He glanced at the inner shrine, in its sealed cabinet on the left of the Yellow Room. “Our ancestor, revered though he be, may have made a terrible error about the cause of the abandonment. Unthinkable though that is, we must question everything until we discern the truth. And then we must find a way to achieve victory.”

“Hello, Roland’s voice mail. If it’s still secure, meet me at the Marriott suite you rented, tonight at six p.m. Bye.” She stabbed the “off” button on her phone viciously then remarked to the air, “Be there or be dead meat.”

Paulette was bent over the screen of her laptop, messing around with some fine arts web sites, a browser window pointing to a large online bookstore: “Are you sure you mean that?” she murmured.

“I don’t know.” Miriam frowned darkly, arms crossed defensively. “Give me the car keys, I’m going for a drive. Back late.”

Being behind the wheel of a car cleared Miriam’s head marvelously. The simple routine of driving, merging with traffic and keeping the wheels on the icy road, distracted her from the ulcer of worry gnawing away at her guts. At Home Depot she shoved a cart around with brutal energy, slowing only when a couple of five-gallon cans of kerosene turned it into a lumbering behemoth. Afterwards she left quickly and headed for the interstate.

She was almost a hundred and thirty miles south of Boston, driving fast, haunted by evil thoughts, when her phone rang. She held it to her ear as she drove.

“Yes?”

“Miriam?” Her throat caught.

“Roland? Where are you?”

“I’m in the hotel suite right now. Listen, I’m so sorry.”

You will be, if I find you’re responsible, she thought. “I’ll be over in about an hour, hour and twenty,” she said. “You’re alone?”

“Yes. I haven’t told anyone else about this room.”

“Good, neither have I.” They’d rented the room in New York for privacy, for a safe house where they could discuss their mutual plans and fears—and for other purposes. Now all she could think of was the man in her mother’s Dumpster, eyes frozen and staring. “Do you know if Angbard got my message?”

“What message?” He sounded puzzled. “The courier—”

“The message about my mother.”

“I think so,” he said uncertainly. “You sure you can’t be here any faster?”

She chuckled humorlessly. “I’m on the interstate.”

“Uh, okay. I can’t stay too long—got to go back over. But if you can be here in an hour we’ll have an hour together.”

“Maybe,” she said guardedly. “I’ll see you.”

She killed the phone and sped up.

It took her only an hour and ten minutes to make the last sixty miles, cross town, and find somewhere to park near the hotel. As she got out of the car she paused, first to pat her jacket pocket and then to do a double take. This is crazy, she thought, I’m going everywhere with a gun! And no license, much less a concealed-carry permit. Better not get stopped, then. Having to cross over in a hurry would be painful, not to say potentially dangerous; the temporary tattoos on her wrists seemed to itch as she pushed through the doors and into the lobby of the hotel.

The elevator took forever to crawl up to the twenty-second floor, then she was standing in the thickly carpeted silence of the hallway outside the room. She knocked, twice. The door opened to reveal Roland, wearing an immaculate business suit, looking worried. He looked great, better than great. She wanted to tear his clothes off and lick him all over—not an urge she had any intention of giving in to.

His face lit up when he saw her. “Miriam! You’re looking well.” He waved her into the room.

“I’m not looking good,” she said automatically, shoulders hunched. “I’m a mess.” She glanced around. The room was anonymous as usual, untouched except for the big aluminium briefcase on the dressing table. She walked over to the row of big sealed windows overlooking the city. “I’ve been living out of a suitcase for days on end. Why did you call me yesterday?” She steeled herself for the inevitable, ensuring that his next words came as a surprise.

“It’s—” He looked drawn. “It’s about Olga. She’s been shot. She’s stable, but—”

“Was it a shotgun?” Miriam interrupted, startled out of her scripted confrontation.

“A shotgun?” He frowned. “No, it was a pistol, at close range. After you disappeared, ran or whatever, she started acting very strangely. Refused to let anyone anywhere near her chambers then moved into your apartment at House Hjorth, deeply disconcerting Baron Oliver—she did it deliberately to snub him, I think.” He shook his head. “Then someone shot her. The servants were in the antechamber to her room, heard a scuffle and shots—she defended herself. When they went in, there was blood, but no assassin to be seen.”

Miriam leaned against the wall wearily, overcome by a sense that events were spinning out of control. “After I ran. Anything about a corpse in the orangery? Or a couple more in Olga’s rooms? We sure left enough bullet holes in the walls—”

“What?” Roland stood up, agitated. “I didn’t hear anything about this! I got the message about you running, but not—”

“There were two assassination attempts.” Miriam tugged at the curtains, pulling them shut. You can never be sure, she thought, chilled: even though a high building was implicitly doppelgängered, inaccessible from the other worlds, a Clan sniper in a neighboring office block could shoot and then make a clean escape as soon as they reached ground level. “The first guy wanted me in the garden. Unfortunately for their plans, Olga’s chaperone Margit turned up instead. I went back to tell Olga and ran into two guys with machine pistols.”

“But—” Roland shut his mouth, visibly biting his tongue, as Miriam stared at him.

“I don’t think they were working together,” Miriam added after a brief pause. “That’s why I … left.”

“I ought to get you to a safe house right now,” said Roland. “It’s what Angbard will expect. We can’t have random strangers trying to murder Clan heiresses. That they should have shot Olga is bad enough, but this goes far beyond anything I’d known about.” He glanced at her sharply. “It’s as if I’m being kept out of the loop deliberately.”

“Tell me about Olga?” Miriam asked. Well, we know just how reliable Angbard thinks you are. “How is she being looked after? What sort of treatment is she receiving?”

“Whoa! Slowly. Baron Oliver couldn’t afford to look as if he was ignoring an attack under his own roof—he personally got her across to an emergency room in New York, and notified the Duke while they stabilized her. Angbard had her moved to Boston Medical Center by helicopter once she was ready: She’s in a private room, under guard.” Roland looked mildly satisfied at her expression of surprise. “She’s got round-the-clock bodyguards and hot and cold running nurses. Angbard isn’t taking any chances with her safety. We could provide bodyguards for you, too, if you want—”

“Not an issue. But I want to visit Olga.” Miriam put her shoulder bag down on the bed. “Tonight.”

“You can’t. She’s stable, but that doesn’t mean she’s taking visitors. She’s on a drip and pain killers with a hole in one arm and a head injury. Shock and blood loss—it took us nearly two hours to get her to the emergency room. Maybe in a couple of days, when she’s feeling better, you can see her.”

“You said she had a head injury?”

“Yeah. The bad guy used a small-caliber popgun, that’s why she’s still alive.” He looked at her. “You carry—”

Miriam pulled out her pistol. “Like this?” she asked dryly. “Fuck it, Roland, if I was going to kill Olga, I wouldn’t mess around. You know damn well they were hoping to nail me instead.”

“I know, I know.” He looked irritated and gloomy. “It wasn’t you. Nobody with half a wit says it was you, and the fools that do don’t have any pull at court. But your departure set more tongues flapping than anything else that’s happened in years; a real scandal, say the idiots. Eloping with a lady-in-waiting, according to the more lurid imaginations. It doesn’t look good to them, the shooting coming so soon after.”