“This is what it was like the whole time, during the civil war,” the duchess pointed out.

“So people keep telling me, as if I’m supposed to be grateful! But it’s not as if this is my only option. I’ve got another identity over in world three and—”

“Do they have tampons there?”

“Ah.” Helge paused for a moment. “No, I don’t think so,” she said slowly. “But they’ve got cotton wool.” She fumbled for a moment, then pulled out a pen-sized voice recorder. “Memo: business plans. Investigate early patent filings covering tampons and applicators. Also sterilization methods—dry heat?” She clicked the recorder off and replaced it. “Thanks.” A lightning smile that was purely Miriam flashed across her face and was gone. “I should be over there,” she added earnestly. “World three is my project. I set up the company and I ought to be managing it.”

“Firstly, our dear long-lost relatives are over there,” the duchess pointed out. “Truce or not, if they haven’t got the message yet, you could show your nose over there and get it chopped off. And secondly.”

“Ah, yes. Secondly.”

“You know what I’m going to say,” the duchess said quietly. “So please don’t shoot the messenger.”

“Okay.” Helge turned her head to stare moodily out of the nearest window. “You’re going to tell me that the political situation is messy. That if I go over there right now some of the more jumpy first citizens of the Clan will get the idea that I’m abandoning the sinking ship, aided and abetted by my delightful grandmother’s whispering campaign—”

“Leave the rudeness to me. She’s my cross to bear.”

“Yes, but.” Helge stopped.

Her mother took a deep breath. “The Clan, for all its failings, is a very democratic organization. Democratic in the original sense of the word. If enough of the elite voters agree, they can depose the leadership, indict a member of the Clan for trial by a jury of their peers—anything. Which is why appearances, manners, and social standing are so important. Hypocrisy is the grease that lubricates the Clan’s machinery.” Her cheek twitched. “Oh yes. While I remember, love, if you are accused of anything never, ever, insist on your right to a trial by jury. Over here, that word does not mean what you think it means. Like ‘secretary’. Pah, but I’m woolgathering! Anyway. My mother your grandmother has a constituency, Miri—Helge. Tarnation. Swear at me if I slip again, will you, dear? We need to break each other of this habit.”

Helge nodded. “Yes, Iris.”

The duchess reached over and swatted her lightly on the arm. “Patricia! Say my full name.”

“Ah—” Helge met her gaze. “Alright. Your grace is the honorable duchess Patricia voh Hjorth d’Wu ab Thorold.” With mild rebellion: “also known as Iris Beckstein, of 34 Coffin Street—”