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.”