After lunch Eugenia led the way into one of the other rooms, where the family obviously spent a lot of their time, at least from the comfortable furniture and the abandoned toy in one corner. Both still and moving captures sat on almost every flat surface, mostly of Ellen and her two daughters, but there were several of Alex, in the group or alone. In the latter he looked almost lost, while in the former his expression was of knowing yet disbelieving his good luck, and holding onto it with both hands.

Mal didn’t know where to put himself, at least until his mother-in-law (as he had to keep reminding himself) patted the sofa next to her.

“Sit. Here, with me. It’s been a long time.”

“That it has, Madam Rostov.”

“No. That’s not right. I shall call you ‘Mal’, and you must call me … if not ‘Mother’ then Eugenia. Or Jenny. I knew a young man once, before I was married, who used to call me that. You remind me of him. He was good looking, too.”

Freya’s mouth dropped slightly. Her mother was actually flirting, and with someone else’s husband, at that. Hers.

“Seems like the taste for roguish Firefly captains might run in the family blood.”

And Mal was flirting right back.

“He wasn’t a captain, though, just a gardener on our estate. He used to bring me flowers.”

He chuckled. “I’m not surprised.”

“Besides, don’t forget that you’re a Rostov, too.”

Mal shook his head. “No, ma’am. I’m a Reynolds, born and bred.”

Eugenia turned to twinkle at her daughter. “You didn’t tell him?”

“I … it … never came up,” Freya admitted weakly.

Mal raised an eyebrow. “ Ai ren ?”

“It’s a family tradition, Mal.” Eugenia patted his hand. “No matter who marries into us, whatever their name, the moment they say ‘I do’ they become Rostovs. So you are Malcolm Rostov. It has a fine ring to it, don’t you think?”

“So, am I Ethan Rostov, Grandma?” the heir to the Reynolds empire asked. “’Cause I like being who I am.”

Eugenia laughed. “Then you’re Ethan Reynolds. A good name.”