What is Love?

Part 1

Lady Josephine examined the reception area with the practiced eye of someone mentally cataloging assets. "Well, the Empire's medical facilities are quite advanced. I'm certain they're doing everything necessary."

"Everything necessary." Elora repeated the words, tasting their emptiness. "Yes, I'm sure that's a great comfort."

Her mother's perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched fractionally—the equivalent of a dramatic gasp from anyone else. "There's no need for that tone, Elora. We've been thoroughly briefed. The reconstructive procedures are proceeding as expected. The Empire's resources are the best available to humanity, and they've assured us Kendrick will make a full recovery. I trust their assessment."

"You trust their assessment." The words escaped before Elora could cage them, each one sharp as a surgical blade.

"Of course," Lady Josephine replied, moving to one of the designer settees with fluid grace, her dress pooling around her like liquid wealth. She examined her flawless manicure with more interest than she'd shown in her son's condition. "I trust the Empire and money—they've faithfully carried me through every storm so far. There's no logical reason to doubt them now. Excessive worry accomplishes nothing except premature aging, and that's one luxury a lady cannot afford."

The casual cruelty of it—the seconding of her brother's survival to a beauty regimen concern—shattered something in Elora's carefully maintained composure.

"He's your SON!" The words erupted from her, raw and ragged. "He's lying in there, and they're—they're rebuilding him like some kind of machine, and you're worried about WRINKLES?"

The reception area fell silent. Other waiting families turned to stare, then quickly looked away, unwilling to become entangled in aristocratic intrigue. A nurse paused mid-stride, then hurried on, pretending not to have heard.

Lady Josephine's expression flickered with something that might have been surprise, quickly suppressed. "Emotional outbursts won't change the situation, Elora. Really, I thought we'd raised you better than this."

"Raised me?" Elora's laugh held no humor, brittle as shattered crystal. "You mean the succession of nannies and tutors who actually spent time with us while you were counting carats in Kimbeer?"

"Elora." Her father's voice carried a warning, but also something else—a weariness that spoke of old arguments never resolved.

She turned on him, tears threatening to spill, her carefully applied makeup no match for genuine grief. "Why didn't you stop him? You knew—you must have known how dangerous it was. You have influence, grandfather has influence. You two could have—"

"Could have what?" Lord Marcus moved then, crossing to his daughter with measured steps. For once, his movements weren't calculated for effect but driven by something more genuine. "Locked him in his room? Used the Duke's connections to override an imperial appointment?" He shook his head slowly. "Elora, your brother is—was—a man grown. A man with his own choices to make."

"But you could have—"

"No." The word was gentle but final. He opened his arms, and despite everything, despite her anger and grief and disappointment, Elora found herself stepping into his embrace. He smelled of expensive cologne and African earth, of board meetings and mine shafts, of all the contradictions that made up their family.

"Our family motto has always been 'Security through Obscurity,'" he murmured against her hair. "I reminded him of that. Repeatedly. But freedom, real freedom, is worth more to a man than safety. As a man, I understood his need to reach for something greater, even knowing the risks."

"But why didn't you leverage your influence to stop him?" Elora's voice broke, muffled against his chest. "Why did you just... let him go?"

"Because forcing someone to stay through power or influence is just another kind of prison. He would have found a way regardless—too many in the government supported his appointment. Better to let him fly toward his chosen star than to cage him like a bird and watch him destroy himself trying to escape." His arms tightened around her. "Even if it meant this."

Elora's tears came in floods, hot and desperate, soaking into his expensive suit. She cried for Kendrick, for the beautiful brother who'd protected her through their lonely childhood, for the brilliant man whose ambition had led him into horror. She cried for herself—for all the times she had watched, strategized, and tried to shield him from consequences, yet remained powerless in the face of fate.

"There, there," her father murmured, the words awkward but genuine. "He's strong, Elora. Stronger than you know. We must have faith."

From her position near the window, Lady Josephine watched the display with the detached interest of someone observing a mildly intriguing investment opportunity. After a moment, she rose, her heels clicking against the marble with metronomic precision.

"This emotional display is all very touching," she said, producing a handkerchief from her purse with the air of someone making a distasteful but necessary investment. "But perhaps we should relocate somewhere more... private? The staff are beginning to stare."

