“I’m not going to ignore them.” Miriam picked moodily at a loose thread on the left sleeve of her day-dress. “Damn it. You remember my Dictaphone? I need it, or one like it. Make it one that runs on microcassettes, and make sure there’s a spare set of batteries and spare tapes for, oh, let’s go mad and say twenty-four hours. Add a pair of desktop recorders with on/off pedals to the shopping list, and another laptop, and some kind of printer. We’ve got the generator, right? Let’s use it. Can you find me a couple of people who know how to use a keyboard and speak both English and hochsprache who we can trust? I need an office staff for this job. . . .”
Brill closed her mouth with a snap. “Uh. An office?”
“Yeah.” Miriam’s smile flickered on for a moment. “You’ve framed it for me: This is a political do, isn’t it? And I’m a politician. So I’m going to listen to everybody, and because I can’t take it all in, I’m going to record what they say and respond later, off-line. But somebody’s got to type up all those petitions and turn them into stuff I can deal with.”
“You need secretaries.” Brill picked up her clipboard, flipped over a page, and began making notes. “Trustworthy—I know. Second sons or daughters of allies? To assist the queen-widow’s household? I believe . . . yes, I can do that. Anything else?”
“Yes. I want a photographer.”
“A photographer.” Brill frowned. “That is very unusual? . . .”
“Yes, well. If anyone makes trouble, tell the truth: I need to learn to recognize people, and because I’m new around here and don’t want to give offense by not recognizing people the second time I see them, I want photographs with names attached. But otherwise—hmm. It’s a party. People are on display, right? So have a photo printer to hand, and offer to take portraits. Do you think that would work?”
“We don’t have a photo printer. . . .” Brill trailed off. She blinked, surprised. “You offer portraits, while you compile mug shots? . . .”
“Old political campaign trick, kid, Mom told me about it. She did some campaigning back in the eighties when she was married to—” Miriam stopped, her throat closing involuntarily. Dad, she thought, a black sense of despair suffocating her for a moment. “Shit.”
Brill stared at her. “Helge?”
Miriam shook her head.
“Hara!” Brill snapped her fingers. “A cup of the slack for my lady, at once.” The maidservant, who had been hiding in some dark recess, darted away with a duck of her head that might have been a bow. “Helge?” Brill repeated gently.
“A memory.” Miriam stared at the backs of her hands. Smooth skin, unpainted nails—nail paint was an alien innovation here—and she remembered holding her father’s hands, years ago; it seemed like an eternity ago. A happier, more innocent lifetime that belonged to someone else. “You know how it is. You’re thinking about something completely different and then—bang.”
“Your father.” Brill cleared her throat. “You do not speak of Lord Alfredo, do you.”
Miriam sighed. “The man is dead, and besides, it was in another country a long time ago.” She glanced at Brill. “He died nearly ten years ago. He was a good man.” She tried to swallow. “It seems so long ago. I’m being silly! . . .”
“No you’re not.” Brill laid her clipboard down as the door opened. It was the maid, bearing a tray with a bottle and two cups on it. “You’ve been driving yourself hard today, my lady; a cup and a pause to refresh your nerves will not delay you any more than overtiring yourself would do.”
“A cup.” Miriam focused on the tray as Hara placed it on the table and retreated, bowing. Over the weeks she’d been working on her ability to ignore the omnipresent servants; or rather, to avoid embarrassing anyone—herself or them—by recognizing them as social individuals. Long habit of politeness vied with newly learned behavior as she held herself back from thanking the woman (which would only commence both of them on a possibly disastrous social minuet of interaction that might result in the maid losing her job or being flogged for insolence if she misspoke). “Pour one for yourself, Brill. I’m—you’re right. Anyway, what am I meant to be doing next?”
Brilliana produced a pocketwatch from her sleeve. “Hmm. You were due for a fitting half an hour ago, but that doesn’t matter. The seamstresses already have all the toiles they need, they can embroider while they wait. Hmm again. There is the menu to consider, and your household’s clothing, and the fireworks, and small gifts and largesse, but”—her gaze flickered to Miriam’s face—“we can do that tomorrow. Milady? Right now, you’re going to take a break. Please?”
Ding-dong.
The doorbell chime died away. The short dark-haired woman swore quietly and put down the vegetable knife she’d been using on a handful of onions. “What now?” she asked herself rhetorically, wiping her hands on a towel as she walked towards the front door. Last week it had been the Jehovah’s Witnesses, the week before . . . well, at least it won’t be them. They never ring. They just appeared in her living room, disturbingly self-possessed and always armed.
“Yes?” she said, opening the door.
“Hi, Paulie,” said Brilliana, smiling hesitantly.
Paulette gaped for a moment. “You’d better come in.” She took in Brill’s companion: “You, too?”
“Thank you,” said Olga, as they retreated into the front hall. She closed the door carefully. “Miriam sent us.”
“Looks nice,” Brill added offhand as she looked around. “That wallpaper, is it new?”
“I put it up six months ago!” Paulette stared at her in exasperation and muted fear. At her last visit, Brill had hinted darkly about the extremes the Clan would go to in order to preserve their secrecy. “How is she? Did you find her?”
“Yes.” Brilliana grimaced. “Luckily I found her before things went too badly awry. And there is gold at the end of this tunnel.”
“Politics! Who needs it?” Olga chirped brightly, momentarily slipping into her well-practiced airhead role. “One needs must be patient while these things work themselves out. But in any case, we thought we ought to visit. It’s well past time we had a talk.”
“Um.” Paulette backed towards the kitchen. “Sure. How would you like to do it over an iced tea?”
“I’d like that just fine.”
Ten minutes later, with mugs in hand, they were seated around the coffee table in the lounge. “Have you had any official visits?” asked Brill. “Men in black, that sort of thing?” She said it lightly, as if half-joking, but Paulette knew how serious it was.
“No, nothing I’ve noticed. No visits, no strange mini-vans, none of that sort of thing.”
“Fine.” Brill sounded reassured. Olga, however, looked thoughtful.
“Don’t you want to check the phone lines?” she asked, unable to help herself.
“Already done.” Brill’s smile was unsettling. “I left a device behind on my last visit. It would have told me if there was any sign of tampering.”
“We hope,” Olga added, with a disturbing smile.
“Oh.” Paulette took a mouthful of her drink to stop herself saying anything she might regret later. “Well that’s alright then.” Brill showed no sign of noticing any irony. “So you came to have a little chat. After nearly six months of nothing at all.” She squinted at Brill. “And you brought Olga. How nice.” Sarcasm was risky, but Paulette was a realist: If the news was really bad, these two wouldn’t have invited themselves in for a social. There had to be a value proposition in play here, an offer too good to refuse. But at least they were here to make an offer, not to simply shoot her out of hand. The Clan were comparatively civilized, for a bunch of barely postmedieval gangsters.