“What do I think?” Miriam stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Paulette waited for her. “Well, you’re still alive,” she said slowly.

“Alive—” Paulette stared at her.

“Paulie, these guys play hardball. They leave booby traps. You go into a place they’ve black-bagged and you open the door and it blows up in your face—or there’s a guy waiting for you with a gun and he can leave the scene just by looking at a wrist tattoo. I figure either I’m wrong and the shit Joe Dixon’s involved in isn’t to do with the Clan or they don’t rate you as a threat—just sent some hired muscle to frighten you, rather than the real thing.”

“I am so relieved. Not.”

“Do be. I mean that seriously. If you’re still alive, it means they don’t think you’re a threat. They didn’t find the disk, so that’s probably an end of it. If you want to get the hell out of this now, just say. I’ll find the CD and burn it and you’re out of the frame.”

Paulette began walking again. “Don’t tempt me,” she said tightly. Then she stopped and turned to face Miriam. “What are you going to do?” she asked bluntly.

“I was hoping you could help me.” Miriam paused for a moment, then continued: “Did you get the job?”

“As a paralegal?” Paulette shrugged. “I didn’t get that one, but I’ve got another interview this afternoon,” she added self-consciously.

“Well.” Miriam paused. “How would you like another job? Starting today?”

“Doing what?” Paulette asked cautiously.

“As my self-propelled totally legal insurance policy,” said Miriam. “I need an agent, someone who can work for me on this side when I’m locked up being Princess Buttercup in a palace with toilets consisting of a drafty hole in the wall. You’re clean, they didn’t pin anything on you, and now that we know who the hell we’re up against, we can make sure that you stay that way. What I’ve got in mind for the job will mostly involve handling nonstolen, nonillegal goods that I want to sell, keeping records, paying taxes, and making like a legitimate import/export business. But it’ll also involve planting some records, very explicit records, in places where the families can’t get their hands on them—without getting caught.” Miriam stopped again, thinking. “I can pay,” she added. “I’m supposed to be very rich now.”

Paulette grinned. “This wouldn’t have something to do with you bearing a grudge against the asshole who fired us both, would it?”

“Could be.” Miriam thrust her hands deep in her pockets and tried to look innocent.

“When does it start and what does it pay?”

“It starts fifteen minutes ago, and if you want to discuss pay and conditions, let’s go find a Starbucks and talk about it over a coffee …”

Miriam became increasingly depressed on the train back to New York. It was late in the year, and darkness was already falling as the train raced through the bleak New England countryside. Soon the snow would be falling thick and deep, burying the bare branches beneath a layer of deadening numbness. She popped out one of the Atenolol tablets that Roland had given her and a couple of Tylenol, swallowing them with the aid of a Coke from the bar. She felt like autumn, too: The train was carrying her south toward a bleak world where she’d be enveloped in the snow of—well, maybe it was stretching the metaphor past breaking point. Only forty-four hours, and I’ll be seeing Roland again, she thought. Forty-four hours? She brightened for a moment, then lapsed into even deeper gloom. Forty-four hours, forty of which would be spent in the company of… of …

She hailed a taxi from the station concourse, feeling slightly light-headed and numb, as if she hadn’t eaten. It took her to the block near Chinatown where she’d found the door. It looked a whole hell of a lot less welcoming after dark and closing time, and she hunched her shoulders as she stalked down the street, homing in on the alleyway by means of the green-lit display of her GPS compass.

When she reached the alley, she balked—it was black and threatening, like a Central Station for muggers and rapists. But then, remembering who and what she was, she reached into her pocket and wrapped her right hand around the snub-nosed pistol she’d carried all day. They can arrest you, but they can’t hold you, she reminded herself with a flicker of reckless glee. What must it be like to grow up with the talent on the other side, then to come over to this world and realize that you could do absolutely anything at all and melt away into the night, undetected? She shivered.

As it happened the alleyway was empty, a faint glow leaking from under the warehouse doorway. She opened it and walked past the cabin. Nobody hailed her. She followed the GPS compass until its coordinates went to zero and she saw the metal emergency staircase.

At the top of the steps she took a moment to look around. There was no sign of any burglar alarms, nothing to stop anyone coming in off the street. Hmm. I don’t like the look of this, she thought. Thirty feet farther on there was a sturdy brick wall. I can’t be sure, but it looks like most of the palace would be on the other side of that. Right? It was weird, but she didn’t have time to examine it right now. Putting her GPS compass away, she hauled out the locket from the chair around her neck that she wore under her sweater. She focused on the image and felt—

“Mistress! Oh my—” she stumbled, black shadows pulling at the edges of her vision, and felt hands on her day pack, her shoulders, pulling her toward a richly cushioned ottoman—“you startled us! What is that you’re wearing? Oh, you’re so cold!”

The black shadows began to fade, and she had a feeling like a headache starting a long way away. The huge fireplace in one side of the main room—a fireplace big enough to park her car in—was blazing with flames and light, pumping out heat. Kara helped her stand upright, a hand under one shoulder. “You gave us such a fright!” she scolded.

“I’m back now.” Miriam smiled tiredly. “Is there anything to drink? Without alcohol in it?”

“I’ll get it,” said Brilliana, the more practical of the two. “Would my lady care for a pot of tea?”

“That would be fine.” Miriam felt herself closer to fainting than throwing up. Yes, the beta-blockers seem to work, she thought. “Drop the ‘my lady’—just call me Miriam. You didn’t tell anybody to search for me, did you?”

“No, my-Miriam.” This from Kara. “I wanted to, but—”

“It’s all right.” Miriam closed her eyes, then opened them again, to be confronted by a teenager with braided brown hair and a worried expression wearing a brown Dior suit and a blouse the colour of old amber. “Nothing to worry about,” she said, trying to exude confidence. “I’ll be fine when I’ve had some tea. This always happens. Did anything unusual happen while I was gone?”

“We’ve been busy making the servants unpack your wardrobe and travelling possessions!” Kara said enthusiastically. “And Lady Olga sent you an invitation to walk with her in the orangery, tomorrow morning! Nobody is entertaining tonight, but there’s another public reception in Prince Creon’s name tomorrow and you have been invited!” Miriam nodded wearily, wishing she wouldn’t end every sentence with an exclamation. She half-expected Kara to break out in squeals of excitement. “And Sfetlana has been so excited!”

“About what?” Miriam asked unenthusiastically.

“She’s had a proposal of marriage! Delivered by proxy, of course! Lady Olga bore it! Isn’t that exciting?”

“What is that you’re wearing?” asked Brilliana, returning from the fireplace with a silver teapot held carefully in her hands; for the first time Miriam noticed the spindly table beside the ottoman, the chairs positioned around it, the cups and saucers of expensive china. It appeared that ladies-in-waiting led a higher-maintenance lifestyle than servants.