Elora pulled back from her father's embrace, accepting the handkerchief with numb fingers. As she dabbed at her eyes, careful not to smudge the makeup that had become another kind of armor, she found herself studying her parents with new clarity.

They stood apart even when together, her father's hand returning to his pocket the moment she stepped away, her mother maintaining that careful distance that spoke of boundaries established decades ago. They looked like what they were—business partners who happened to share children and a fortune, their marriage as carefully negotiated as any merger.

"How do you do it?" The question escaped before she could consider its wisdom. "How do you stay together when you're so... separate?"

Her parents exchanged a look—the kind of glance that spoke of surprise.

"What a peculiar question," Lady Josephine said, though something flickered in her eyes. "We're hardly separate. We've been married for thirty-four years."

"Married, yes. But are you happy?" Elora pressed, desperate to understand something, anything, about the framework that had shaped their world. "You have nothing in common. Father loves rocks and mines while you love teas and banquets. You share no interests, no intellectual connection, far less emotional rapport. What kind of marriage is that?"

"A successful one," her mother replied with crisp efficiency. "Really, Elora, these naïve romantic notions of yours—did you acquire them from those novels Kendrick used to smuggle to you?"

"Your mother and I have an understanding," Lord Marcus interjected, his tone suggesting this was more than he usually cared to discuss. "We complement each other perfectly."

"Like a business arrangement," Elora said flatly.

"All marriages are business arrangements coated with romantic wrappings, darling," Lady Josephine corrected with the patience of someone explaining basic arithmetic. "The fortunate ones simply happen to have emotional rapport as well, but that's just the cherry on top of the cake. But, the cherry cannot substitute for the cake itself."

A medical orderly hurried past, pushing a cart of supplies. The brief interruption gave Elora a moment to collect herself before her mother continued.

"And you know," Lady Josephine added, her lips curving into a practiced smile, "our marriage was as successful as marriages come. If only you'd attended our wedding—the entire Empire was captivated. The media proclaimed it proof that radical reforms were unnecessary, that the glass ceiling between classes was already shattering. You can still find recordings preserved in mana crystals throughout the Empire's libraries. They called it 'The Wedding of the Century'—the mining heiress and the noble scion, evidence that love could bridge any divide."

"Love?" The word cracked in Elora's throat.

"That's what the imperial newspapers claimed," her father said, his tone dry as parchment. "A triumph of romance over rigid class boundaries. They painted it as a fairy tale for the modern age."

"Indeed, we became the ideal couple an entire generation aspired to emulate," Lady Josephine continued, examining a perfectly manicured nail. "The Empire's poster children for social mobility. Young women across all classes saw me as proof they could marry into nobility. It stabilized the Empire—the middle class shifted their support away from those tiresome radical reformist parties."

"Yet in reality, you were merely... trading assets." Understanding dawned in Elora's voice, bitter as wormwood.

"But that's what successful marriages are." Her mother's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "The Empire required a success story; we provided one. They received their narrative of progress and modernization, while we secured our mutually beneficial arrangement. Everyone profited."

Seeing confusion still lingering in her daughter's eyes, Lady Josephine continued, "Your father required someone to manage those tedious social obligations that interfered with his geological passions. I needed someone to oversee the mining operations that generate our fortune. He possessed the status I craved; I controlled the mines he desired. We were perfectly matched—a union blessed by heaven itself."

"Or so the commemorative wedding issue of Imperial Society proclaimed," Lord Marcus added with an elegant shrug.

"But what about love?" Elora heard the plaintive note in her own voice and despised it. "What about connection, understanding, genuine happiness together?"

Her mother's laugh rang like crystal chimes—beautiful, cold, ultimately hollow. "Oh, my dear girl. Still chasing fairy tales at your age? Love is subjective—everyone defines it differently. You have much to learn, darling. Sometimes one must appreciate what one possesses. Your father has his mines; I have my status. We both obtained precisely what we desired. Two beautiful children to carry forward our legacy. What more could one want?"

"Everything," Elora whispered. "Everything you're missing."

"Missing?" Lady Josephine's perfect features arranged themselves into genuine puzzlement. "We lack nothing. It's an ideally complementary arrangement. Where we may lack intellectual and emotional connection, we've more than compensated in physical compatibility."

