he replied, though his eyes narrowed in suspicion.
She swallowed, then looked away. What she had in mind to ask of him was too terrible to contemplate. During this crisis she had come to see him as perhaps more foolish than evil, but even if she still hated him as thoroughly as she had on Diana it would be too much for any civilized person to ask. Yet she could imagine no better solution.
She returned her gaze to Simon’s. “You know that the Martians place great stock in owning up to one’s mistakes.”
“Yes…” His face showed great concern.
“You are the one who took the egg, and you have already admitted this to them. There is a chance—a chance—that if you … if you voluntarily turn yourself over to them, they will consider justice to be done, and bring this insurrection to a close.”
“I … I see.” His brow furrowed as his attention turned inward. “And what will they do to me?”
“I cannot deny that Martian justice can be severe.” At that statement his already-troubled face paled. “But this is a chance to redeem yourself, in the eyes of the world and of your Creator, and perhaps even yourself.”
The captain cleared his throat. “If you do not do this thing,” he said, gravely but not without sympathy, “the violence will continue until every Englishman in Fort Augusta is dead.”
Simon trembled miserably on the cold flagstones, eyes darting every which way. Then he closed his eyes hard and seemed to gather himself up, bowing his head and bending over his clenched fists. For a long time he remained thus and Arabella watched him, holding her breath as he held his, knowing how difficult the decision must be.
Then he let out his breath with a loud “Pah!” and collapsed onto the bed, head held in his hands. “I cannot!” he said. “I have not the courage.” For once, Arabella thought, he was entirely sincere.
Arabella and the captain exchanged a long, considering look. His eyes were very hard, and he glanced to the prostrate Simon and back to her, tilting his head with a raised, questioning eyebrow.