“It is, isn’t it?” replied Brilliana, squeezing through the half-open doorway as Miriam held it open for her. Miriam followed. “These murals were painted by The Eye himself, it is said.” Miriam blinked at dusty splendor, a red wool carpet and walls forming scenes disturbingly similar to—and yet different from—the traditional devotional paintings of the great houses of Europe. (Here a one-eyed god hung from a tree, his hands outstretched to give the benefit of his wisdom to the kneeling child-kings of Rome. There a prophet posed before a cave mouth within which lurked something unspeakable.) “The palace is held by the Clan in common trust. It is used by those family members who do not have houses in the capital. Each family owns one fifth of it—one tower—and Baron Oliver Hjorth occupies the High Tower, presiding over all, responsible for maintainance. I think he’s angry because the High Tower was burned to a shell eight years ago, and the cost of rebuilding it has proven ruinous,” she added thoughtfully.

“Very interesting,” murmured Miriam. Thinking: Yes, it’s about fifty feet long. This part of the palace was clearly doppelgängered, if the wall she’d seen in the warehouse was where she thought it was. Which meant that her own corner was far less secure than Angbard had implied. “Why was I accommodated here?”

“Why, because Baron Oliver refused you as a guest!” Brilliana said, a tight little smile on her face. Miriam puzzled for a moment, then recognized it as the nearest thing to anger she’d seen from the girl. “It is unconscionable of him, vindictive!”

“I’m getting used to it,” Miriam said dryly. She looked around the huge, dusty audience chamber then shivered from the chill leaching through its stones. The shutters were closed and oil lamps burned dimly in the chandelier, but despite all that it was as cold as a refrigerator. “What does he have against me, again?”

“Your braid. Your mother married his elder brother. You should inherit the Thorold Hjorth shares. You should, in fact, inherit the tower he has spent so long restoring. Duke Angbard has made it a personal project to bring Oliver to his knees for many years, and perhaps he thinks to use you to provoke the baron into an unforgivable display of disloyalty.”

“Oh shi—” Miriam turned to face the younger woman. “And you?” she demanded.

“Me?” Brilliana raised a slim hand to cover her mouth, as if concealing a laugh. “I’m in disgrace, most recently for calling Padrig, Baron Oliver’s youngest, a pimple-faced toad!” She shrugged uncomfortably. “My mother sent me away, first to the duke, then to the baron’s table, thinking his would be a good household for a young maid to grow up in.” For a moment, a flicker of nearly revealed anger lit up her face like lightning. “Hoping he’d take a horsewhip to me, more like.”