“What are you doing, mistress?” Brilliana asked during one gap in the proceedings.

“I’m learning, Brill. Observe and take notes!”

She was nodding periodically and looking seriously, as Lord Something of This told her about Earl Other of That’s infringement upon his historically recognized deer forest in pursuit of coal in the Netherwold Mountains down the coast, when she became aware of a growing silence around her. As Lord Something ran down, she turned her head—and saw a posse advancing on her, led by a dowager of fearsomely haughty aspect, perhaps eighty years old but as dry as a mummy, with curiously drooping eyelids, two noble ladies to either side, and a train borne by no less than three pages astern. “Ah,” said the dowager. “And this is the Countess Thorold Hjorth I have heard so much about?” she asked the younger of her two companions, who nodded, avoiding Miriam’s eyes.

Miriam turned and smiled pleasantly. “Whom do I have the honour of addressing?” she asked. Where’s Brill? she wondered. Dammit, why did she have to wander off right now? The dowager was exuding the kind of chill Miriam associated with cryogenic refrigerants. Or maybe her venom glands were acting up. Miriam smiled wider, trying to look innocent and friendly.

“This is the grand dowager Duchess Hildegarde Thorold Hjorth, first of the Thorold line, last of the Thorold Hjorth braid,” announced the one who’d spoken to the dowager.

Oh. Miriam dipped as she’d been taught: “I’m honoured to meet you,” she said.

“So you should be.” Miriam nearly let her smile slip at that, the first words the duchess had spoken to her. “Without my approval, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Oh, really?” Her smile was becoming painful. “Well, then I am duly grateful to you.” Brilliana! Why now? Who is this dragon?

“Of course.” The dowager’s expression finally relaxed, from an expression of intense disapproval into full-on contempt. “I felt the need to inspect the pretender for myself.”

‘Pretender’? “Explain yourself,” Miriam demanded, tensing. There must have been something frightening about her expression: One of the ladies-in-waiting took a step backward and the other raised a hand to her mouth. “Pretender to what?”

“Why, to the title you assume with so little preparation and polish, and manners utterly unfitted to the role. A mere commoner from the mummer’s stand, jumped up and gussied up by Cousin Lofstrom to stake his claim.” The dowager’s look of fierce indignation reminded Miriam of a captive eagle she’d once seen in a zoo. “A pauper, dependent on the goodwill and support of others. If you were who you claim to be, you would be of substance.” Duchess Hildegarde Thorold Hjorth made a little flicking motion, consigning her to the vacuum of social obscurity. “Come, my—”

“Now you wait right here!” Miriam took a step forward, right into the dowager’s path. “I am not an impostor,” she said, her voice pitched low and even. “I am who I am, and if I am not here happily and of my own free will, I will not be spoken to with contempt.”

“Then how will you be spoken to?” asked the duchess, treating her to a little acid smile that showed how highly she rated Miriam in this company.

“With the respect due my station,” Miriam threw at her, “or not at all.”

The dowager raised one hooded eyebrow. “Your station is a matter of debate, child, but not for you—and it is a debate that will be settled at Beltaigne, when I shall take great pleasure in ensuring that it is brought before the Clan council and given the consideration it deserves. And you might wish to give some thought to the matter of your competence, even if your identity is upheld.” The little smile was back, dripping venom: “If you joust with the elite, do not be surprised when you are unhorsed.” She turned and walked away, leaving Miriam gaping and angry.

She was just beginning to realize she’d been outmaneuvered when Brilliana appeared at her elbow. “Why didn’t you warn me?” she hissed. “Who is that poisonous bitch?”

Brilliana looked astonished. “But I thought you knew! That was your grandmother.”

“Oh. Oh.” Miriam clapped a hand to her mouth. “I have a grandmother?”

“Yes and a—” Brilliana stopped. “You didn’t know,” she said slowly.

“No,” Miriam said, looking at her sharply.

“Everyone says you’ve got the family temper,” Brill let slip, then looked shocked.

“You mean, like—that?” Miriam looked at her, aghast.

“Hmm.” Brill clammed up, her face as straight as a gambler with an inside flush. “Oh look,” she said, glancing behind Miriam. “Isn’t that—”

Miriam glanced around, then turned, startled. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” she said, trying to pull herself together in the aftermath of the duchess’s attack.

The duke’s keeper of secrets nodded. “Neither was I, until yesterday,” he said stone-faced. He looked her up and down. “You appear to be settling in here.”

“I am.” Miriam paused, unsure how to continue. Matthias looked just as intimidating in Niejwein court finery as he had in a business suit. It was like having a tank take a pointed interest in her. “Yourself? Are you doing all right?”

“Well enough.” Matthias noticed Brilliana. “You. Please leave us, we have important matters to discuss.”

“Humph.”

Brill turned and was about to leave. “Do we?” Miriam asked, pointedly. “I rather think we can talk in front of my lady-in-waiting.”

“No we can’t.” Matthias smiled thinly. “Go away, I said.” He gestured toward the wall, where secluded window bays, curtain-lined against the cold, provided less risk of being overhead. “Please come with me.”

Miriam followed him reluctantly. If they ever make a movie about the Clan, they’ll have to hire Schwarzenegger to play this guy, she decided. But Arnie has a sense of humour. “What is there to talk about?” she asked quietly.

“Your uncle charged me to deliver this to you.” Matthias held out a small wooden tube, like a miniature poster holder.

“For the king, a sworn affidavit testifying to your identity.” His expression was unreadable. “I am to introduce you to his majesty on behalf of my master.”

“I, uh, see.” Miriam took the tube. “Any other messages?”

“Security.” Matthias shook his head. “It’s not so good here. I gather that Baron Hjorth assigned you no guards? That’s bad. I’ll deal with it myself in the morning.” He leaned over her like a statue.

“Um.” Miriam looked up at him. “Is that all?”

“No.” His cheek twitched. “I have some questions for you.”

“Well. Ask away.” Miriam glanced around, increasingly uncomfortable with the way Matthias had corralled her away from the crowd. “What about?”

“Your upbringing. This is important because it may help me identify who is trying to kill you. You were adopted, I believe?”

“Yes.” Miriam shrugged. “My parents—I was in care, the woman I was found with was dead, stabbed, a Jane Doe. So when Morris and Iris went looking for a child to adopt, I was around.”

“I see.” Matthias’s tone was neutral. “Was your home ever burgled when you were a child? Did anyone ever attack your parents?”

“My—no, no burglaries.” Miriam shook her head. “No attacks. My father’s death, that was a hit-and-run driver. But they caught him; he was just a drunk. Random chance.”

“ ‘Random chance.’” Matthias sniffed. “Do not underestimate random chance.”

“I don’t,” she said tersely. “Listen, why the third degree?”

“Because.” He stared at her unblinkingly: “I take a personal interest in all threats to Clan security.”

“Bullshit. You’re secretary to the duke. And a member of the outer families, I believe?” She looked up at him. ‘That puts a glass ceiling right over your head, doesn’t it? You sit in Fort Lofstrom like a spider, pulling strings, and you run things in Boston when the duke is elsewhere, but only by proxy. Don’t you? So what’s in it for you?”