“Yes?” She frowned at the ferret.
“If you will permit me to introduce myself? I am Dr. Robard ven Hjalmar. Your great-uncle the baron asked me to pay a house call.”
“What kind of doctor are you?”
“The medical kind.” He managed a smile that was halfway between a simper and a smirk.
“A medical—” Miriam paused. “I don’t need a doctor,” she said automatically. “I’m fine.” Which wasn’t strictly true—her ribs ached from the punch, and she was feeling unnaturally torpid and depressed—but something about ven Hjalmar made her mistrust him instinctively.
“You don’t need a doctor now,” he said fussily, and planted his case on the floor. “However, I have been asked to take you on as one of my patients.”
The ferret cleared his throat. “Dr. ven Hjalmar ministers to the royal family.”
“Oh, I see.” Miriam put the book down, carefully positioning the bookmark. “What does that entail?” Why me?
“I am required to testify to your health and fitness.” Ven Hjalmar’s gaze slid around the room nervously, avoiding her. “You are, I am sure you are aware, of a certain age—not too old for a first confinement, but certainly in need of care and attention. And I understand you may have other medical needs. If you would be so good as to retire to your bedchamber, your maids will relieve you of your outerwear so that I may prepare my report. You need not be afraid, you will be chaperoned and your guardian will be right outside the door.”
Miriam glared at the ferret. “Do I get an opportunity to say no?”
The ferret was stony-faced. “Remember your instructions.” The two unfamiliar maids stepped forward and took Miriam by the arms. She tensed, on the edge of panic: but the ferret was watching her.
What happened next was one of the most unintrusive but oddly unpleasant medical examinations Miriam had ever undergone. The servants led her into the bedroom; then, with the door closed, one of them (a beefy blond woman with rosy cheeks and the look of an amateur boxer to her) held Miriam’s wrists together while the other unlaced her bodice. Neither of them spoke. “Let me—go,” Miriam tried, but boxer-woman just stared at her dumbly.
“Stand still, please.” It was ven Hjalmar. Boxer-woman refused to let go, holding her pinioned. “Open your mouth. Ah—hah. Very good.” He stepped around her and she felt a stethoscope through her chemise. “Breathe in—and out. Ah, good.” He worked fast, giving her a basic examination. Then: “I gather you were given a pap smear on the other side. I’ll have the results of that back in a day or so. Meanwhile, I’d like to ask you some questions about your medical history.”
Pap smear? Miriam blinked. “Make them let me go,” she said stubbornly, flexing her wrists.
“Not yet.” Ven Hjalmar looked down his nose at her, standing there in her underwear with her wrists immobilized by boxer-woman. “When, exactly, did you lose your maidenhood?”
“None of your business.” She tried not to snarl. If you do not obey your orders I will hurt you, the ferret had said: she didn’t dare forget.
“I assure you, it is very much my business.” Ven Hjalmar shrugged. “And it will be the worse for you if you don’t answer.”
“Why do you want to know?” she demanded. Boxer-woman tugged on her left wrist, hard enough to make her wince. “What is this?”
“I am attempting to compile a report for the Crown,” Ven Hjalmar said primly. “You are thirty-three years old, I understand? You are in good health and disease-free, and I am informed already that you are not a virgin, but this is old for a first pregnancy, such as you will be attempting within the next year. I need to know everything about your reproductive history. If you will not tell me, I will have to examine you intimately, and then guess as to the rest. Which would you prefer?”
“It won’t be a first pregnancy,” Miriam admitted through gritted teeth. Damn, why couldn’t I have gotten my tubes tied? She knew why: she’d never gotten around to it. She even knew why she’d never gotten around to it—the sneaking suspicion that one day there might be a right time and a right man to start a family with. The huge irony being that as a direct result she was now being lined up to start a family with absolutely the wrong man at the wrong time. “I was twenty-one.” She tried to pull away again. “Make her let go of me.”
“Keep talking,” said ven Hjalmar.
Miriam tensed, but boxer-woman was developing an evil Nurse Ratched glare. “One child. Girl, the father was my ex-husband, I was still studying—a contraceptive accident. I didn’t want an abortion but we couldn’t afford to bring her up so Mom suggested we adopt out—”
Scribble scribble. Ven Hjalmar’s pen was busy. Miriam kept talking, her mind blank; she managed one barefaced lie (that she didn’t know anything about the adopters), but that was it. Abject surrender. She felt dirty. What business was it of this quack to pick over her sexual history? He wanted to know everything: had she suffered from morning sickness, what medicines had they prescribed, had she ever had bladder problems—only when your hired thugs punch me in the gut—and more. He went on for hours. Miriam made another stab at resistance when he started asking for names of every man she’d slept with, but at that point he dropped the matter and switched to asking about her hearing. But the interrogation left her feeling unaccountably dirty, like shop-soiled linen on display for all to see.
Finally, ven Hjalmar muttered something to Nurse Ratched, who let go of Miriam. Miriam took a step back, then sat down on the padded bench. “Yes?” she asked wearily.
“You have something of an attitude problem, young lady.”
“No shit.” Miriam drew her knees up beneath her shift and crossed her arms defensively around them. “You’re the one giving me the third degree in front of an audience.”
“They won’t say anything.” Ven Hjalmar smiled and said something to the other servant woman. She made a gabbling noise, incoherent and liquid, and turned to face Miriam. “As you can see.”
Miriam looked away the moment she saw the tongueless ruin inside the woman’s mouth. Oh shit, I’m going to have bad dreams tonight. “I see,” she said weakly, trying to recover what was left of her shredded dignity. “What did she do to deserve that?”
“She discussed her mistress’s intimate details.” Ven Hjalmar shook his head lugubriously. “The royal family takes medical confidentiality very seriously.”
Unaccountably, Miriam felt slightly less disheartened. So even you’re afraid, huh? We’ll see what we can do with that. “So what happens next?”
“I think we can skip the virginity test. It isn’t as if you are being considered for the crown prince, after all.” Ven Hjalmar stood up. “I believe you are a perfectly fit young woman, of sound body, perhaps a little disturbed by your circumstances but that will pass. If you would like something to help your mood, I am sure we can do something about that—have you considered Prozac? Guaranteed to cure all black humors, so I’m assured by the manufacturer. I shall take my leave now, and your own maidservants will help return you to your usual peak of feminine beauty.” He produced the odd, simpering smile once again. “Incidentally,” he added sotto voce, “I understand and commiserate with the difficult circumstances of your marriage. If it’s any consolation, you may not have to lie with the, ah, afflicted one if you do not wish to. A sample can be obtained and a douche prepared, if you prefer.”