“Yes. I noticed that in your world, as well.” Olga found an inner pocket in her coat and slid the gun into it carefully. “Who’s to defend you?”

“The thief-takers and constables, in theory. Ordinary thief-takers are mostly safe, but the police constabulary are somewhat different here—their job is to defend the state against its own subjects.” Miriam picked up the dense velvet bag with both hands and carried it to the doorway, glanced either way, then ducked through into the next room.

“This is your bedroom?” asked Olga.

“Yes.” Miriam grunted. “Here, help me move the bed.” There was a loose panel in the skirting board behind the bed. Miriam worried it loose, to reveal a small safe which she unlocked. The bag of bullion was a tight fit because the safe was already nearly full, but she worked it closed eventually and put the wooden slat back before shoving the bed up against it. “That’s about ten thousand pounds,” Miriam commented—“enough to buy this house nine times over.”

Olga whistled appreciatively. “You’re doing it in style.”

“Yeah, well, as soon as I can liquidate it, I’m going to invest it.” Miriam shrugged. “You’re sure Brill is alright?” she asked.

“Brilliana is fine,” Olga said dismissively. “I don’t believe you have anything to worry about on her part.”

“I don’t believe she’s a threat.” Miriam shook her head. “A snoop planted by Angbard is another matter.”

“Hmm.” Olga looked skeptical. “I see.”

“Give me ten minutes? I need to get decent.”

“Certainly.” Olga retreated to the bathroom—opposite the guestroom—to play with the exotic fixtures. They weren’t as efficient as those in Miriam’s office or Fort Lofstrom, but they’d do.

Miriam met her on the landing, dressed for a walk in public and wearing a ridiculous-looking bonnet. “Let’s head to the tram stop,” she suggested. “I’ll take you by the office and introduce you to people. Then there’s a friend I want you to meet.”

Miriam couldn’t help but notice the way Olga kept turning her head like a yokel out in the big city for the first time. “Not like Boston, is it?” she said, as the tram whined around the corner of Broad Street and narrowly avoided a costermonger’s cart with a screech of brakes and an exchange of curses.

“It’s—” Olga took a deep breath: “smellier,” she declared. She glanced around. “Smaller. More people out and about. Colder. Everyone wears heavier clothing, like home, but well cut, machine-made. Dark fabrics.”