“Aagh.” She reached open air, found herself looking down at the floor from an unaccustomed height. Her arm hurt, her mouth tasted horrible—something had obviously died in it the night before, and she ached everywhere but especially in a tight band across her forehead. “Mornings!” The air was distinctly cold. Shivering, she threw the comforter off and sat up, then jumped.

“What are you doing in here!” she squeaked, grabbing the covers.

“Excuse, ma’am—we required to attend?” The maid’s accent was thick and hard to make out: English clearly wasn’t her first language, and she looked shocked, though whether it was at Miriam’s nakedness or her reaction to her presence wasn’t clear.

“Well.” Miriam held her breath for a moment, trying to get her heart under control. “You can just wait outside the door. I’ll be up in a minute.”

“But how is you to be dress?” asked the woman, a rising note of unhappiness in her voice.

“I’ll take care of that myself.” Miriam sat up again, this time holding the bedding around her. “Out. I mean, right out of my chambers, all of you, completely out! You can come back in half an hour. And shut the door.”

She stood up as the door clicked shut, her heart still pounding. “How the hell do they manage?” she wondered aloud. “Jesus. Royalty!” It came out as a curse. It had never occurred to her to sympathize with the Queen of England before, but the idea of being surrounded by flunkies monitoring her every breath gave her a a sinking feeling in her stomach.

I’ve got to get away from this for a while, she realized. Even if I can’t avoid them in the long term, they’ll drive me mad if I don’t get some privacy. Domestic servants were something that had passed out of the American middle-class lifestyle generations ago. Just the idea of having to deal with them made Miriam feel as if she was about to break out in hives.

Right. I’ve got to get away for a bit. How? Where? Miriam glanced at the bedside table and saw temporary escape sitting there, next to her dictaphone. Ah. A plan! She approached the huge chest of drawers and rummaged through it, hunting clothes. Ten minutes later she was dressed in urban casual—jeans, sneakers, sweater, leather jacket. Someone had helpfully installed some of her bags in the bottom of a cavernous wardrobe, and her small reporter’s briefcase was among them, preloaded with a yellow pad, pens, and some spare tapes and batteries.