Miles had thought his grandfather was the last of his generation. Not quite, it seemed, for the damnedest set of ancient creaking martinets and their crones, in black like flapping crows, came creeping from whatever woodwork they’d been lurking in. Miles, grimly polite, endured their shocked and pitying stares when introduced as Piotr Vorkosigan’s grandson, and their interminable reminiscences about people he’d never heard of, who’d died before he was born, and of whom—he sincerely hoped—he would never hear again.
