The duke’s resident seamstress had packed one of Miriam’s trunks with gowns fitted to her measurements, and at dawn on the third day Margit shoehorned her into one deemed suitable for a court debut. It was even more elaborate than the gown they’d fitted her for dinner with the duke; it had hooped underskirts, profusions of lace exploding at wrist and throat, and slashed sleeves layered over skin-tight inner layers. Miriam hated everything it said about the status of women in this society. But Olga wore something similar, even more excessively wasp-waisted, with an exaggerated pink bustle behind that suggested to Miriam nothing so much as a female baboon in heat. Margit declared Miriam’s presentation satisfactory. “That’s most fittingly elegant!” she pronounced. “Let no time be lost, now, lest we be undone by our lateness.”
“Mmph,” said Miriam, holding her skirts out of the courtyard dampness and trying to avoid tripping over them on her way over to the coach. Really, she thought. This is crazy! I should have just crossed over and caught the train. But Angbard had insisted—and she could second-guess his reasoning. ‘Avoid transport bottlenecks where somebody might intercept her—also, see if she breaks.’ After three days on the road she was feeling ripe, long overdue for a shower. The last thing she needed was a new dress, let alone one as intricately excessive as this. Only a grim determination not to play her hand too early made her put up with it. She settled into her accustomed corner in a rustling heap of bottle-green velvet and tried to get comfortable, but her back was stiff, the dress vast and uncontrollable, and parts of her were sweating while other bits froze. Plus, Olga was looking at her triumphantly.
“You look marvelous,” Olga assured her, leaning forward and resting a hand in the vicinity of Miriam’s knee. “I’m sure you’ll make a great entry at court! You’ll be surrounded by suitors before you’ve been there a moment—despite your age!”
“I’m sure,” Miriam said weakly. Give me patience, she prayed to the goddess of suffering in the name of beauty and/or social conformity. Otherwise I swear I’ll strangle someone…
Before they moved off, Margit insisted on dropping the blinds. It reduced the draft, but in the closeness of the carriage Miriam began to feel claustrophobic. Olga insisted on painting Miriam’s cheeks and eyebrows and lips, redoing the procedure while the carriage swayed and bumped along an increasingly well-maintained stone-cobbled street. Other carriages and traffic rattled past, and presently they heard people calling greetings and warnings. “The gates,” Olga said, breathlessly. “The gates!”
Miriam sneaked a peek through the blinds before Margit noticed and scolded her. The gate house was made of stone, perhaps four stories high. She’d seen similar on a vacation in England many years ago. The walls themselves were of stone, but banked with masses of rammed earth in front and huge mounds of mud beyond the ditch. Isn’t that something to do with artillery? she thought, puzzled by memories of an old History Channel documentary.
“Put that down at once, I say!” Margit insisted. “Do you want everyone to see you?”
Miriam dropped the window blind. “Shouldn’t they?” she asked.
“Absolutely not!” Margit looked scandalized. “Why, it would be the talk of society for months!”
“Ah,” Miriam said neutrally. Olga winked at her. So this is how it works, she realized. Enforcement through peer pressure. If they get the idea that I’m not going to conform, I’m never going to hear the end of it, she realized. Olga, far from being her biggest problem, was beginning to look like a potential ally.
Their first call was at the Thorold Palace, a huge rambling stone pile at the end of the Avenue of Rome, a broad stone street fronted by mansions. The carriage drew right up to the front entrance, their escort of guards strung out behind it as servants emerged with a mounting box, which they shoved into place before holding the door open. Margit was the first to leave, followed by Olga, who squeezed through the door with a shake of her behind; Miriam emerged last, blinking in the daylight like a prisoner released from some oubliette.
A butler in some sort of intricate house uniform—a tunic over knee breeches and floppy boots—read from a letter in a loud voice to the assembled gaggle of onlookers. “His excellency the high Duke Angbard of house Lofstrom is pleased to consign to your care the Lady Margit, Chatellaine of Praha, her excellency the Baroness Olga Thorold, and her excellency the Countess Helga Thorold Hjorth, daughter of Patricia of that braid.” He bowed deeply, then gave way to a man standing behind him. “Your excellency.”
“I bid you welcome to the house in my custody, and urge you to accept my hospitality,” said the man.
“Earl Oliver Hjorth,” Olga stage-whispered at Miriam. Miriam managed a fixed, glassy-eyed smile then followed Olga’s lead by picking up her skirts and dipping. “I thank you, my lord,” Olga replied loudly and clearly, “and accept your protection.”
Miriam echoed him. English, it seemed, was still the general language of nobility here. Her hoh’sprashe was still restricted to a couple of polite nothings.
