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“Absolutely true.” Henryk took a sip of wine. “It’s incontrovertible. Yes, I think I see what the problem is. You were absolutely right to come to me.” He put his glass down. “Although next time I would appreciate a little bit more notice.”

“Um, I’m sorry about that.” For the first time Miriam noticed that the top of the desk wasn’t leather, it was a black velvet cloth, hastily laid over whatever papers Henryk didn’t want her intruding upon. “I’d exhausted all the regular channels.”

“Yes, well, I’ll be having words with Walther.” A brief flicker of smile: “He needs to learn to be firmer.”

“But you were free to see me at short notice.”

“Not completely free, as you can see.” His languid wave took in the cluttered desk. “Never mind. If in future you need to see me, have your secretary make an appointment and flag it for my eyes—it will make everything run much more smoothly. In particular, if you attach an agenda it will be dealt with before things reach this state. Your secretary should—”

“You keep saying, have your secretary do this. I don’t have a secretary, uncle!”

Henryk raised an eyebrow. “Then who was the young lady who came with you?”

“That’s Kara, she’s—oh. You mean she’s supposed to be able to handle appointments?” Miriam covered her mouth.

Baron Henryk frowned. “No, not her. You were supposed to be assigned an assistant. Who was, ahem, ah—oh yes.” He jerked his chin in an abrupt nod. “That would be the Lady Brilliana, would it not? And I presume you haven’t seen her for some weeks?”

“She’s meant to be a secretary?” Miriam boggled at the thought. “Well, yes, but . . .” Brill probably would make a decent administrative assistant, now that she thought about it. Anyone who didn’t take her bullet points seriously would find themselves facing real ones, sure enough. Brill was mature, competent, sensible—in the way that Kara was not—and missing, unlike Kara. “I haven’t seen her since I arrived here.”

“That will almost certainly be because of the security flap,” Henryk agreed. “I’ll try to do something about that. Lady Brilliana is your right hand, Helge. Perhaps her earlier duties—yes, you need her watching your back while you’re here more than Angbard needs another sergeant at arms.”

“Another what—oh. Okay.” Miriam nodded. That Angbard had planted Brill in her household as a spy (and bodyguard) wasn’t exactly a secret anymore, but it hadn’t occurred to her that it was meant to be permanent, or that Brilliana had other duties, as Henryk put it. Sergeant at arms! Well. “That would help.”

“She knows what strings to pull,” Henryk said. “She can teach you what to do when she’s not there to pull them for you. But as a matter of general guidance, it’s usually best to tug gently. You never know what might be on the other end,” he added.

Miriam’s ears flushed. “I didn’t mean to kick the anthill over,” she said defensively, “but my business wasn’t designed to run on autopilot. I’ve been given the cold shoulder so comprehensively that it feels like I’m being cut out of things deliberately.”

“How do you know you aren’t?” asked Henryk.

“But, if I’m—” She stopped. “Okay, back to basics. Why would anyone cut me out of running the New Britain operation, when it won’t run without me? I’m not doing any good here, I mean, apart from learning to ride a horse and not look a complete idiot on a dance floor. And basic grammar. All I’m asking for is an occasional update. Why is nobody answering?”

“Because they don’t trust you,” Henryk replied. He put his glass down and stared at her. “Why do you think they should let you out where they can’t keep an eye on you?”

“I—” Miriam stopped dead. “They don’t trust me?” she asked, and even to herself she sounded slightly stupid. “Well, no shit. They’ve got my mother as a hostage, there’s no way I can go back home until we know if Matt’s blown my original identity, Angbard knows just where I live on the New Britain side—what do they think I’m going to do? Walk into a Royal Constabulary office and say, ‘Look, there’s a conspiracy of subversives from another world trying to invade you’ or something? Ask the DEA to stick me in a witness protection program?” She realized she was getting agitated and tried to control her gestures. “I’m on side, Henryk! I had this argument with Angbard last year. I chewed it over with, with Roland. Think we didn’t discuss the possibility of quietly disappearing on you? Guess what: we didn’t! Because in the final analysis, you’re family. And I’ve got no reason good enough to make me run away. It’s not like the old days when Patricia had to put up with an abusive husband for the good of the Clan, is it? So yes, they should be able to trust me. About the only way they can expect me to be untrustworthy is if they treat me like this.”

She ran down, breathing heavily. Somewhere in the middle of things, she realized, she’d spilled a couple of drops of wine on the polished walnut top of Henryk’s desk. She leaned forward and blotted them up with the cuff of her jacket.

“You make a persuasive case,” Henryk said thoughtfully.

Yes, but do you buy it? Miriam froze inside. What have I put my foot in here?

“Personally, I believe you. But I hope you can see, I have met you. I can see that you are a lady of considerable personal integrity and completely honorable in all your dealings. But the Clan is at this moment battling for its very survival, and the people who make such decisions—not Angbard, he directs, his perch is very high up the tree indeed—don’t know you from, from your lady-in-waiting out there. All they see is a dossier that says ‘feral infant, raised by runaway on other side, tendency toward erratic entrepreneurial behavior, feminist, unproven reliability.’ They know you came back to the fold once, of your own accord, and that is marked down in your favor already, isn’t it? You’re living in the lap of luxury, taking in the social season and pursuing the remedial studies you need in order to learn how to live among us. Expecting anything more, in the middle of a crisis, is pushing things a little hard.”

“You’re telling me I’m a prisoner,” Miriam said evenly.

“No!” Henryk looked shocked. “You’re not a prisoner! You’re—” He paused. “A probationer. Promising but unproven. If you keep to your studies, cultivate the right people, go through channels, and show the right signs of trustworthiness, then sooner rather than later you’ll get exactly what you want. All you need to do is convince the security adjutants charged with your safety that you are loyal and moderately predictable—that you will at least notify them before you engage in potentially dangerous endeavors—and they will bow down before you.” He frowned, then sniffed. “Your glass is empty, my dear. A refill, perhaps?”

“Yes, please.” Miriam sat very still while Henryk paced over to the sideboard and refilled both glasses, her mind whirling. They see me as a probationer. Right. It wasn’t a nice idea, but it explained a lot of things that had been happening lately. “If I’m on probation, then what about my mother? What about Patricia?”