“Nothing so spectacular! After you were arrested, the shit hit the fan”—she ignored the wince and continued—“and—well. The people who were trying to kill me have been neutralized. But one of them defected to the police in my own . . . in the world I grew up in. He, his man, killed—” She stopped for a moment, unable to continue. “Roland’s dead. And, and.” Nothing else matters in comparison. It was true; she couldn’t care less about everything. Roland’s absence still felt like a gaping hole in her life, every time she woke up, every time she noticed it.
After a few seconds she forced herself to continue. “The Clan’s entire fortune there, in my world, is based on smuggling. They’ve been driven underground. Some of them seem to have blamed me for it; as a result, they’ve been keeping me on a very short leash. I’m not the family black sheep anymore, but I’m not exactly trusted, and it took me a lot of work just to be allowed out here on my own. Some of them have got a scheme to marry me off. They’re big on arranged marriages,” she added bitterly. “It’s a good way of silencing inconveniently loud women.”
“You’re not so easy to silence,” Erasmus noted after she’d stopped talking. He smiled. “Which is a good thing: it is our willingness to allow ourselves to be silenced easily that allows scoundrels to get away with so much, as a friend of mine put it—you might like to drop in on her next time you’re in New London, incidentally. She’s another loud woman who doesn’t believe in being silenced. She’s called Margaret, Lady Bishop, and you can find her at Hogarth Villas: I think you’ve got a lot in common.” He cracked his knuckles again. “But you haven’t told me why you wanted to see me. Much less, why you wanted to save my life.”
“I didn’t?” She shook herself. “Damn, I’m stupid. It’s—well. Look, I managed to steal a week over here, and it’s nearly over, and I’ve wasted most of it repairing the damage Morgan inflicted on my company through neglect—”
“I thought you said he was stupid and lazy?”
“He is. But—”
“Well then, imagine how much damage he could have done if he was stupid and energetic.”
She pulled a face. “I did: that’s why I made him general manager. I think I’ve got him sufficiently house-trained to minimize the damage in future. Only time will tell.”
“Ah, nepotism,” Erasmus said, nodding sagaciously. “But your week is up and you have nothing to show for it?”
“Well.” She looked at him speculatively. “I’ve been doing some thinking. And it seems to me that I’ve been letting them take me for granted. They have their own set of assumptions about how I should behave, and if I let them apply those assumptions to me they’ll back me into a corner. So I need to do something, acquire leverage. Make them let me alone.”
“That could be dangerous,” Erasmus said neutrally.
“You bet it’s dangerous!” Miriam rolled her teacup between her hands, fidgeting. “They’ve got my mother.” Tight-lipped: “She’s dependent on certain medicines. They think that’s enough to get a handle on me. But if I can establish my autonomy, I can provide her meds. I just have to get them to leave me alone.”
“Hmm. As I understood it, when you first told me about your turbulent family, they wouldn’t leave you alone because you signify an inheritance of enormous wealth, is that not the case?” He raised an eyebrow at her.
“Yes,” she said grudgingly. “Not that it makes a lot of difference to me.”
“Hah. Perhaps not, but they might be reluctant to leave you alone not because they insist on controlling you for control’s own sake but because they fear the disposition of such wealth in directions inimical to their own interests. In which case you will need a tool with which to express your urgency somewhat persuasively . . .”
“I was leaning toward blackmail, myself.” She frowned. “Their pressure is relatively subtle, social expectations and so forth. There are lots of secrets in this kind of culture, embarrassing facts best not aired in public and so on. Given a handful of truths it’s possible to suggest to people that they butt out”—her expression brightened—“and if there’s one thing I’m told I’m good at, it’s digging up embarrassing truths.”
Erasmus tried again. “But, that is to say—you are applying your not-inconsiderable reasoning skills to this as a social paradox. Your real problem is a temporal, political one. If you try to blackmail them—”
“They’re aristocrats. The personal is political,” she said dismissively. “Once you get a pig by the nose, its body will follow, right?”
“Right,” he said reluctantly.
“I’d better hope so,” she added, “because if I’m wrong about them, well, it doesn’t bear thinking about. So I’m not going to worry about it. But everything I’ve seen so far tells me that it’s going to work. Matthias blackmailed Roland . . .” She stared bleakly at the thin patina of dust on top of the lid of Erasmus’s piano. “Blackmail seems to be a way of life inside the Clan. So I’d better get with the program.”
“Hi, Paulie!”
Miriam waved from across the station concourse, smiling when Paulette spotted her and headed straight to where she was standing.
“Hey, Miriam, that’s a great coat! You’re looking good. Listen, there’s this new brasserie just outside the center, you up to eating or do you just want to hang out? We could go back to the office—”
“Eating would be good.” Miriam rubbed her forehead. “Made two crossings this morning; I need something in my stomach so I can take the ibuprofen.” She winced theatrically. “I’d rather not go near the office,” she added quietly as Paulie led her toward one of the side doors of the station. “Too much chance someone’s bugged it.”
“Uh-huh.” Paulette didn’t break stride: not that Miriam had expected her to. Back when Miriam had been a senior reporter for The Industry Weatherman Paulette had been her research assistant—right up until one of Miriam’s investigations had gotten them both escorted off the premises with extreme prejudice. Then when Miriam had gotten mixed up with the Clan she’d hired Paulie to look after her interests back home in Boston, United States timeline. Paulette knew about the Clan, had grown up in a tough neighborhood where some of the residents had mob connections. Angbard knew about Paulette, which meant there was a very real risk the office was indeed bugged, and thus Miriam had arranged to meet up with her at Penn Station.
The brasserie was crowded but not totally logjammed yet, and Paulette managed to get them a table near the back. “I need breakfast,” Miriam said, frowning. “What’s good?”
“The bruschetta’s passable, and I was going to go for the spaghetti al polpette.” Paulette shrugged. “To drink, the usual hangover juice, right?”
“Yeah, a double OJ it is.” At which point the waitress caught up with them and Miriam held back until Paulette had ordered. “Now. Did you get me the stuff I asked for?”
“Sure.” Miriam felt something against her leg—the plastic shopping bag Paulie had been carrying. It was surprisingly heavy—lots of paper, a box file perhaps. “It’s in there.”
“Okay. All of that is for me?” Miriam stared, perplexed.
Paulette grinned. “Give me credit.”
“Yeah, I know you’re good—but that much?”
“I have my ways,” Paulie said smugly. Quieter: “Don’t worry, I kept it low-key. First up are the public filings, SEC stuff, all hard copy. The downloads I did in a cybercafe, using an anonymous Hotmail account I never access from home. To pay for the searches, I got an account with a special online bank: they issue one-time credit card numbers you can use to pay for something over the Net. The idea is, you use the number once, the transaction is charged to your account at the bank, then the number goes away. Anyone wants to trace me, they’re going to have to break the bank’s security first, okay?”