“Um. The return leaves just after four, so allow an hour to get to the station—”
“No problem.” He picked up his pack of cards, shuffled the deck, and began dealing some kind of a solitaire hand. “We’ll get you there,” he muttered.
“Is there anything to do here?” Miriam asked.
“Play cards.” Davy Crockett’s cheek twitched. “Seriously, you don’t go out that door unless the roof is on fire. Wouldn’t like the company hereabouts, anyways, and you’ve got a train to catch in five hours.”
“Oh.” Miriam shifted uneasily on her chair.
“I’ll tell them you’ve arrived,” said the stationmaster. He stood up heavily and shambled over to the shortwave set.
Sharp Suit Number Two fussed over the kerosene stove: presently he turned it down and returned to the table bearing a metal espresso pot. “So,” he said, hunching his shoulders conspiratorially, “what’s it like, then?”
Miriam looked at him blankly. “What’s what like?”
“Over there. You know.” He waved at her, a gesture that took in everything she was wearing. “Different, isn’t it, to America? In Chicago you’d stand out like, oh, obvious.”
“Oh, there.” Miriam stifled a sigh: it was going to be a long wait. “Well, for starters, they don’t have air-conditioning . . .”
The return journey went smoothly, with no troublesome signs of recognition. There were no unwelcome traveling companions, no desperate Marissa to spark Miriam’s paranoia, and no delays. Miriam managed to keep her nimble fingers away from the courier bag, having remembered to pause in the railway station kiosk before departure and pick up a selection of newspapers and a cheap novel or two. The headlines, as always, perplexed and mystified her as she tried to make sense of them. Comptroller-General Announces Four-Fifths per Gross Increase in Salt License Fee—what on earth did that mean? Licensing salt? And there was more inside. Sky Navy to Impress Packets just about made sense, but when she got to the sports pages (Chicxulub Aztecs versus Eton Barbarians: Goal Scored!) it turned baffling. Not only did they not play football or baseball, they didn’t even play soccer or cricket: instead they had other esoteric team games—like the Aztecs versus Barbarians wall ball match, in which the Aztecs had apparently just scored the first goal in a major league match for fourteen years.
A day on a train gave Miriam a lot of time for thought. I need bargaining power, she told herself. Otherwise they’re going to keep me on a short leash forever. And sooner or later they’ll get serious about marrying me off. Serried ranks of W* heterozygote babies line-danced in her imagination when she closed her eyes and tried to sleep. How did I get into this bind?
Asking herself that question was pointless: if she pursued the answer far enough, she came to the uncomfortable conclusion that it was her own fault, her own dogged tendency to dig for the truth that had gotten her into the Clan’s business. (And behind that story lay Iris’s shady history, her mother’s attempt to escape from an unhappy Clan-decreed dynastic marriage—but some subjects were best treated with kid gloves.) If I want some personal space I’m going to have to manufacture it for myself, she decided. But persuading her distant relatives to back off was not easy: privacy seemed to be in scant supply outside the United States. Especially if you harbored valuable genes or looked like your mere presence might upset the established order. And as to just why privacy was in short supply . . .
By the time she reached the safe house in the New London suburbs she was feeling tired, irritable, and increasingly itchy and dirty. She’d been in transit for three days, and the trains didn’t have so much as a shower on board. Next time I’ll take an extra change of clothes, she resolved—this kind of issue obviously didn’t affect the Clan courier operations in the United States.
When she signed off the courier bag, Miriam got her first surprise: a coach was waiting for her in the courtyard of Lord Brunvig’s town house, and Brill beside it, in an agony of impatience. “Milady! It’s almost two o’clock! Quick, we must get you back to your rooms immediately, there’s barely time.”
“Time? For what?” Miriam asked, pausing on the bottom step of the boarding platform with a sense of exquisite dread. Oh no—
“The royal entertainment! It’s tonight! Oh, Miriam, if I had realized it would take you three days I would have yelled at his lordship—”
“Well, none of us thought of it, did we?” Miriam said as she climbed into the carriage. “Everything happens more slowly over there.” She gritted her teeth and settled down into a corner, her nose wrinkling. It’s unavoidable, she thought to herself. I really am going to have to answer him. Nearly six months ago the king himself had asked her a question. Brill, sitting opposite her, looked anxious. “Do I have time to clean up first?” Miriam asked. “And a bite to eat?”
“I hope so—”
“Well, then it’ll all work out.” Miriam managed a tired smile. “So how about telling me what’s been going on while I’ve been away?”
Three hours later she was still hungry, even more tired, and back in the carriage with Brill. This time they were on their way to the summer palace with an escort of mounted guards, clutching scented kerchiefs to their faces to keep the worst of the smell of the open sewers at bay. A fortune in jewelry, the most expensive luxurious clothes they can afford to impress one another with, but the drains are medievaclass="underline" typical Clan priorities. Miriam shrugged, trying to get comfortable against the hard seat back. Her maids had trussed her into the most excessive gown she’d ever set eyes on, almost as soon as she’d walked in the door. It seemed to weigh half a ton even before they’d added a tiara and a few pounds of gold and pearls. The corset was uncomfortably tight, and the layered skirts had a train that dragged along the ground behind her in a foam of lace and got in the way when she walked. Romantic and feminine be damned, I’m going to be lucky to make it as far as the front door without tripping. Brill had been saying something. “What was that?” she asked, distracted.
“I was saying, did you want the high points again?” Brill sniffed pointedly. “I know you’re tired, but it’s important.”
“I know it’s important,” Miriam said waspishly. Then she sighed. “Forgive me. Not your fault.” These formal events always seem to bring out the worst in me, don’t they? “This gown needs adjusting. I’m uncomfortable—and a bit tired.”
“I’ll arrange another session with Mistress Tanzig when we get back, milady. For tomorrow. I hope you won’t hold it against her—it’s hard to get the cut right when your ladyship’s absent.” Brill leaned forward to peer at her. “Hmm. You’re being Miriam, Miriam. A word of commendation?”
“Uh, yes?”
“Let yourself be Helge. For tonight, just for tonight.”
“But I—” She bit her tongue as she saw Brilliana’s expression.
“You don’t like being Helge,” Brill said evenly. “It’s not as if you go out of your way to conceal it. But just this once—” Her eyes narrowed, calculatingly, as she fanned herself. “Milady, Miriam is too American. Prickly about the wrong things. But this isn’t a crowded garden party, this is an intimate informal household entertainment, just us and fifty or sixty family members and courtiers and ministers. If Miriam offers offense . . .”