"Our physical rapport has never diminished," Lord Marcus added with aristocratic understatement, though the slight flush creeping up his neck suggested even he found the admission somewhat indelicate.

"But isn't that merely lust?" Elora protested, appalled by their casual acceptance of emotional emptiness.

"Call it what you will," her mother countered, "but it's the adhesive that preserves the institution of marriage. Mutual benefit forms the foundation of any successful union. Physical attraction provides the binding force. Everything else is merely... ornamentation."

"Besides," her father added, consulting his pocket watch with the air of a man whose time was literally money, "excessive emotional entanglement clouds logical judgment, inevitably leading to irrational disputes. Those who marry for love often find themselves mired in messy divorces."

Elora stared at them—how had she and Kendrick, with their desperate hunger for meaning and connection, emerged from such calculated coldness?

"The Empire called you the ideal couple," she said slowly. "Young girls dreamed of achieving what you had. And it was all lies."

"Not lies," her mother corrected. "Propaganda, perhaps, but not lies. Our marriage genuinely succeeds by every metric. Do you know how many of those lovebirds from our social circle have already divorced?"

"If they replace parts of Kendrick's brain," Elora asked suddenly, voicing the fear that had haunted her since the first reports arrived, "will he remain himself? Or will he become like—" She caught herself before saying 'you,' but the implication hung in the air like smoke.

The silence that followed could have been measured in carats—heavy, multifaceted, valuable in its revelation.

"Don't be melodramatic," Lady Josephine said finally, though something flickered behind her careful composure. "The Empire's medical technology is quite advanced. I'm certain they'll preserve everything... essential."

"Essential," Elora repeated, tasting the word's inadequacy. "And what do you consider essential, Mother? His beauty that photographs so well at charity galas? His military rank that adds prestige to the family name? Or perhaps just enough consciousness to sign documents and produce heirs?"

"Elora." Her father's voice carried sharper warning now. "That's enough."

But she couldn't stop—wouldn't stop—the words pouring out like blood from a wound too long concealed. "You don't even know him. Neither of you."

A door slammed somewhere down the corridor, the sound echoing through the sterile space. Elora paused, drawing breath before continuing.

"You don't know how desperately he tries to make a difference in a world that values only his face and bloodline. You don't know he visits our great-grandfather's grave every month because that man was the only person who ever told him he was worth more than his appearance or inheritance."

Her voice broke on the final words, and she witnessed something shift in her father's expression—a crack in the calculated facade that might have been grief or merely the discomfort of unexpected emotion.

"He's our son," Lord Marcus said quietly. "Whatever you think of us, we want him to survive this."

"Survive, yes," Elora agreed, her voice hollow. "But what about living? What about being whole, being himself, being more than another successfully preserved Nernwick asset?"

Lady Josephine adjusted her perfect posture—a tell Elora recognized from years of watching her navigate difficult social situations. "The Empire will do what's necessary. They always have. The rest is... philosophical speculation that serves no practical purpose."

And there it was—her mother's life philosophy distilled to its essence. Purpose. Profit. Pragmatism. Everything else was excess, including love, including grief, including the desperate hope that when Kendrick opened his eyes, he would still be the brother who had held her hand through every childhood terror.

"I need air," Elora announced, moving toward the observation deck exit.

"We'll be in the executive lounge," her mother replied, already dismissing her. "Do try to compose yourself, darling. Public displays of emotion are so... middle class."

As Elora walked away, she heard her father mention something about contacting his connections regarding experimental treatments—the first genuine sign of concern he'd shown since their arrival.

She paused at the door, looking back at them—these two people who had built an empire on emotional absence, who had somehow produced children desperate for the very connections they disdained.

Is this our destiny? she wondered. Kendrick and I? Functional emptiness, successful hollowness, calculated marriages?

Through the reinforced glass ahead, she could see the sprawling medical complex where somewhere, in sterile rooms filled with the Empire's most advanced technology, surgeons were rebuilding her brother piece by piece. The afternoon sun caught the windows, turning them into mirrors that reflected nothing but light.

Before she could push through the door, a nurse appeared—the same young man from earlier, his copper curls catching the fluorescents as he hurried toward them.

"Lord and Lady Nernwick? Lady Elora?" Barely contained urgency colored his voice. "The surgical team has sent word. General Nernwick has regained consciousness."

Elora's heart lurched. "He's awake? Can we see him?"