“Delighted, my beaux,” said the earl, not cracking a smile. He was tall and thin, almost cadaverous, his most striking feature a pair of striking black-rimmed spectacles that he wore balanced on the tip of his bony nose; dusty black trousers and a flared red coat worn over a lace-throated shirt completed his outfit. There was something threadbare about him, and Miriam noticed that he didn’t wear a sword. “If you will allow Bortis to show you to your rooms, I believe you are expected at court in two hours.”
He turned and stalked away grimly, without further comment.
“Why, the effrontery!” Olga gripped Miriam’s hand tightly.
“Huh?”
“He’s snubbing you,” Olga hissed angrily, “and me, to get at you! How peculiarly rude! Oh, come on, let the servant show us to our rooms—and yours. We still need to finish you for the royal court.”
An hour later Miriam had two ladies-in-waiting, an acute attack of dizziness, growing concerns about the amenities of this ghastly stone pile—which appeared to lack such essentials as running water and electricity—and a stiff neck from all the necklaces they’d hung on her. The ladies-in-waiting were, like Margit, family members who lacked the fully expressed trait that allowed them to world-walk. The Misses Brilliana of Ost and Kara of Praha—one blonde, the other brunette—looked like meek young things waiting their turn for the marriage market, but after spending a couple of days with Olga, Miriam took that with a pinch of salt. “Were you really raised on the other side?” Kara asked, wide-eyed.
“I was.” Miriam nodded. “But I’ve never been presented at court before.”
“We’ll see to that,” the other one, Brilliana, said confidently. “You look splendid! I’m sure it will all go perfectly.”
“When do we need to leave?” asked Miriam.
“Oh, any time, I suppose,” Brilliana said carelessly.
The coach was even more claustrophobic with six over-dressed women jammed into it. It jarred and bumped through the streets and Brilliana and Kara made excited small talk with Olga’s companions, Sfetlana and Aris. Olga, sandwiched between the two, caught Miriam’s eye and winked. Miriam would have shrugged, but she was hemmed in so tightly that she could barely breathe, let alone move. It’s a good thing I’m not claustrophobic, she thought, mordantly trying to find something good about the situation.
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 on
to 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 splendor 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 curtsys 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 offense—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?”
Wait Training
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 underdress. 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.
This would never do. She slipped out of the bed and shivered in the freezing cold air. I’m adrift, she thought. Turning, she looked back. The bed was as big as her entire room, back home. I need to get my perspective back.
Acutely aware of her bare feet on the heat-sucking stone flags, she tiptoed across to the curtain that concealed the door to the toilet. There were no modern conveniences here, just a pot full of dry leaves, and a latrine with a ten-foot drop over the curtain wall. What you saw was what you got—without servants to help. Living conditions in the big city, even for nobility, were distinctly primitive.
After freezing her ass for the minute it took to get rid of last night’s wine, Miriam reentered her main chamber and began hunting through the chests that had been deposited there the afternoon before. One of them—Ah, yes, she decided. This’ll do.
She dressed quickly and in silence, pulling on jeans and a sweater and fleece suited to the other side. There was no thought of waking the two ladies-in-waiting, for she couldn�
��t begin to guess how they’d react and she wanted to move fast. Her shoulder bag was packed in the suitcase. It her took a moment to locate it, along with the Sony notebook, the phone, and the GPS compass. She spent a minute scanning the room with the notebook’s built-in camera, then she pulled out a paper reporter’s pad and wrote a quick note in ballpoint:
My dear K & B,
Gone over to the other side. Back before nightfall. Please see to storing my articles and arrange a dinner for the three of us when I get back, two hours after dark. Best, Miriam
She left it on the pillow next to Kara’s head, pulled out her locket, and crossed over into the doppelgänger building on the other side.
Miriam’s eyes blurred and her headache redoubled as she looked around. The space corresponding to her room in the palace or castle or whatever in Neijwein wasn’t a palace in her own world. Two hundred miles southwest of Boston—New York! she thought with a jolt of excitement. It was dim in here, very dim, really nothing but emergency lights. There was a strong smell of sawdust, and it was bitingly cold. She stood on top of metal scaffolding, with yellow painted lines on the floor. That’ll be the layout of the castle back in the other world, she realized. I’d better get out of here before someone notices me.
She switched on the GPS compass, waited for it to come up, then told it to memorize her location. Then she went down the metal stairs two at a time. She was on the ground floor of an elderly warehouse. Wooden crates stood between yellow alleyways—evidently blocking out the walls of the castle. She headed toward the grand staircase and the main entrance hall, found it open and a trailer sitting on some concrete blocks installed as a site office. The yellow light was coming from the trailer windows.
Hmm. Miriam put her hand in her jacket pocket and took a grip on her pistol. Her head was pounding, as cold air hit hangover-inflamed sinuses. I need to dry out for a couple of days, she thought abstractedly. Then she knocked on the door with her left hand.
The Family Trade Page 19
