Whirr. Click. New memo. “Nope. I just spent ten minutes and what I’ve drawn does nothing for me. Hmm. So we know that it’s not that easy to re-create from memory, and I know that if you look at the other symbol you go here, not home. Hmm again.”

Whirr. Click. New memo. “I just looked at both lockets. Should have done it earlier, but it’s hard to see them without zoning out and crossing over to the other world. The knots—in the other one, there’s an arc near the top left that threads over the outer loop, not under it, like in the one Iris gave me. So it looks like the assassin’s one is, yeah, a corruption of the original design. So maybe the lost family hypothesis is correct.”

Whirr. Click. New memo. “Why didn’t they keep trying different knots until they found one that worked? One that let them make the rendezvous with the other families?”

Whirr. Click. New memo. “It’s a bloodline thing. If you know of only one other universe, and if you know the ability to go there runs in the family, would you necessarily think in terms of multiple worlds? Would you realize you’d mis-remembered the design of the talisman? Or would you just assume—the West Coast must have looked pretty much the same in both versions, this world and my own back then—that you’d been abandoned by your elder brothers? Scumbags.”

Whirr. Click. New memo. “Why me? Why Patricia? What was it about her ancestry that threatened them? As opposed to anyone else in the Clan? Did they just want to kill her to restart the blood feuds, or was there something else?”

Whirr. Click. New memo. “What do they want? And can I use them as a lever to get the Clan to give me what I want?”

The door around the back of the scullery creaked as it opened.

Miriam was on her feet instantly, back to the wall beside the cooker, pistol in her right hand. Shit, shit—she froze, breath still, listening.

“Miriam?” called a familiar voice, “are you there?”

She lowered her gun. “Yes!”

Olga shuffled inside, looking about a thousand years older than she had an hour before. “Oh, my head,” she moaned. “Give me drugs, give me strong medicine, give me a bone saw!” She drew a finger across her throat, then looked at Miriam. “What is that you’re wearing?” she asked.

“Hello.” Brilliana piped up behind her. “Can I come in?” She looked around dubiously. “Are you sure this is another world?” she asked.

“Yes,” Miriam said tersely. “Here. Take two of these now. I’ll give you the next two when it’s time.” She passed the capsules to Olga, who dry-swallowed them and pulled a face. “Get a glass of water.” Miriam looked at Brill. “Did you bring—”

Brill grinned. “This?” she asked, hefting a stubby looking riot gun.

“Uh, yeah.” Miriam froze inside for a moment, then relaxed. She fixed Brill with a beady eye. “You realize an explanation is a bit overdue?”

“An explan—oh.”

“It doesn’t wash, Brill,” she said evenly. “I know you’re working for someone in Clan security. Or were you going to tell me you found that cannon in a cupboard somewhere?”

Olga had taken a step back. Miriam could see her right hand flexing. “Why don’t you go upstairs and get dressed for the party?” Miriam suggested.

“Ah, if you think so.” Olga looked at her dubiously.

“I do.” Miriam kept her eyes on Brill, who stared back unwavering as Olga swept past toward the staircase. “Well?”

“I got word to expect you two days before you arrived in Niejwein,” Brill admitted. “You didn’t really expect Angbard to hang you out to dry, did you? He said, and I quote, ‘Stick to her like glue, don’t let her out of your sight on family territory, and especially don’t give Baron Hjorth an opportunity to push her down a stairwell.’ So I did as he said,” she added, her self-satisfaction evident.

“Who else was in on it?” Miriam asked.

“Olga.” Brill shrugged. “But not as explicitly. She’s not an agent, but… you didn’t think she was an accident, did you? The duke sent you down to Niejwein with her because he thought you’d be safer that way. And to add to the confusion. Conspirators and murderers tend to underestimate her because of the giggling airhead act.” She shrugged.

“So who do you report to?” said Miriam.

“Angbard. In person.”

“Not Roland?”

“Roland?” Brill snorted. “Roland’s useless at this sort of thing—”

“So you world-walk? Why did you conceal it from me?”

“Because Angbard told me to, of course. It wasn’t hard: You don’t know enough about the Clan structure to know who’s likely to be outer family and who’s going to have the talent.” She took a deep breath. “I used to be a bit of a tear-away. When I was eighteen I tried to join the Marine Corps.” She frowned. “I didn’t make the physical, though, and my mother had a screaming fit when she heard about it. She told Angbard to beat some sense into me and he paid for the bodyguard training and karate while I made up my mind what to do next. Back at court, my job—” she swallowed—”if we ever had to bring the hammer down on Alexis, I was tasked with that. Outside the Clan, nobody thinks a lady-in-waiting is a threat, did you know that? But outside the Clan, noble ladies aren’t expected to be able to fight. Anyway, that’s why Angbard stuck me on you as a nursemaid. If you ran into anything you couldn’t handle …”

“Er.” The kettle began to hiss. Miriam shook her head, suffering from information overload. My lady-in-waiting wants to be a marine? “Want some coffee?”

“Yes. Please. Hey, did you know you look just like your Iris when you frown?”

Miriam stopped dead. “You’ve seen her?” she demanded.

“Calm down!” Brilliana held up her hands in surrender. “Yes, I’ve seen her in the past couple of days, and she’s fine. She just needed to go underground for a bit. Same as you, do you understand? I met up with her when you left me in Boston with Paulie and nothing to do. After you shot your mouth off at Angbard, I figured he needed to know what had you so wound up. He takes a keen interest in her well-being, and not just because you threatened to kill him if he didn’t. So of course I went over to see her. In fact, I visited every couple of days, to keep an eye on her. I was there when—” Brill fell silent.

“It was you with the shotgun,” Miriam pushed.

“Actually, no.” Brill looked a little green. “She kept it taped under her chair, the high-backed one in the living room. I just called the Clan cleaners for her afterwards. It was during your first trip over here when she, she had the incident. She phoned your office line, and I was in the office, so I picked up the phone. As you were over here I went around to sort everything out. I found—” She shuddered. “It took a lot of cleaning up. They were Clan security, from the New York office, you know. She was so calm about it.”

“Let me get this straight.” Miriam poured the kettle’s contents into a cafetiere. Her hand was shaking, she noticed distantly. “You’re telling me that Iris gunned down a couple of intruders?”

“Huh?” Brill looked puzzled. “Oh, Iris. That’s right. Like ‘Miriam.’ Listen, she said, ‘it gets to be a habit after the third assassination attempt. Like killing cockroaches.’”

“Urk.” Miriam sat down hard and waited for the conceptual earthquake to stop. She fixed Brill with the stare she kept in reserve for skewering captains of industry she was getting ready to accuse of malfeasance or embezzlement. “Okay, let me get this straight. You are telling me that my mother just happens to keep a sawn-off shotgun under her wheelchair for blowing away SWAT teams, a habit which she somehow concealed from me during my childhood and upbringing while she was a political activist and then the wife of a radical bookstore manager—”

“No!” Brill looked increasingly annoyed. “Don’t you get it? This was the first attempt on her life in over thirty years—”