She wandered through into the bedroom and sat on the futon beneath the platform bed in the corner. Her phone was still sitting on the floor next to it, plugged in to charge but switched off. She picked it up, switched it on, waited for it to log on, then hit her mailbox.

“You have messages. Message one…” A gravelly voice, calling from ten days ago. “Miriam?” She sat up straight: It was Angbard! “I have been thinking very deeply and I have concluded that you are right.”

Her jaw dropped. “Holy shit,” she whispered.

“What you said about my security is correct. Olga is at evident risk. For the time being she remains in the hospital, but when you return, I release her into your care until Beltaigne, when I expect you both to appear before the Clan council to render an account of your persecution.”

Miriam found herself shaking. “Is there anything else?”

“There’s no news about your mother. I will continue to search until I find something positive to report to you. I am sorry I can’t tell you anything more about her disappearance. Rest assured that no stone will go unturned in hunting for her assailants. You may call me at any time, but bear in mind that my switchboard might—if you are correct—be intercepted. Good-bye.”

Click. “Message two—” Miriam shook her head. “Hello! This is a recorded greeting from Kleinmort Baintree Investments! Worried about your pension? You too—” Miriam hit the delete button.

“Message three: Call me. Please?” It was Roland, plaintive. She hit ‘delete’ again, feeling sick to her stomach. “Message four: Miriam? You there? Steve, at The Herald. Call me. Got work for you.”

It was the last message. Miriam stared at her phone for a good few seconds before she moved her thumb to the delete key. It only traveled a millimeter, but it felt like miles. She hung up. “Did I just hear myself do that?” she asked the empty room; “did I just decide to ignore a commission from The Herald?”

She shook her head, then began to rummage through the clothes in her burnished suitcase, looking for something to wear. They felt odd, and once dressed she felt as if she’d forgotten something, but at least it was comfortable and nothing pinched. “Weird,” she muttered and went back out into the corridor just as the front door banged open, admitting a freezing gust of cold air.

“Miriam!” Someone in a winter coat leapt forward and embraced her.

“Brill!” There was someone behind—“Olga! What are you doing here?”

“What do you think?” Olga looked around curiously. “What kind of house do you call this?”

“I don’t. It’s going to be a doppelgängered post office, though. Brill, let go, you’re freezing!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said earnestly. “The duke, he sent a message to you with lady Olga—”

“Yo! Coffee?” Paulie took one look at them and ducked back into the kitchenette.

“Come in. Sit down. Then tell me everything,” Miriam ordered.

They came in, stripping off outdoor coats: Olga had acquired a formal-looking suit from somewhere, which contrasted oddly with her arm in a sling. She shivered slightly. “How strange,” she remarked, looking round. “Charming, quaint! What’s that?”

“A fax machine. Everything feeling strange?” Miriam looked at her sympathetically. “I know that sensation—been having it a lot, lately.”

“No, it’s how familiar it feels! I’ve been seeing it on after-dinner entertainments for so long, but it’s not the same as being here.”

“Some of those tapes are quite old,” Miriam remarked. “Fashions change very fast over here.”

“Well.” Olga attempted a shrug, then winced. “Oh, coffee.” She accepted the offered mug without thanks. Paulie cast her a black look.

“Uh, Olga.” Miriam caught her eye.

“What?”

“This is Paulette. She’s my business manager and partner on this side.”

“Oh!” Olga stood up. “Please, I’m so sorry! I thought you were—”

“There aren’t any servants here,” Brill explained patiently.

“Oh, but I was so rude! I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s okay,” said Paulette. She glanced at Miriam. “Is this going to happen every time? It could get old fast.”

“I hope not.” Miriam pulled a face. “Okay, Olga. What did Uncle A have to say for himself?”

“He came to visit me shortly after you left. I’d had time to think on your explanations, and they made uncommon sense. So much sense, in truth, that I passed them on to him in a most forthright manner.”

Brill cracked up.

“Care to share the joke?” Miriam asked carefully.

“Oh, it was mirthful!” Brill managed to catch her breath for a moment before the giggles came back. “She told him, she told—”

Olga kept her face carefully neutral. “I pointed out that my schooling was incomplete, and that I had been due to spend some time here in any case.”

“She pointed out—”

“Uh.” Miriam stared at Olga. “Did she by any chance have something pointed to do the pointing out with?”

“There was no need, he took the message,” Olga explained calmly. “He also said that desperate times required desperate measures, and your success was to be prayed for by want of avoiding—” she glanced at Paulette—”the resumption of factional disputes.”

“Civil war, you mean. Okay.” Miriam nodded. “How long have you been out of the hospital?”

“But Miriam, this was today,” said Brilliana.

“Oh,” she said, hollowly. “I think I’m losing the plot.” She rubbed her forehead. “Too many balls in the air, and some of them are on fire.” She looked around at her audience; Paulie was watching them in fascination. “Olga, did you keep the locket you took from the gunman?”

“Yes.” Olga looked uncertain.

“Good.” Miriam smiled. “In that case, you may be able to help me earn more than the extra million dollars I borrowed from Angbard last month.” She pretended to ignore Paulette’s sharp intake of breath. “The locket doesn’t work in this world,” she explained, “but if you use it on the other side, it takes you to yet another place—more like this one than your home, but just as different in its own way.”

She took a mouthful of coffee. “I’m setting up a business in, uh, world three,” she told Olga. “It’s going to set the Clan on its collective ear when they find out. It’s also going to flush out our mystery assassins, who live in world three. Right out of wherever they’re hiding. The problem is, it takes a whole day for me to world-walk across in each direction. Running a business there is taking all my time.”

“You want me to be a courier?” asked Olga.

“Yes.” Miriam watched her. “In a week or two I’ll own a house in world three that is in exactly the same place as this office. And we’ve already got the beginnings of a camp in world one, in the woods norm of Niejwein, on the same spot. Once I’ve got the house established, it’ll be possible to go from here to there without having to wander through a strange city or know much about local custom—”

“Are you trying to tell me I’m not fit to be allowed out over there?” Olga’s eyes blazed.

“Er, no! No!” Miriam was taken aback until she noticed Brill stifling laughter. “Er. That is, only if you want to. Have you seen enough of Cambridge yet? Don’t you want to look around here, first, before going to yet another world?”

“Do I want—” Olga looked as if she was going to explode: “yes!” she insisted. “I want it all! Where do I sign? Do you want it in blood?”

Early evening, a discreet restaurant on the waterfront, glass windows overlooking the open water, darkness and distant lights. It was six-thirty precisely. Miriam nervously adjusted her bra strap and shivered, then marched up to the front desk.

“Can I help you?” asked the concierge.

“Yes.” She smiled. “I’m Miriam Beckstein. Party of two. I believe the person I’m expecting will already be here. Name of Lofstrom.”