“You, you approve execution warrants for the Clan?”
“Don’t you tell me you didn’t suspect something of the kind.” Henryk stared at her for a moment, then looked at the next note on his in-tray and frowned. “Hmm.” He picked up a different pen and scrawled a red slash across the page, folded it, and put it in the out-tray. “I don’t think so.” He put the pen down as carefully as if it were a loaded gun, then looked back at Miriam. “I’m not ready to give up on you yet.”
Miriam took a deep breath. “What—who—was that?”
“It could have been you.” His lips quirked. “We can’t protect you forever, you know.” He carefully drew a black velvet cloth across the papers and turned round to face her. “Especially if you keep putting your head through every snare you come across.”
“Why am I here?” She wanted to ask, How much do you think I know? But right now that might be a very bad idea indeed. Possibly she knew more than Henryk realized, and if that was the case, admitting it could be a fatal mistake.
“You’re here because you stuck your nose where it didn’t belong. I’m here because I’m trying to control the damage.” He took his reading glasses off and folded them carefully, then placed them on top of the black cloth. “Let’s get this straight. We know you learned about something you aren’t supposed to know about. That’s . . . not good. Then you compounded it by getting involved—and getting involved personally! You could have been identified. The next step might have been full public disclosure, with who knows what consequences. Helge, that is not acceptable. Before, before all this started, you came to me complaining that you were being treated as if you were under arrest. This time, make no mistake, you are under arrest.”
She tried to stay silent, but it was too hard. “What are you going to do with me?”
Baron Henryk didn’t reply at first. Instead, he looked up at the windows for a while, as if inspecting the quality of the plasterwork of the surrounds. “Interfering with the Clan post is a capital offense,” he said, pushing back his chair. He stood up heavily and crossed the carpet to the far side of the room, limping slightly. Miriam stood as if rooted to the spot. “Just so that you understand how serious the situation is, I was not exaggerating when I said that execution warrant might be yours.” Henryk turned and squinted at her across the room from between fingers held in a frame, like a cinematographer assessing a camera angle. “Hmm.”
Miriam shivered involuntarily and took a step toward him. “Then why—”
“Because you are still useful to us,” Henryk said calmly. “Stop, stand still.” He walked across to the other corner of the room, looked at her from between crossed fingers. “That’s good. As I was saying, you made a habit of sticking your nose into affairs where it has no business. Luckily this time we found out before it became common knowledge—otherwise I would have had to approve a great deal more death warrants in order to cover up your misbehavior, and your mother would never forgive me.” He made the rectangle again.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m thinking of taking your portrait; be still.” He squinted and shifted a little. “It’s a hobby of mine, plate-glass daguerreotyping.” He lowered his hands and limped back toward his desk. “The Queen Mother approves of you.”
Miriam took another deep breath, distressed. “What’s that got to do with things?”
“It suggests a way out of the dilemma.” Henryk stopped, just out of arm’s reach, and watched her. “Interfering with the post, Helge, isn’t the only capital offense. Making the head of Clan Security look like an idiot—that is a capital offense, albeit a more subtle one for which the punishment is never made public. As for jeopardizing relations between the Clan and the Crown, that is really serious. Lese-majeste, possibly treason. Not that you’re guilty of the latter two, not yet, but I wouldn’t put it past you, given how you’ve got the crown prince’s nose out of joint already.” He chuckled quietly. “We can’t afford to give you any more rope to play with, Helge, or you will succeed in hanging yourself. I’m afraid this is where the buck stops.” He walked back to his desk and unfolded the black cloth, swearing mildly as he spilled his spectacles. “ ‘Deferred pending overriding necessity,’ Helge, that’s all the slack I can buy you.” He held up the folded paper. “So here’s what is going to happen.
“You will speak to nobody about reading the post, without my permission, or that of the duke your uncle. The, ah, loose ends who might have deduced your activity have been tied off. If you do not speak of it, and we do not speak of it, it did not happen. This paper will remain on file for a few years, until we feel we can trust you. But.” He paced back toward the other side of the room. “You will have nothing more to do with the Clan postal service ever again, Helge, ever again. This is the immediate consequence of your actions. You are to be permanently removed from the corvée, and temporarily deprived of the ability to walk between worlds.” He grimaced. “Don’t force us to make it permanent, there are ways and means short of execution that would achieve that end”—he picked up a pen-sized cylinder and held it for her to see, then put it down again—“do you see?”
Miriam swallowed. That’s a laser! He’s talking about blinding me! The idea of spending the rest of her life unable to see horrified her. “I understand,” she managed to croak.
“Good.” Baron Henryk looked slightly relieved. “I’m sure you appreciate that your position is somewhat fraught. But the Queen Mother approves of you.” Pace, pace, pace: he was off again, as if he didn’t want to face her. “She has requested your attendance upon her and her youngest surviving grandson at your convenience, Helge. I trust you know what this is about.”
Miriam felt the blood draining from her face. “What?” she asked nervously.
“Face facts.” Henryk could sound as fussily pedantic as any schoolteacher when he was upset. “You are a Clan lady of high birth, single, still of childbearing age. If you can’t serve the commerce committee, how else may you serve us? There’s not a lot else for you to do,” he said, almost apologetically. “So you’re going to go back to your residence and wait there, and work on your, what you think of as, your cover identity. Countess Helge voh Thorold d’Hjorth. You’re not going to be allowed to be Miriam Beckstein again until we’re sure we can trust you. We know about your dissociative tendencies, this unfortunate tendency toward imposter syndrome. It’s time we gave you some help in breaking the habit. Think of it as an enforced vacation from the pressures of modern life, hein? Practice your hochsprache and persist with the gentle arts, and try not to overexert yourself too much. One way or the other, you’re going to make yourself of use, even if only to give us another generation of world-walkers or a royal heir. It will go easier for you if you cooperate of your own free choice.”
“You want to marry me off to the Idiot,” she heard herself saying. “You want me to bear world-walking children who are in line for the throne. If Egon were to die—”
“That would be treason,” Henryk said sharply, staring at her. “The Clan would never, ever, countenance treason.”
The blood was roaring in Miriam’s ears: You wouldn’t dabble, but you might play at it in earnest, she thought. Get me out of here! A monstrous sense of claustrophobia pressed down on her, and her stomach twisted. “I feel sick,” she said.
“Oh, I hope not.” Henryk looked alarmed. “It’s much too soon for that.”