“Well, we’re stuck with the way things are,” the duchess said sharply, then subsided slightly. “I’m sorry dear, I don’t mean to snap. I’m just worried for you. The sooner you learn how to mind yourself without mortally offending anyone by accident the happier I’ll be.”

“Um.” Miriam chewed on the idea for a while. She’s stressed, she decided. Is that all it is, or is there something more…? “Well, I’ll try. But I came here to see how you are, not to have a moan on your shoulder. So how are you keeping?”

“Well, now that you ask—” Her mother smiled and waved vaguely at a table behind her chaise longue. Miriam followed her gesture: two aluminium crutches, starkly functional, lay atop a cloisonné stand next to a pill case.

“The doctor says I’m to reduce the prednisone again next week. The Copaxone seems to be helping a lot, and that’s just one injection a day. As long as nobody accidentally forgets to bring me next week’s prescription I’ll be fine.”

“But surely nobody would—” Miriam’s whole body quivered with indignation.

“—Really?” The duchess glanced back at her daughter, her expression unreadable. “You seem to have forgotten what kind of a place this is. The meds aren’t simply costly in dollars and cents: someone has to bring them across from the other world. And courier time is priceless. Nobody gives me a neatly itemized bill, but if I want to keep on receiving them I have to pay. And the first rule of business around here is, don’t piss off the blackmailers.”

Miriam’s reluctant nod seemed to satisfy her, because she nodded: “Remember, a lady never unintentionally gives offense—especially to people she depends on to keep her alive. If you can hang onto just one rule to help you survive in the Clan, make it that one. But I’m losing the plot. How are you doing? Have there been any after-effects?”

“After-effects?” Miriam caught her hand at her chin and forced herself to stop. She flushed, pulse jerking with an adrenalin-surge of remembered fear and anger. “I—” She lowered her hand. “Oh, nothing physical,” she said bitterly. “Nothing…”

“I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately, Miriam. He wouldn’t have been good for you, you know.”

“I know.” The younger woman—youth being relative, she wouldn’t be seeing thirty again—dropped her gaze. “The political entanglements made it a messy prospect at best,” she said bitterly. “Even if you discounted his weaknesses.” The duchess didn’t reply. Eventually Miriam looked up, her eyes burning with emotions she’d experienced only since learning to be Helge. “I haven’t forgiven him, you know.”

“Forgiven Roland?” The duchess’s tone sharpened.

“No. Your goddamn half-brother. He’s meant to be in charge of security! But he—” her voice began to break.