“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.