“Oh, anything you’d like.” She smiled breezily. “Coffee, we have a whole range of different types at present. Eggs, bacon, sausages, granola, breakfast cereal, juice—whatever.”

“Double espresso for me,” said Roland. “Rye sourdough toast, extra-mature thick-peel marmalade, unsalted butter. Two fried eggs, sunny-side up.”

“Hmm. A large cappuccino for me, I think,” said Miriam. “Can you manage a Spanish omelette?”

“Sure!” Miss Breezy grinned at her. “With you in five minutes.”

Miriam blinked at her receding back. “Now that is what I call service.”

“We take it seriously around here,” Roland said drily. “That’s why we go through a Human Resources department.”

“You run this household like a company.” Miriam frowned. “In fact, this is a family business, isn’t it? That’s what you’re in.” She paused. “Interuniversal import/export. Right?”

“Right.” He nodded.

“And you’ve been doing it for hundreds of years.”

“Right you are,” he said encouragingly. “You’re figuring it out for yourself.”

“It’s not that hard.” The distinctive noise of a coffee percolator made her raise her head. “How do you think last night went?”

“I think—” he watched her examining him. “Do you know you’ve got a very disquieting stare?”

“Yes.” She grinned at him. “I practice in the mirror before I go in to an interview. Sometimes it makes my victims give away more than they intended to. And sometimes it just gives them bad dreams afterward.”

“Eeh. I can see you’d be a bad enemy, Miss Beckstein.”

“Miz, to you.” She paused.

The waitress was back, bearing a tray laden with coffee, milk, and a sugar bowl. “Call if you need anything more,” she reassured them, then disappeared again.

Roland’s eyes narrowed at he looked at her. “You remind me of when I was at college,” he said.

“You were at college?” she asked. “Over here, I mean?”

“Oh, yes.” He picked up his espresso and spooned a small quantity of brown sugar crystals into it.

“The girls don’t seem to get that treatment,” she pointed out sharply.

“Oh, but some of them do,” he replied, blowing on his coffee. “At least, these days, this generation. Olga is a throwback—or, rather, her father is. I’m not sure quite what the duke was trying to prove, inviting you to dine with us, but he said something about culture shock earlier. He’s a perceptive old coot, gets hold of some very unexpected ideas and refuses to let them go. I’m half-wondering if he was testing you. Seeing if you’d break cover under stress or how you’d hold up in public by using an audience he could silence if the need arose.”

“A-ha.” She took a first sip of her coffee. “So what did you study?”