“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.