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 re-entered 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:

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.

“Who’s there?”

The door swung open and an old man grimaced at her.

“I’m Miriam. From the Cambridge office,” she said. “I’ll be going in and out of here over the next few days. Inspecting things.”

“Marian something?” He blinked, looking annoyed.

“No, Miriam,” she said patiently. “Do you have a list of people who’re allowed in and out here?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said vacantly. He shuffled inside and surfaced with a dirty clipboard. The cabin smelled of stale smoke and boiled cabbage. “Miriam Beckstein,” she said patiently and spelled her name. “From Cambridge, Mass.”

“Your name isn’t down here.” He looked puzzled.

“I work for Angbard Lofstrom,” she said curtly.

Evidently this was the right thing to say because he jolted upright. “Yes, ma’am! That’s fine, everything’s fine. How do you spell your name?”

Miriam told him. “Where are we on the street map, and what’s the protocol for getting in and out of here?” she asked.

“‘Protocol’?” He looked puzzled. “Just come in and knock. This is just a lockup. Nothing important here. Nothing worth stealing, leastways.”

“Okay.” She nodded, turned, and walked toward the front door and freedom. As she did so, her phone beeped three times, acquiring coverage and notifying her that she had messages.

Once outside, she found herself in a dingy alleyway hemmed in by fire escapes. She walked to the end, then looked around. It was most peculiar, she thought. Security on the warehouse wasn’t what she’d have expected, not at all. It was too easy to get in or out. Was she stuck in some kind of low-security zone? She came to a main road, with light traffic and shops on either side. Making a note of the street name, she waved down the first yellow cab to come past.

“Where to?” asked the driver, in an almost-comprehensible accent.

“Penn Station,” she said, hoping that he’d been on the job long enough to—have a clue where he was. He seemed to be okay: He nodded a couple of times, then swung his car through a circle and hit the gas.

Miriam lay back and watched the real world go by in a happy daze only slightly tempered by her throbbing head. Wow, I’m really here! she thought, feeling the gentle sway of pneumatic tires on asphalt and the warm breeze from the heater on her feet. Isn’t it great? She wanted the cab ride to last forever, she realized, with a warm glow of nostalgia. Lights and familiar advertisements and people who didn’t look like extras from an historical movie flowed past to either side of her heated cocoon. This was her world, a homely urban reality where real people wore comfortable clothes, made thoughtless use of conveniences like electricity and tap water, and didn’t weave lethal dynastic games around the future lives of children she didn’t want to have.

Wait till I tell Ma, she thought. Then Paulie. Followed moments later by: Damn, first I have to figure out what I can tell them. Then: Hey, at least I can talk to Roland…

She looked at her phone. YOU HAVE VOICE MAIL, it said, so she dialled her mailbox.

“Miriam?” His voice was distant and scratchy and her heart skipped a beat. “I hope you get this message. Listen, I come across on a courier run every two days, between ten and four. I think your uncle may suspect something, he’s put Matthias on me as an escort. Last night he sent news that you’d arrived at the capital. How are you enjoying life there? Oh, by the way, don’t trust anyone called Hjorth; they’ve got a lot to lose. And watch out for Prince Egon: He’s been known to not take no for an answer. Call me when you get a chance.”

Her vision had misted at the sound of his voice. Damn, I didn’t plan this. The taxi drifted in stop-and-go traffic, the driver thumping the steering column in tune with the radio.

At the station Miriam’s first act was to hunt down an ATM and try her card. It worked. She pulled out five hundred dollars in crisp green notes and stuffed them in her pocket. That shouldn’t tell them much beyond where I was, she decided.

Then she hit the ticket desk for a return ticket to Boston on the next Accela service. It took a wad, but once she found the train and settled into the seat, she was pleased with herself for spending it. It would take only three hours, meaning she’d have maybe four hours in Boston before she’d have to go back again.

Miriam settled back in her seat, notebook computer opened in front of her and phone beside it. Do I have to go back there? she asked herself morosely. She’d just spent a week on the other side—and that week had been enough to last her a lifetime. She felt the stiff edges of the platinum credit card digging into her conscience. It was blood money, and their damn blood-is-thicker-than-water creed would drag her back—every time. It didn’t drag my birth-mother back, she thought. It killed her instead. Which was even worse, and likelier than not what would happen to her if she ran now—because if she ran, they’d know she was untrustworthy. She wouldn’t get another chance. Darker possibilities occurred to her. Even if they didn’t want to kill her and reduce their precious gene pool, they could immobilize her permanently by blinding her. She doubted it was a common tactic—even given the Clan’s ruthlessness, it would rapidly provoke fear and loathing, a catalyst for conflict—but they might use it as a special measure if they suspected treason, and the possibility filled her with horror.