Brill picked a chair in front of the television set. “What now?” she asked, yawning.

Miriam glanced at the bedside clock: It was about one o’-clock in the morning. “It’s late,” said Miriam. “Tonight we sleep. In the morning I’m going to take you on a journey to another city, to meet someone I trust. A friend. Then—” she instinctively fingered the pocket with the two lockets in it, her own and the one she’d taken from the assassin—“we’ll work out what to do next.”

They spent a nervous night in the anonymous hotel room, high above any threat from world-walking pursuers. In the morning Miriam pointed Brill at the shower—she had to explain the controls—while she called room service, then went to check the wardrobe.

A big anonymous-looking suitcase nearly filled the luggage niche, right where she’d left it. While breakfast was on its way up, Miriam opened it and pulled out some fresh clothing. Have to take time to buy some more, she thought, looking at what was left. Most of the suitcase was occupied by items that wouldn’t exactly render her inconspicuous on this side. Later, she resolved. Her wallet itched, reproaching her. Inside it was the platinum card Duke Angbard had sent her. Two million dollars of other people’s blood money. Either it was her “Get Out of Jail Free” card, or a death trap, depending on whether whoever had sent the first bunch of assassins—her enemy within the Clan, rather than without—was able to follow its transactions. Probably they wouldn’t be able to, at least not fast enough to catch up with her if she kept moving. If they were, Miriam wasn’t the only family member who was at risk. It’s probably safe as long as it keeps working and I keep moving, she reasoned. If somebody puts a stop on it, I’m in trouble. And better not go buying any air tickets. Not that she was planning on doing that—the idea of introducing airline passenger etiquette to Brill left her shaking her head.

There was a discreet knock at the door. Miriam picked up her pistol and, hiding it in her pocket, approached. The peephole showed her a bored bellhop pushing a trolley. She opened the door. “Thanks,” she said, passing him a tip. “We’ll keep the trolley.”

Back inside the suite, Brill emerged from the bathroom looking pink and freshly scrubbed—and somewhat confused. “Where does all the water come from?” she asked, almost complaining. “It never stopped!”

“Welcome to New York, baby,” Miriam drawled, lifting the cover off a plate laden with a full-cooked breakfast. “Land of plenty, home of—sorry,” she finished lamely and waved Brill toward a chair. “Come on, there’s enough food for both of us.” Damn, she thought. I don’t want to go rubbing her nose in it. Not like that.