“By winter, we’ll be building the new Jerusalem! And you, my friend, are going to tell the world that’s what we’re going to do.”
Pomp, circumstance, and matters of state seemed inseparable; and the more tenuous the state, the more pomp and circumstance seemed to surround it, Miriam reflected. “I hope this is going to work,” she murmured.
“Milady, it looks perfect!” Gerta, her recently acquired lady of the wardrobe, chirped, tugging at the laces of her left sleeve. “You are the, the model of a queen!” Her English was heavily accented and somewhat hesitant, but at least she had some; Brill had filtered the candidates ruthlessly to ensure that Miriam wasn’t left floundering with her rudimentary hochsprache.
I don’t feel like one, Miriam thought, but held her counsel. I feel more like a wedding cake decoration gone wrong. And this outfit weighs more than a suit of armor. She was still ambivalent about the whole mad scheme; only the certain knowledge of what could happen if this masquerade failed was holding her on course—on course for weeks of state audiences and banquets and balls, and seven months of sore feet, morning nausea, aching back, and medical worries. “Continue,” she said tonelessly, as Gerta continued to wind a seemingly endless silver chain around her collar, while three other maids—more junior by far—fussed around her.
She’d lain awake for most of the previous night, listening to the wind drumming across the roof above her, and the calls of the sentries as they exchanged watch, and she’d worried at the plan like a dog with a mangy leg. If this was the right thing to do, if this was the right thing for her, if, if . . . if she was going to act a part in a perilous play, if she was going to have another baby—at her age—not with a man she loved, but by donor insemination, as a bargaining chip in a deadly political game, to lay claim to a toxic throne. Poor little bastard, she thought—and he would, indeed, be a bastard except for the elaborate lies of a dozen pre-briefed and pre-blackmailed witnesses who would swear blind to a secret wedding ceremony—doomed to be a figurehead for the throne. Damn, and I thought I had problems. . . .
Miriam had no illusions about the fate awaiting anyone who aspired to sit on the throne of the Gruinmarkt. It would be an unstable and perilous perch, even without the imminent threat of invasion or attack by the US government. If I wanted the best for him I’d run away, very fast, very far, she’d decided. But the best for him would be the worst for everyone else: The Gruinmarkt would fall apart very fast if a strong settlement wasn’t reestablished. It would trigger a civil war of succession, she realized. And her life, and her mother’s, and—nearly everyone I care for—would be in danger. I can’t do that, she thought hopelessly, punching the overstuffed bolster as she rolled over in the night. Where did I get this sense of loyalty from? What do I owe them, after what they did to me?
“My lady?” She blinked back to the present to see Gerta staring at her. “And now, your face?”
The women of the Clan, and their relatives in the outer families—recessive carriers of the gene that activated the world-walking ability—had discovered cosmetics, but not modernism or minimalism. Miriam, who’d never gone in for much more than lip gloss and eyeliner, forced herself to stand still while Gerta and a small army of assistants did their best to turn her into a porcelain doll, using so many layers of powder that she was afraid to smile lest her face crack and fall off. At least they’re using imported cosmetics rather than white lead and belladonna, she consoled herself.
A seeming eternity of primping preparations passed before the door crashed open, startling her considerably. Miriam, unable to simply turn her head, maneuvered to look: “Yes? Oh—”
“My lady. Are you ready?” It was Brilliana, dressed to the nines and escorted by two young lords with swords and MP5Ks at their waists, and three more overdressed girls (one to hold the train of her gown, the others evidently for decoration).
Miriam sighed. “Gerta. Am I ready?”
Gerta squawked and dropped a curtsey before Brill. “My lady! Another half hour, please? Her grace is nearly—”
Brill looked Miriam up and down with professional speed. “No. Stick a crown on her and she’s done,” she announced, with something like satisfaction. “How do you feel, Helge?”
“I feel”—Miriam dropped into halting hochsprache—“I am, am ready. I am like a hot, blanket? No, sheet, um, no, dress—”
Brill smiled and nodded—somehow she’d evaded the worst excesses of the cosmetological battalions—and produced a small crystal vial with a silver stopper from a fold in her sleeve, which she offered. “You’ll need this,” she suggested.
Miriam took it and held it before her face, where the flickering lamps in the chandelier could illuminate it. “Um. What is it?”
“Crystal meth. In case you doze off.” Brill winked.
“But I’m pregnant!” Miriam scolded indignantly.
“Hist. One or two won’t hurt you, you know? I asked a good doctor.” (Not, by her emphasis, Dr. ven Hjalmar, who Miriam had publicly speculated about disemboweling—especially if, as Gunnar had implied, he was still alive.) “The damage if this act of theater should go awry is far greater than the risk of a miscarriage.”
“I thought you had an iron rule, don’t dabble in the cargo. . . .”
“This isn’t dabbling, it is your doctor’s prescription, Helge. You are going to have to sit on that chair looking alert for more than four hours without caffeine or a toilet break, and I am warning you, it is as hard as a board. How else are you going to manage it?”
Miriam shook one of the tablets into the palm of her hand and swallowed. “Uck. That was vile.”
“Come now, your grace! Klaus”—Brill half-turned, and snapped her fingers—“Menger, attend! You will lead. Jeanne and you, you will follow me. Sabine, you take my train. We will practice our order on the way to the carriage. Her grace will walk ten paces behind you, and you—yes, Gerta—arrange her attendants. When we arrive at the palace, once we enter the hall, you will pass me and proceed to the throne, Helge, and be seated when the Green Staff is struck for the third time and Baron Reinstahl declares the session open. I’ll lead you in, you just concentrate on looking as if I’m not there and not tripping on your hem. Then we will play it by ear. . . .”
They walked along the passageway from the royal receiving room at a slow march. Brill paced ahead of her, wearing an ornate gown dripping with expensive jewelry. The walls were still pocked with the scars of musket balls. The knights Brilliana had brought to her dressing room paced to either side, and behind them came another squad of soldiers—outer family relatives, heavily armed and tense. It was all, Miriam thought, a masque, the principal actors wearing costumes that emphasized their power and wealth. Even the palace was a stage set—after the explosion at the Hjalmar Palace, none of the high Clan nobles would dare spend even a minute longer than absolutely necessary there. But you had to hold a coronation where people could see it. The whole thing, right down to the ending, was as scripted as a Broadway musical. Miriam concentrated on keeping her face fixed in what she hoped was a benevolent half-smile: In truth, her jaw ached and everything shone with a knife-edged crystal clarity that verged on hallucination.