“No shit,” Miriam said shakily as they climbed the steps toward the entrance, looking around at the same time for signs of Brilliana. “I must congratulate them on their scarcity. When I find out who they are and where they live.”

The snow was falling thick and fast outside, from a sky the color of leaden tiles. The temperature was dropping, a blizzard in the making. “You must come up to my receiving room for tea,” Olga insisted, and Miriam found herself unable to decline. Brilliana hurried alongside them as they reentered the barely heated corridors of the palace, ascending through a bewildering maze of passages and stairs to reach Olga’s private rooms.

Olga had left her guards behind. She wanted no witnesses to our little contretemps, Miriam thought with a cold chill. Now she berated them as she entered her outer reception room, four strapping tall men in household livery worn with cuirasses, swords, and automatic weapons. “Come in, be welcome, sit you down,” Olga insisted, gesturing toward a circle of sofas being moved hastily into place by a bevy of servants. Miriam accepted gratefully, placing Brilliana at her left, and presently Olga’s own ladies-in-waiting shepherded in a small company of servants bearing side tables, a silver samovar, and sweetmeats on trays. With the blazing fireplace, it was almost possible to forget the gathering storm outside.

Now that Olga’s fury at Miriam had been diverted toward a different target, she overcompensated, attempting to prove herself a charming hostess by heaping every consideration upon Miriam in a way that Miriam found more than a bit creepy after her earlier rage. Maybe it was just a guilt reaction, Miriam speculated, but it left her feeling very relieved that Olga didn’t share her interest in Roland. They were well into a second pot of tea, with Miriam eavesdropping on the Lady Aris’s snide comments about the members of this or that social set at court, when there was a polite announcement at the door. “Courier for madame Thorold,” announced Olga’s steward, poking his head in. “Shall I admit him?”

“By all means.” Olga sat up straight as the messenger—dripping wet and looking chilled to the bone—entered. “My good man! What do you have for me?”

“Milady, I have been charged to deliver this into you hands,” he said, dropping to one knee and presenting a sealed envelope from a shoulder bag. Olga accepted it, slit the wrapping, and read. She frowned. “Very well. You may tell your master I received word and passed it on to all present here. Feel free to leave immediately.”

The messenger backed out, bowing. Olga returned to her chaise, looking distracted. “How unfortunate,” she said.

“‘Unfortunate’?” Miriam raised an eyebrow.