After what felt like an hour of juddering progress, the carriage turned into a long drive. As it drew to a halt, Miriam heard a tinkle of glassware, laughter, strains of string music from outside. Olga twitched. “Hear, violins!” she said.

“Sounds like it to me.” The door opened and steps appeared, as did two footmen, their gold-encrusted livery as pompous and excessive as the women’s dresses. They hovered anxiously as the occupants descended.

“Thank you,” Miriam commented, surprising the footman who’d offered her his hand. She looked around. They stood before the wide-flung doors of a gigantic palace, a flood of light spilling out through the glass windows onto the lawn. Within, men in coats cut away over ballooning knee breeches mingled with women in elaborate gowns: The room was so huge that the orchestra played from a balcony, above the heads of the court.

Miriam went into a state of acute culture shock almost immediately, allowing the Misses Kara and Brilliana to steer her like a galleon under full sail. Someone bellowed out her name—or the parcel of strange titles by which she was known here. She shook herself for a moment when she saw heads turn to stare at her—some inquisitive, some surprised, others supercilious, and some hostile—the names meant nothing to her. All she could think of was trying not to trip over her aching toes and keeping the glassy-eyed shit-eating grin steady on her rouged and strained face. This isn’t me, she thought vaguely, being presented to a whirl of titled pompous idiots and simpering women swathed in silk and furs. This is a bad dream, she repeated to herself. She shied away from the idea that these people were her family, that she might had to spend the rest of her life attending this sort of event.

Miriam had done formal dinners and award ceremonies before, dinner parties and cocktail evenings, but nothing that came close to this. Even though—from Olga’s vague but enthusiastic description of the territories—Niejwein was a small kingdom, not much larger than Massachusetts and so dirt-poor that most of the population lived on subsistence farming, its ruling royalty lived in a casual splendour far beyond any ceremonial that the head of a democratic nation would expect. It was an imperial reception, the prototype that the high school prom or its upmarket cousin, the coming-out ball, aped. Someone clapped a glass into her gloved hand—it turned out to be a disgustingly sweet fruit wine—and she politely but firmly turned down so many invitations to dance that she began to lose track. Please, make it all go away, she whimpered to herself, as Kara-Brilliana steered her into a queue running along a suspiciously red carpet toward a short guy swathed in a white fur cloak that looked preposterously hot.

“Her Excellency Helge Thorold Hjorth, daughter and heir of Patricia of Thorold, returned from exile to pay tribute at the court of his high majesty, Alexis Nicholau III, ruler in the name of the Sky Father, blessed and awful be he, of all of the Gruinmarkt and territories!”

Miriam managed a deep curtsy without falling off her heels, biting her lip to keep from saying anything inappropriate or incriminating.

“Charmed, charmed, I say!” said Alexis Nicholau III, ruler and et cetera of the Gruinmarkt (by willing concession of the Clan). “My dear, reports of your beauty do not do you justice at all! Such elegant deportment! A new face at court, I say, how charming. Remind me to introduce you to my sons later.” He swayed slightly on his raised platform, and Miriam spotted the empty glass in his hand. He was a slightly built man with a straggly red beard fringing his chin and hair going prematurely bald on top. He wore no crown, but a chain of office so intimidatingly golden that it looked as if his spine would buckle at any moment. She felt a stab of sympathy for him as she recognized the symptoms of a fellow sufferer.

“I’m delighted to meet you,” she told the discreetly drunken monarch with surprising sincerity. Then she felt an equally discreet tug as Kara-Brilliana steered her aside with minute curtseys and simpering expressions of delight at the royal presence.

Miriam took a mouthful from her glass, forced herself to swallow it, then took another. Perhaps the king had the right idea, she thought. Kara-Brilliana drifted to a halt not far from the dais. “Isn’t he cute?” Kara squealed quietly.

“Who?” Miriam asked distractedly.

“Egon, of course!”

“Egon—” Miriam fumbled for a diplomatic phrasing.

“Oh, that’s right. You weren’t raised here,” said Brilliana, practicality personified. Quietly, in Miriam’s ear, she continued, “See the two youngsters behind his majesty? The taller is Egon. He’s the first prince, the likely successor should the council of electors renew the dynasty whenever his majesty, long may he live, goes to join his ancestors. The short one with the squint is Creon, the second son. Both are unmarried, and Creon will probably stay that way. If not, pity the maiden.”

“Why pity her, if it’s not rude to ask?”

“He’s addled,” Brilliana said matter-of-factly. ‘Too stupid to—” she noticed Miriam’s empty glass and turned to fetch a replacement.

“Something a bit less sweet, please,” Miriam implored. The heat was getting to her. “How long must we stay here?” she asked.

“Oh, as long as you want!” Kara said happily. “The revelry continues from dusk till dawn.” Brilliana pressed a glass into Miriam’s hand. “Isn’t it wonderful?” Kara added.

“I think my lady looks a little tired,” Brilliana said diplomatically. “She’s spent three days on the road, Kara.”

Miriam wobbled. Her back was beginning to seize up again, her kidneys were aching, and in addition her toes felt pinched and she was becoming breathless. “M’exhausted,” she whispered. “Need to get some sleep. ’F you take me home, you can come back to enjoy yourselves. Promise. Just don’t expect me to stay upright much longer.”

“Hmm.” Brilliana looked at her speculatively. “Kara, if it pleases you, be so good as to ask someone to summon our coach. I’ll help our lady here to make a dignified exit. My lady, there are a few names you must be presented to before taking your leave—to fail would be to give offence—but there’ll be another reception the day after tomorrow; there is no need to converse at length with your peers tonight if you are tired. I’m sure we can spend the time between now and then getting to know our new mistress better.” She smiled at Miriam. “A last glass of wine, my lady?”

Light.

Miriam blinked and twitched into vague wakefulness from a dream of painful desire and frustrated eroticism. Someone sighed and moved against her back, and she jerked away, suddenly remembering where she was with a fit of panic: Wearing a nightdress? In a huge cold bed? What is going on?

She rolled over and came up against heavy drapes. Turning around, she saw Kara asleep in the huge four-poster bed behind her, face a composed picture of tranquillity. Miriam cringed, racking her brain. What did I get up to last night? she wondered, aghast. Then she looked past Kara and saw another sleeping body—and an empty bottle of wine. Opening the curtain and looking on the floor, she saw three glasses and a second bottle, lying on its side, empty. She vaguely remembered talking in the cavernous stone aircraft hangar that passed for a countess’s bedroom. It had been freezing cold in the drafty stone pile, and Kara had suggested they continue talking in the four-poster bed, which filled the room like a small pavilion. Miriam looked closer and saw that Kara was still wearing her full under dress. And Brilliana hadn’t even removed her stays.

A slumber party, she figured. She hadn’t been in one of those since college. Poor kids. I took them away from their disco and they just couldn’t call it a night. Kara was only seventeen—and Brilliana an old maid of twenty-two. She felt relieved—and a bit sorry for them.