She wandered through into the bedroom and sat on the futon beneath the platform bed in the corner. Her phone was still sitting on the floor next to it, plugged in to charge but switched off. She picked it up, switched it on, waited for it to log on, then hit her mailbox.

“You have messages. Message one…” A gravelly voice, calling from ten days ago. “Miriam?” She sat up straight: It was Angbard! “I have been thinking very deeply and I have concluded that you are right.”

Her jaw dropped. “Holy shit,” she whispered.

“What you said about my security is correct. Olga is at evident risk. For the time being she remains in the hospital, but when you return, I release her into your care until Beltaigne, when I expect you both to appear before the Clan council to render an account of your persecution.”

Miriam found herself shaking. “Is there anything else?”

“There’s no news about your mother. I will continue to search until I find something positive to report to you. I am sorry I can’t tell you anything more about her disappearance. Rest assured that no stone will go unturned in hunting for her assailants. You may call me at any time, but bear in mind that my switchboard might—if you are correct—be intercepted. Good-bye.”

Click. “Message two—” Miriam shook her head. “Hello! This is a recorded greeting from Kleinmort Baintree Investments! Worried about your pension? You too—” Miriam hit the delete button.

“Message three: Call me. Please?” It was Roland, plaintive. She hit ‘delete’ again, feeling sick to her stomach. “Message four: Miriam? You there? Steve, at The Herald. Call me. Got work for you.”

It was the last message. Miriam stared at her phone for a good few seconds before she moved her thumb to the delete key. It only traveled a millimeter, but it felt like miles. She hung up. “Did I just hear myself do that?” she asked the empty room; “did I just decide to ignore a commission from The Herald?”

She shook her head, then began to rummage through the clothes in her burnished suitcase, looking for something to wear. They felt odd, and once dressed she felt as if she’d forgotten something, but at least it was comfortable and nothing pinched. “Weird,” she muttered and went back out into the corridor just as the front door banged open, admitting a freezing gust of cold air.

“Miriam!” Someone in a winter coat leapt forward and embraced her.

“Brill!” There was someone behind—“Olga! What are you doing here?”

“What do you think?” Olga looked around curiously. “What kind of house do you call this?”

“I don’t. It’s going to be a doppelgängered post office, though. Brill, let go, you’re freezing!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said earnestly. “The duke, he sent a message to you with lady Olga—”