"Not quite yet, my lady." The nurse's expression remained carefully neutral—the practiced face of someone trained to deliver hope and caution in equal measure. "He's still in the stabilization phase. The lead surgeon requests your presence in Conference Room Seven. There are... protocols to discuss."

"Protocols?" Lord Marcus's voice sharpened with the first real emotion Elora had heard from him all day.

"Yes, my lord. Guidelines for interaction with patients who've undergone extensive neural reconstruction. It's crucial we avoid any... overstimulation during this delicate phase." The nurse's eyes flickered with what might have been sympathy. "The wrong stimulus at this stage could cause significant setbacks."

Lady Josephine rose with fluid grace, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her dress. "Then we mustn't keep them waiting. Time is of the essence, after all."

Even now, with her son's humanity hanging in the balance, she couldn't resist framing everything in terms of efficiency. Elora wanted to scream, wanted to shake her mother until that perfect composure cracked. Instead, she followed them down the pristine corridor, her heels clicking a funeral march against the marble.

Please, she prayed to whatever forces governed such things—the Creator, nature, or the cold equations of medical science. Please let him remember who he is. Let him remember who we were to each other. Let him still be Kendrick, not merely General Nernwick, successfully reconstructed.

The nurse led them deeper into the medical complex, past doors marked with warnings in multiple languages, past windows revealing glimpses of incomprehensible machinery. With each step, Elora felt the weight of her parents' emotional absence pressing down on her, their marriage of convenience suddenly seeming less like a personal choice and more like a glimpse of her own potential future.

What if this was simply how the Nernwick family loved? What if she and Kendrick, despite all their struggles against it, were destined to become exactly what their parents had modeled? What if she never found her way to Philip—what if she ended up with someone whose physical appeal and material wealth would eventually place the twin yokes of lust and greed upon her romance-starved heart?

Part 2

The Avalon Imperial Hotel rose from the manicured gardens of Bromanceham's western suburbs like a monument to refined excess. Fifty stories of honey-colored limestone and gleaming copper, its neo-classical façade adorned with enchanted gas lamps that cast dancing shadows through crystal panes. Even at this late hour—well past eleven—the establishment hummed with the discrete efficiency of truly elite service.

Philip stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows of the presidential suite's boardroom, gazing out at the sprawling metropolis below. Bromanceham—Avalondia's second-largest city—twinkled like terrestrial stars, each mana-lamp a testament to the Empire's lingering grandeur. Behind him, the suite stretched across nearly half the top floor—a maze of interconnected chambers that included the boardroom where he currently brooded, a private dining room that could seat twenty, a master bedroom larger than most Yorgorian cottages, two guest chambers, a security guard's quarters currently occupied by Lydia, and a marble bathroom that wouldn't have looked out of place in a minor palace.

The bathrobe—imported Eastern silk with the hotel's crest embroidered in gold thread—clung to his still-damp skin. He'd spent nearly an hour in the suite's private bath, a sunken marble affair fed by hot springs channeled through enchanted pipes, trying to wash away the tension of their clandestine arrival. The Duke's plane wouldn't land until dawn, leaving them in this luxurious limbo. The reservation, discreetly arranged under Lydia's name, ensured their presence remained undetected—at least for now.

"Two hundred and fifty Avalondian dollars per night," he muttered, doing the mental arithmetic. "That's... around four hundred and sixty Continental dollars at the formal exchange rate."

"A necessary expense, Master Philip," Lydia's voice came from the doorway. She'd changed into more comfortable attire—still impeccably proper, but softer than her usual traveling clothes. "The Duke was quite specific about maintaining the secrecy of your arrival until the official announcement."

Philip turned from the window, his mind drifting to larger economic concerns. "You know what strikes me as inefficient? Different currencies within the same empire. The exchange fees alone must drain millions from productive investment."

"An astute observation," Lydia said, settling gracefully into one of the leather chairs. "But this is what we get when the colonies sought autonomy a few decades again. Along with it, independent central banks and issuance of own currency. Hence today's costly exchange maze."

"And now we have this labyrinthine system," Philip continued. "The Avalondian dollar trades at... what's the current rate?"

"One to one-point-eight-five Continental. The war news has created a flight to perceived stability—ironically benefiting the colonial currencies."

