"Welcome, Lord Vorkosigan," says the Handmaiden of the Star Creche.

She is wearing a white bodysuit under a few layers of simple calf-length robes decorated with touches of white-on-white embroidery. Her skin is a warm shade of medium brown, as flawless as Linya's; her eyes are a much darker brown, almost but not quite black; her hair is mainly between the two, but where individual strands in the waterfall of curls catch the light just so, they shine a deep honey-gold.

"We can speak freely here. I agree with your assessment that it is past time we met."