They were waiting for her when she came out. Four women in severe black dresses and white aprons, their hair covered by blue scarves. They curtseyed before her as she looked around, confused. “I’m Meg, if it please you, your highness. We is to dress you,” the oldest of them said in a soft, vaguely Germanic accent: Middle-aged and motherly, she looked as if she would be more at home in an Amish farm kitchen than a castle.

“Uh, it’s only four o’clock,” Miriam pointed out.

Meg looked slightly shocked. “But you are to be received at seven!” She pointed out. “How’re we to dress you in time?”

“Well.” Miriam looked at the other three: All of them stood with downcast eyes. I don’t like this, she thought. “How about I take something from my wardrobe—yes, they kindly brought all my clothes along—and put it on?”

“M-ma’am,” the second oldest ventured: “I’ve seen your clothes. Begging your pardon, but them’s not court clothes. Them’s not suitable.”

‘Court clothes’? More crazy formal shit. “What would you suggest, then?” Miriam asked exasperatedly.

“Old Ma’am Rosein can fit you up with something to measure,” said the old one, “should I but give her your sizes.” She held up a very modern-looking tape measure. “Your highness?”

“This had better be good,” Miriam said, raising her arms. Why do I never get this kind of service at the Gap? She wondered.

Three hours later Miriam was readied for dinner, and knew exactly why she never got this kind of service in any chain store—and why Angbard had so many servants. She was hungry, and if the bodice they’d squeezed her into allowed her to eat when she got there she might consider forgiving Angbard for his invitation.

The youngest maidservant was still fussing over her hair—and the feathers and string of pearls she had woven into it, while lamenting its shortness—when the door opened. It was, of course, Roland, accompanied now by a younger fellow, and Miriam began to get an inkling of what a formal dinner involved.

“Dear cousin!” Roland saluted her. Miriam carefully met his eyes and inclined her head as far as she could. “May I present you with your nephew twice removed: Vincenze?” The younger man bowed deeply, his red embroidered jacket tightening across broad shoulders. “You look splendid, my dear.”

“Do I?” Miriam shook her head. “I feel like an ornamental flower arrangement,” she said with some feeling.

“Charmed, ma’am,” said Vincenze with the beginning of a stutter.

“If you would like to accompany me?” Roland offered her his arm, and she took it with alacrity.

“Keep the speed down,” she hissed, glancing past him at his younger relative, who appeared to be too young to need to shave regularly.

“By all means, keep the speed down.” Roland nodded.