“Please — be — seated,” croaks the thing they’ve made of the Jeeves-in -Residence. He’s sitting behind the trademark desk, but his arms end in complicated stumps at the shoulder, one of his eyes is a splashed iridescent mess hanging half out of its socket, and something about his posture tells me that they’ve hacked his legs off too, leaving a pitifully immobile cognitive stump to talk to me.

I’ve been grabbed by two spiny horrors, bigger than I am and far stronger, their humaniform arms and legs sculpted in strange geometric surfaces. I yank hard with my right hand and begin to bring my leg up, heel extending, but my captor just glares at me and gives my wrist a tug, and I realize it’s not a hand that’s gripping me — his wrists terminate in great scissorlike shears. His carapace is armored, too. I’d break a heel and he’d snip clean through my wrist and I’d be no nearer escape. I wriggle and tug like a ductcleaner that’s fallen on dry ground, but they’re not having any of it, and that’s an end of the matter. So after a few seconds I give up and hang loose between them, biting back hysteria as I stare at Jeeves.

“That — is — better,” says Jeeves, as if reading from a script. “She — will — arrive — shortly.” He sounds like that staple of drama, the robot, soulless and grim. Someone’s stripped out everything I found attractive about his kind, leaving an object of horror and sympathy.

I glance around surreptitiously. The signs of struggle are everywhere, from the trashed inner door frame to the wreckage of his arms lying discarded behind a plinth bearing an antique urn — I swallow, aghast. “What happened?” I ask.

“My — mistress — came — for — me.” His remaining eye is as expressionless as a stone embedded in a gray silicone rubber mask. “If — you — don’t — remember — She — will — explain.”

My. The definite article. He’s speaking for himself, not for One, the collective Jeeves. So whatever’s happening here is personal. I very nearly lose it and start struggling again, but a quick glance reminds me that resistance is futile. These things — what are they, some kind of soldier line? — are big and wickedly fast. Two of them grabbed me the instant I walked in the door, and there are two more standing behind Jeeves. By the look of things they’ve had him in their snicker-snack hands for some time… “Jeeves,” I say slowly, “who owns you?”

“I — am — property of — no—” He begins to shudder. The eyelid contracts; a thick bead of something like moisture slides down his cheek. Icy terror clutches at me as behind my back the door slides open. “Mistress!” His face clears.

“Hello, Kate,” says a familiar voice, setting spidery chills racing up and down the skin in the small of my back. I lose track of who and where I am for a moment, imagining myself back on my eleventh birthday. When my head clears I’m lying facedown on the floor, arms and legs spread-eagled, a searing pain cutting into each wrist and ankle. “Stop that!” she shouts, her voice ringing in my ears. “Stop that at once, you bad, bad girl!”

“I — I—” I’m choking back panic. I remember her bed on the Pygmalion . Granita’s got me in her web again, hasn’t she? My fingers scrabble, then I feel the floor through them, and I begin to collect my scattered selves. I’m being held down by the two soldiers, but they haven’t snipped off my — yet — “What do you want?”

“That’s better,” she soothes. “You’ve got something of mine.” Her voice drops a notch. “Where is it?” Her dress rustles loudly as she kneels beside me, and I feel her fingers parting my hair. I begin to buck and spasm again as her painted claws dig into the skin at the nape of my neck.

“No, Granita—” But she’s not listening, and everything goes black and tastes of electric roses and blue ice for an infinite instant.

I come to slowly, dully aware of a conversation flowing around me. “—him to the operational center and have them box him up for transport.” She’s talking to someone else, obviously, and I’m still lying on my face, but the sharp, crushing sensation in my wrists and ankles has gone — the scissor-hand soldiers have let go of me with their terrible shears. My limbs are tingling painfully, but I can still feel my fingers and toes. I try to move an arm — slowly, in case it’s damaged, control runs severed, muscles crushed, or bones bent. I have some vague idea that I can scuttle away and hide behind the planter while she’s giving her minions instructions about Jeeves. The back of my neck aches where she ripped a chip out, but it doesn’t feel empty. Some nerve damage for sure, I decide. Why did she want my soul chip?

There’s a dripping noise coming from somewhere near me. I open Katherine Sorico’s too-large eyes and see a viscous puddle of blue fluid spreading beside my nose. It’s hydraulic fluid, riddled with Marrow techné. Somebody is bleeding out. Is it me? I wonder, spreading the fingers of my left hand and pushing against the floor very gently. No: good. I twitch underused muscles, and my heels extend a couple of centimeters before I pull them back in. That’s something I remember from Juliette — the solid crunch of a chest plate or a skull beneath my flying kick. As long as my legs work, I’m not disarmed. And I’m still intact, I think, embracing the realization like a lover’s body.

“You can sit up now, dear,” Granita says lightly, and taps me on the shoulder with a cane. “Be calm.”

Shit. She must have seen me move. I push myself sideways and bring my knees up, and begin to roll to my feet. I could run for it — but no, the soldiers are still there, lurching crazily across my field of view as I turn over. How did she get here? I wonder, as some of the stickyweb that seems to have engulfed me begins to peel back from my mind. “Yes?” I ask cautiously, the full gravity of my situation finally sinking in. This is bad, very bad…

“Can you stand?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. I stare at her in her fairy-tale-princess finery, white and silver to suit the climate, an elven ice queen with sapphire hair, dressed for a winter ball in the dark of a Jovian moon.

“I think so.” I gather my strength, then lurch unsteadily to my feet. The soldiers watch me incuriously. You’d think they’d stay between me and their mistress. But I’m not close enough to her to be certain I’d subdue her before they could move — and something tells me they’re not her only defense.

“Good.” Granita smiles at me impishly, as if sharing a secret joke. “There’s a sleigh outside. You and I are going to leave by the front door; then we’re going to go for a little ride together. I suppose later you can tell Jeeves that you fulfilled your mission? Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll enjoy where we’re going.”

My biomimetic reflexes kick in, and I take a deep breath, nostrils flaring. After a moment I nod at her. “Yes.” If she wants to go for a ride, I can live with that. It’s better than having her tame thugs chop my hands and feet off, like poor Regin — I blink. Jeeves, surely? Why did I think he was called Reginald? I glance at the soldiers. “Did you get tired of Stone and his brothers?”

Granita doesn’t answer, but turns and strides toward the door in a swirl of heavy skirts. After a moment I follow her. There doesn’t seem to be anything else I can do. Two of the scissor soldiers follow us, brooding-nightmare statues that cast long shadows.

We ride the elevator down to the lobby in silence. I don’t want to risk provoking her. She was always hard to read, and I’m sure there’ll be an opportunity to get away later. My mind’s spinning. Why did she do that to Jeeves? I wonder. The main players in this little game have exercised discretion in attacking one another so far. I find myself shaking as I remember the sight of him, flaccid and dead-looking in the chair, arms and legs piled haphazard and broken in a corner of the room. Something about the sight fills me with more than horror; there’s grief hidden in the mix that is me. And frustration, a feeling that things could have been different. Did she slave-chip him? I think, morbidly aware that if that’s the case, the game is up; she knows everything he’s got access to. Did she — my hand goes to the nape of my neck instinctively.