“She’ll have only herself to blame. And she’ll not be a dagger for her grandmother to hold to our throat.”
“She hates her grandmother! With a passion.”
“I believe you overestimate her vindictiveness; at present it is merely disdain on both sides. The dowager is more than happy to use any weapon that comes to hand without worrying about hurting its feelings. Helge doesn’t know enough to turn in her hand, yet. Perhaps if Helge has real reason to hate her grandmother . . .”
“Tell me you wouldn’t harm your own sister.”
“Mm, no. I wouldn’t need to go that far, Henryk. Dowager Hildegarde is quite capable of making Helge hate her without any help from me, although admittedly a few choice whispers might fan the flames of misunderstanding. What I need from you, uncle, is nothing more than that you play the bad cop to my good, and perhaps the use of your ears at court. We’re all loyal subjects of the Crown after all, yes? And it would hardly be in the Crown’s best interests to fall into the hands of the old bitches. Or the Pervert, for that matter.”
“I shall pretend I did not hear that last, as a loyal servant of the Crown. Although, come to think of it, perhaps it would be in everyone’s best interests if nobody looked too hard for plots against Prince Egon, who is clearly loved by all. The resources can be better used looking for real threats, if you follow my drift. What kind of push do you intend to give Helge?”
(Glassware on tabletop.)
“Oh, a perfectly appropriate one, Henryk! A solution of poetic, even beautiful, proportions suggests itself to me. One that meshes perfectly with Helge’s background and upbringing, a bait she’ll be unable to resist.”
“Bait? What kind of bait?”
“Put your glass down, I don’t want you to lose such a fine vintage.”
(Pause.)
“I’m going to let her discover the insurance policy.”
TRANSCRIPT ENDS
INSURANCE
Two days after Miriam visited Baron Henryk, the weather broke. Torrential rain streamed across the stone front of Thorold Palace, gurgling through the carved gargoyle waterspouts and down past the windows under the eaves. Miriam, still in a state of mild shock from her meeting with her great-uncle, stayed in her rooms and brooded. A couple of times she hauled out her laptop, plugged it into the solitary electrical outlet in her suite, and tried to write a letter to her mother. After the third attempt she gave up in despair. Patricia was a nut best cracked by Helge, but Miriam wanted nothing to do with her alter-ego, the highborn lady. Trying to be Helge had gotten her into a world of hurt, and trying to measure up to their expectations of her was only going to make things worse. Besides, she had an uneasy feeling that her mother was not going to thank her for muddying the waters with Henryk.
Shortly after lunch (a tray of cold cuts delivered by two servants from the great hall below), there came a knock on her dressing-room door. “Who is it?” she called.
“Me, Miriam! Are you decent?” The door opened. “What’s the matter?” Brilliana d’Ost stepped inside and glanced around. “Are you hiding from someone? The servants speak of you as if you’re a forest troll, lurking in the shadows to bite the next passing trapper’s head off.”
“I’m not that bad, surely.” Miriam smiled. “Welcome back, anyway—it’s good to see someone around here who’s happy to see me. What have you been up to?” She stood up to embrace the younger woman.
“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” Brill said lightly, hugging her back. Then her smile faded. “Don’t assume I’m exaggerating. I’ve been very busy lately. Some things I can’t talk about.” She shed her bulky shoulder-bag and pushed the door shut behind her. “Miriam. What do you mean, happy to see you? What on earth has been going on here? I got word by way of the duke’s office—”
“Am I in that much trouble, already?” Miriam asked, sitting down again. She saw that Brill had cut her black hair shorter than last time they’d met and was using foundation powder to cover the row of smallpox craters on the underside of her jaw. In her trouser-suit she could have been just another office intern on the streets of New York—Miriam’s New York.
“Trouble?” Brill shrugged dismissively. “Trouble is for little people. But I hear word, ‘Brilliana, your mistress needs you, go and look to her side,’ and I am thinking that perhaps not all is well—and here you are, hiding like a bear with a headache!” She sat down on one of the upholstered stools that served as informal seating. “Oh, his excellency says, ‘Tell her to stop making waves and we’ll sort everything out.’ ”
“Um. Right.” Miriam closed the lid on her laptop. “Can I get you anything?” she asked. “A glass of wine? Coffee?”
“Coffee would be precious, should you but have any.” Brill looked wistful as Miriam tugged the bell rope. “The weather is as impoverished on the other side. Homeful for the ducks, but not enchanting lest your feet be webbed.”
“Nobody told me that Henryk was a palace ogre,” Miriam complained. The door opened: “Two coffees, cream, no sugar,” she directed. As it closed, she continued. “I’ve been stuck here, all isolated, for weeks. It’s not easy to fit in. Kara’s done her best to help me, but that isn’t much—she just isn’t perceptive enough to warn me before I put my foot in it. Andragh”—the head of her detachment of bodyguards—“is the strong silent type, not a political advisor. Mom’s busy and has her own problems, Olga’s in and out but mostly out, and I’m”—she took a deep breath—“lonely and bored.”
“Yes, well, that’s what the boss said.” Brill brooded for a moment, then burst out, “Miriam, I’m sorry!”
“Hey, wait a moment—”
“I mean it! I blame myself. I was supposed to stick to you like glue, but while you were in the hospital I had other tasks to attend to and my—I can’t tell you who—needed me elsewhere. High priority jobs, lots of them—I’ve been run ragged. Our networks are in rags, new safe houses must be bought, identities created, safe procedures developed, contacts sanitized and renewed. An underground railroad which took us decades to build has to be scrapped and rebuilt from scratch, and his grace badly needs eyes and ears he can trust. I thought that you’d be all right here on your own, that not much could happen, but I didn’t realize—if I had I’d have made a fuss, demanded to be released back to you!”
Brill was upset and Miriam, who hadn’t expected any of this, was taken aback. “Whoa! It’s all right. Seriously, we’ve been in the middle of a real mess and if you had to go fight security fires for Angbard—or whatever—then obviously, there were higher priorities than acting nursemaid for me. And you’re here now, which is the main thing, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but I should have been here earlier.” Brill frowned. “Not letting you run amok.” For a moment her flashing grin returned. “So what else have you been up to?”
Miriam sighed. “Etiquette lessons. Basic hochsprache.” She began ticking points off on her fingers: “Learning to ride, memorizing long lists of who’s related to who, learning to dance—court dances, over here, that is—endless appointments with the dressmaker. Oh, and getting pissed off about being given the runaround. About when I can get back to my business, that kind of thing.” She pulled a face. “What’s missing from this picture?” Besides brooding over— She stopped that line of thought dead. Brill hadn’t concealed her opinion of Roland very effectively, but she knew better than to pick a fight with Miriam over his memory, especially when Miriam very definitely wasn’t over him.