I can’t do that, Miriam thought despairingly. She flopped back on the bed again. I want out, sure. But do I want out badly enough to kill people? If the only person to suffer was Baron Henryk, perhaps the answer was yes—and that asshole doctor, she wouldn’t mind hurting him, or at least putting him through the same level of humiliation he’d inflicted on her. But the idea of turning everyone in the Clan over to the US government cut too close to the bone. I am one of them, she realized, turning the unwelcome idea over in her mind to examine it for feel. I don’t think like them and I hate the way they work, but I can’t hand my family over to the government. Leaving aside the fact that the Clan thought they were a government—and had a reasonable claim to being one—that thought clarified things somewhat.
And then there’s Mom.
Miriam took a deep breath. Her mood of fragile hope crashed, giving way to bleak depression. Henryk’s got me. Iris is right, I’m out of options. Unless something unexpected happens, I am stuck with this. I’ll have to go through with it. She winced. What did they say about pregnancy? You can’t world-walk while you’re expecting. Another unwanted, hostile imposition on her freedom. He won’t need a prison cell while I’m pregnant, she realized. And afterward . . . when Iris had made her escape she’d been young and healthy. By the time Miriam delivered, she’d be close to her mid-thirties.
There was a knock. Miriam pushed herself upright and stretched. The knock repeated, tentative, uncertain of itself. Not the ferret, she thought, walking over to the door. “Yes?” she demanded.
“Milady, we’re to—” She didn’t understand the rest, but she knew the tone of voice. She opened the door.
“You are, me, to dress?” Miriam managed haltingly. The two servants bobbed. “Good.” She shrugged. This is going to happen, she realized dismally, walking toward the wardrobe as if on autopilot. Oh well. I guess I should leave this to Helge, then. Helge? “Now what am I to wear?” she said aloud, surprising herself with her diction.
The Clan weren’t big on subtle messages. Helge let the servants lace her into an underdress, then help her into a winter gown of black silk and deep blue velvet. It had long sleeves, full skirts, and a neckline that rose to a high collar. Current fashion favored a revealing décolletage, but she was in a funereal mood. She wrapped a thick rope of pearls around her waist as a belt, and looped another around her collar. Then she checked her appearance in the mirror. Her cheek was coming up in a fine bruise where Henryk had struck her, so she picked out a black lace veil, cloak, and matching gloves from her armoire. Let ’em wonder what kind of damaged goods they’re buying, she thought bitterly. This outfit wouldn’t give much away: truthfully, it looked like Victorian mourning drag. “I’m ready to go now,” she announced, entering the reception room. “Where is that, that idle—”
“Right here.” The front door was open, the ferret standing beside it. “My, how mysterious.”
“Is the coach ready?”
“If you would care to follow me . . .”
She managed to descend the staircase without tripping, and she clambered into the coach that was waiting. A sealed coach, with shuttered windows, she observed. Still a prisoner, I see, she noted ironically. Someone doesn’t trust me.
The air was close and the evening warm. Helge fanned herself as the coach clattered and swayed out of the courtyard and across the streets. Alone in the dark, she brooded listlessly. Is this the right thing to do? she wondered, then felt like kicking herself: See any alternatives, stupid? She felt stiff and defensive, her dress constricting and hot—more like a suit of armor than a display of glamour and wealth. I’m going to look like an idiot, she thought, preposterously frumpy. A moment later: Why should I care what they think? Bah.
After an interminable ride—which might have been five minutes or half an hour—the roadway smoothed, wheels crunching over gravel, and the carriage halted. Someone busied themselves with the padlock outside, then a glare of setting sunlight almost blinded Helge as she squeezed through the door.
“Milady.” It was—what was his name? Some flunky of Henryk’s, she decided. He handed her down the steps to a small gaggle of guards and ladies-in-waiting and general rubberneckers. “Please allow me to welcome you to the royal household. This is Sir Rybeck, master of the royal stables. And this is—”
It was a receiving line. For her. Helge offered her hand as she was gently moved along it, accepting bows and courtesies and strange lips on the back of her glove, smiling fixedly and trying not to bare her teeth. Two court ladies-in-waiting picked up the train of her cloak, and four guards in the red and gold of the royal troupe walked before her with long, viciously curved axes held aloft. This is public, she realized with a sinking feeling. They’re saying publicly that I rate the respect due a member of the royal household! Which meant there’d have to be some kind of announcement soon. Which in turn meant that they were definitely going through with it.
She’d never paid too much attention to royal etiquette in the past, and anything she’d accidentally read about in her old life was obviously inapplicable, but it was seriously intimidating. People were acting as if they were afraid of her. And if anyone thought her gown was unfashionable or noticed her bruised cheek under the veil, they were keeping quiet about it.
There was a huge banquet hall with several tables set up inside it, one of them on a raised platform at the back. People thronged the floor of the halclass="underline" as she entered the room there was a ripple of low-key conversation. Faces turned toward her. Butterflies flapped their wings in her stomach. “What now?” she asked her guide quietly, gripping his arm, forcing her hochsprache to perform.
“I escort you to the antechamber. You greet the king. You greet the prince. There will be drinks. Then there will be the meal.” He kept his diction clear and his phrases short, speaking slowly out of deference to her poor language skills. To her surprise, Helge understood most of what he said.
“Is the duke here? Angbard? Or Baron Henryk?” she asked.
His reply was a small shrug. “Alas, matters of state keep both of them away.”
“Oh.” Right. Matters of state, it seemed, conspired to keep her from giving them a piece of her mind. She walked past the curious crowds—she smiled and nodded at enquiries, but kept her feet moving—then a door opened ahead of her. Guards grounded their axes. None of the nobles at this show were wearing swords. She went right ahead, then her escort stopped, a restraining hand on hers. Miriam paused, then recognized the sad-faced man in front of her. Her mind went blank. He’s wearing a crown. You’re supposed to be marrying his son. What am I supposed to do now? Helge bent her knee in a deep curtsey. “Your majesty. I am, it pleases, me to see you.”