"So that's the reason for the tax hike," Philip murmured, his gaze distant. "With the colonies issuing their own currency, the Empire can no longer tax the people through inflation. Now they take openly what they once stole in silence."

He rubbed his temples, feeling a headache building. The financial machinations were one thing, but the System's warnings about his mounting cosmic debt gnawed at him constantly. Fifty-three thousand and sixty Continental dollars in arrears. Natalia's very existence hemorrhaged money at a rate that would bankrupt most professionals within a month.

The System had been unusually quiet since their landing, but her last appearance on the plane had left him with a knot of anxiety that no amount of hot water could dissolve. According to her calculations, he was rapidly approaching some cosmic credit limit that would trigger... what? Divine audit? The Creator's direct attention?

Philip recalled their earlier conversations, when the System had explained the cosmic rules governing his transmigration. "The Creator sees all," she'd said, "but He's rather like a parent with too many children—He only really pays attention when someone's about to burn down the house." At the time, Philip had thought it merely another of the System's dramatic flourishes. Now, with his debt mounting toward six figures, the possibility of attracting such attention felt less amusing and more like standing on the edge of a cliff in a thunderstorm, holding a metal rod.

"Perhaps you should rest, Master Philip," Lydia suggested gently, rising from her chair. "Tomorrow brings the orphanage visitation—"

Her words were cut short by a soft sound from behind. Philip felt slender fingers slide across his shoulders, gentle but firm, kneading the tension from muscles he hadn't realized were knotted. A cascade of damp golden hair spilled over his shoulder, carrying the scent of lavender bath oils and something uniquely Natalia—that indescribable fragrance that seemed to shift between wildflowers and morning mist.

"You're troubled," Natalia's voice was soft, her breath warm against his ear. "I can feel it in your shoulders, Master. Such tension... such worry."

Philip's entire body went rigid, which rather defeated the purpose of the massage. He turned his head slightly and immediately regretted it. Natalia stood behind him, wrapped in a matching silk bathrobe that hung loose and careless on her frame. The hotel's generously cut garments, designed to modestly drape even the most substantial of guests, seemed to have the opposite effect on her curvaceous figure. The silk parted at her bosom, revealing delicate champagne-colored lace beneath, the robe's belt tied so carelessly that gravity seemed poised to claim victory at any moment.

Her hair, still damp from her own bath, clung to her neck and shoulders in a way that made her look impossibly alluring. Water droplets still clung to her collarbone, catching the light like tiny diamonds.

"What are you doing?" he managed to stammer, his voice cracking slightly as his body betrayed him with an immediate and embarrassingly obvious reaction beneath the thin silk.

Natalia's hands never stopped their gentle ministrations, working out knots with surprising skill. "I sensed your distress, Master. You've been worrying about something since we left the plane, and it's only gotten worse." Her voice took on that quality it sometimes did—innocent and knowing at once. "I wanted to help. To ease your burden, as is my duty... and my desire."

The word 'desire' in Natalia's honeyed voice, combined with the press of her soft curves against his back as she worked, sent Philip's blood racing through his body.

"Natalia," he began, trying to inject some authority into his voice and failing miserably. "This isn't... I mean, Lydia is right there..."

He glanced toward the doorway, only to find it empty. At some point during Natalia's entrance, his ever-discrete governess had vanished, leaving them alone in the opulent boardroom.

"She understood you needed proper relaxation," Natalia said simply. "Now, tell me what troubles you so. Is it worry for Lord Kendrick? Fear for tomorrow's gathering? Or..." her hands stilled for a moment, "is it about me?"

The last question carried a weight that made Philip's chest tighten. He could lie, of course. Make up some concern about the political situation or the estate's finances. But Natalia would know—she always seemed to know when he was being less than truthful.

"It's... complicated," he said finally.

"Master," she said softly. "Complicated situations often have simple solutions. We just have to figure it out together."

She moved with fluid grace, circling around his chair until she stood before him. The moonlight streaming through the windows backlit her figure, turning her damp hair into a golden halo. Her expression shifted to deep concern as she studied his face.

"Master," she breathed, and before Philip could react, she moved closer, bending her knees and positioning herself directly in front of him. Her legs parted to straddle the sides of his chair as she leaned in, bringing her face mere inches from his. The motion caused her loosely-tied robe to part further, revealing more of the lace beneath and the alabaster skin it failed to conceal.

