A day on a train gave Miriam a lot of time for thought. I need bargaining power, she told herself. Otherwise they're going to keep me on a short leash forever. And sooner or later they'll get serious about marrying me off. Serried ranks of W* heterozygote babies line-danced in her imagination when she closed her eyes and tried to sleep. How did I get into this bind?

Asking herself that question was pointless: if she pursued the answer far enough, she came to the uncomfortable conclusion that it was her own fault, her own dogged tendency to dig for the truth that had gotten her into the Clan's business. (And behind that story lay Iris's shady history, her mother's attempt to escape from an unhappy Clan-decreed dynastic marriage-but some subjects were best treated with kid gloves.) If I want some personal space I'm going to have to manufacture it for myself, she decided. But persuading her distant relatives to back off was not easy: privacy seemed to be in scant supply outside the United States. Especially if you harbored valuable genes or looked like your mere presence might upset the established order. And as to just why privacy was in short supply…

By the time she reached the safe house in the New London suburbs she was feeling tired, irritable, and increasingly itchy and dirty. She'd been in transit for three days, and the trains didn't have so much as a shower on board. Next time I'll take an extra change of clothes, she resolved-this kind of issue obviously didn't affect the Clan courier operations in the United States.

When she signed off the courier bag, Miriam got her first surprise: a coach was waiting for her in the courtyard of Lord Brunvig's town house, and Brill beside it, in an agony of impatience. "Milady! It's almost two o'clock! Quick, we must get you back to your rooms immediately, there's barely time."

"Time? For what?" Miriam asked, pausing on the bottom step of the boarding platform with a sense of exquisite dread. Oh no-

"The royal entertainment! It's tonight! Oh, Miriam, if I had realized it would take you three days I would have yelled at his lordship-"

"Well, none of us thought of it, did we?" Miriam said as she climbed into the carriage. "Everything happens more slowly over there." She gritted her teeth and settled down into a corner, her nose wrinkling. It's unavoidable, she thought to herself. I really am going to have to answer him. Nearly six months ago the king himself had asked her a question. Brill, sitting opposite her, looked anxious. "Do I have time to clean up first?" Miriam asked. "And a bite to eat?"

"I hope so-"

"Well, then it'll all work out." Miriam managed a tired smile. "So how about telling me what's been going on while I've been away?"

Three hours later she was still hungry, even more tired, and back in the carriage with Brill. This time they were on their way to the summer palace with an escort of mounted guards, clutching scented kerchiefs to their faces to keep the worst of the smell of the open sewers at bay. A fortune in jewelry, the most expensive luxurious clothes they can afford to impress one another with, but the drains are medieval: typical Clan priorities. Miriam shrugged, trying to get comfortable against the hard seat back. Her maids had trussed her into the most excessive gown she'd ever set eyes on, almost as soon as she'd walked in the door. It seemed to weigh half a ton even before they'd added a tiara and a few pounds of gold and pearls. The corset was uncomfortably tight, and the layered skirts had a train that dragged along the ground behind her in a foam of lace and got in the way when she walked. Romantic and feminine be damned, I'm going to be lucky to make it as far as the front door without tripping. Brill had been saying something. "What was that?" she asked, distracted.

"I was saying, did you want the high points again?" Brill sniffed pointedly. "I know you're tired, but it's important."

"I know it's important," Miriam said waspishly. Then she sighed. "Forgive me. Not your fault." These formal events always seem to bring out the worst in me, don't they? "This gown needs adjusting. I'm uncomfortable-and a bit tired."

"I'll arrange another session with Mistress Tanzig when we get back, milady. For tomorrow. I hope you won't hold it against her-it's hard to get the cut right when your ladyship's absent." Brill leaned forward to peer at her. "Hmm. You're being Miriam, Miriam. A word of commendation?"

"Uh, yes?"

"Let yourself be Helge. For tonight, just for tonight."

"But I-" She bit her tongue as she saw Brilliana's expression.

"You don't like being Helge," Brill said evenly. "It's not as if you go out of your way to conceal it. But just this once-" Her eyes narrowed, calculatingly, as she fanned herself. "Milady, Miriam is too American. Prickly about the wrong things. But this isn't a crowded garden party, this is an intimate informal household entertainment, just us and fifty or sixty family members and courtiers and ministers. If Miriam offers offense…"

"I… I'll try." Helge fanned herself weakly in the warm, clammy air and tried to relax. "I'll try to be me. For the evening."

"That's perfect!" Brilliana smiled warmly. "Now, the high points. You've met his royal highness, the princes Egon and Creon, and the Queen Mother. But this evening you're also likely to encounter his grace the Prince of Eijnmyrk and his wife, Princess Ikarie-his majesty's youngest sister-and the Duke du Tostvijk. Main thing to remember is that his grace the prince's marriage is what you would term morganatic. Then there are the high ministers and his holiness the Autonomé du Roma, high priest of Lightning Child…"

An intimate informal household entertainment-by the standards of the social world of the Niejwein aristocracy it was, indeed, uncomfortably small. Helge was introduced to one smiling face after another, assessed like a prize brood mare, forced to make small talk in her halting hochsprache, and stared at in mild disbelief, like a talking horse or a counting pig. At the end of it all her head was spinning with the effort of trying to remember who everybody was and how she was meant to address them. And then the moment she'd been secretly dreading arrived: "Ah, how charmed we are to see you again," said the short, portly fellow with the rosy bloom of broken blood vessels around his nose and the dauntingly heavy gold chain draped around his shoulders. He swayed slightly as if tired or slightly drunk. Helge managed to curtsey before him without saying anything. "Been what, half a year?"

Helge nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Last time they'd met he'd made her an offer which, in all probability, had been kindly meant.

"Walk with us," said his royal highness, Alexis Nicholau III, in a tone of voice that brooked no objection.

There was a state dining room beyond the doors at the end of the gallery, but Alexis drifted slowly toward a side door instead. Two lords or captains or bodyguards of rank followed discreetly, while a third slipped ahead to open the door. "Haven't seen much of you at court, these past six months," remarked the king. "Pressure of work, we understand." He rubbed the side of his nose morosely, then glanced at the nearest guard. "Glass of sack for the lady, Hildt." The guard vanished. "We hear a bit about you from our man Henryk. Nothing too extreme." He looked amused about something-amused, and determined.

Helge quailed inside. King Alexis might be plump, short, and drunk, but he was the king. "What can I do for your majesty?" she managed to ask.

"Six months." The guard returned, extended a glass of amber fortified wine for the king-and, an afterthought, a smaller fluted glass for Helge. "Just about any situation can change in six months, don't you know. Back then I said you were too old. Seems everyone is too old these days, or otherwise unsuitable, or married." He raised an eyebrow at her. "Wouldn't do to marry a young maid to the Idiot-come now, do you think I don't know what my own subjects call my youngest son?"