"You're not well," she whispered, her blue eyes wide with worry. "Are you experiencing physical stress? Because of the mana drain?"

Philip's breath caught. From this angle, with Natalia's impossibly beautiful face mere inches from his own, her full lips parted in concern, he felt his rationality beginning to crumble.

It was at that precise moment that the System chose to materialize, visible only to Philip, perched on the edge of the boardroom table in a blue silk bathrobe so short it barely qualified as clothing. Her bare legs, long and shapely, were crossed with deliberate provocation.

"Oh my," the System purred. "Fifty-three thousand, one hundred and eighteen dollars now. That little display of concern just cost you another fifty-eight dollars. But I must say, the view is rather spectacular from here."

Philip's eyes darted between the System and Natalia, who was now gently examining his face for signs of fever or delirium.

"Oh no!" Natalia said, following his gaze to the empty table. "Master, you are staring into space!"

The System laughed, a tinkling sound like crystal bells. "Oh, she thinks you're going mad! How delicious. And look at you, about to have an aneurysm from the proximity of all that perfect skin."

Philip tried to focus, but Natalia chose that moment to shift closer, inadvertently pressing against him as she checked his temperature with the back of her hand.

"System," he thought desperately, "please, not now—"

"Oh, but this is the perfect time!" The System stood, sauntering closer. "Your debt is accelerating beautifully. At this rate, you'll hit the cosmic audit threshold in... oh, about six days. Unless, of course, things get more... intimate. Then we're looking at maybe four days. Three if you're particularly enthusiastic."

"Master," Natalia's voice cut through his internal dialogue, her hands now cupping his face with infinite gentleness. "Please, speak to me. I'm here."

The desperation in her voice, the genuine care in her eyes, the warmth of her hands on his skin—it all combined to make Philip's heart race even faster.

"But you know," the System continued, examining her nails with feigned disinterest, "the girl's right. There IS another option. You could always try using blue mana instead of green mana. It's a new methodology for powering Familiars, only made economically feasible three years ago. Much more efficient for maintaining Familiars. That's why the UES and Continental Republics are rushing to dot their lands with blue mana generators—to outdo each other in summoned entity dominance."

Philip's eyes widened. "Blue mana?"

"Yes, Master?" Natalia leaned even closer, misunderstanding. "Did you say something about mana? Is the mana drain from me inducing physical stress?"

The System giggled. "Oh, this is too perfect. Look, darling, I'll make this simple. Blue mana is generated by mechanical generators rather than biological processes within living beings. It's like the difference between sustaining a Familiar with your own life force and sustaining it through external power sources. Given your physical... situation, I would assess the blue mana option to be much more sustainable. In other words, you would no longer need to rely on my expensive interventions, which are ripping the fabric of reality. Hence, the prohibitive prices intended to serve as deterrence for frequent usage."

"But how to—" Philip began aloud, then caught himself as Natalia's worry deepened.

"Master, you are incoherent now," she said, her voice trembling. "You need immediate help. I will go find Lydia!"

The System began to fade, but not before delivering one last observation. "Well, I can see you two need some privacy to... work through this. Don't worry, I won't stay to watch. Unless you want me to spice up the action? No? Pity. Anyway, think about the blue mana option, darling. It could solve many of your problems. Though perhaps not the immediate one..."

She gestured downward with a wicked grin before vanishing completely.

Philip, suddenly very aware of what the System had been indicating, felt his face burn even hotter. In his current seated position, with Natalia crouched before him in her intimate positioning, the evidence of his body's reaction was mere inches from...

He watched in horror as Natalia shifted her weight to examine him more closely, inadvertently lowering herself further, and then—

The softest contact. Barely a brush. But unmistakable.

Natalia froze, her eyes widening as understanding dawned. Her face, already flushed with concern, turned a shade of red that rivaled the finest red wine. Neither of them moved, neither of them breathed, both acutely aware of the sudden shift in the atmosphere of the room.

"I..." Natalia began, her voice barely a whisper.

"We should..." Philip tried.

"Not now. Your condition cannot wait. Our desires must wait," Natalia stated with surprising firmness, though her blush remained fierce.

Did she think I meant what I think she think I meant? Philip wondered, his mind reeling. I really need to learn to speak faster!