“Well now,” breathed Burgeson, “if this is what ladies of means pay their bills with in Scotland, maybe it’s not such an unbelievable fiction after all.”

Miriam nodded. It had better cover the bills, she thought, the damn thing set me back nearly three thousand dollars. “It all depends how honest you aren’t,” she said briskly. “There are more where this one comes from. I’m looking to buy several things, including but not limited to money. I need to fit in. I don’t care if you’re fiddling your taxes or lying to the government, all I care about is whether you’re honest with your customers. You don’t know me, and if you don’t want to, you’ll never see me again. On the other hand, if you say ‘yes’—” she met his eyes—“this need not be our last transaction. Not by a very long way.”

“Hmm.” Burgeson stared right back at her. “Are you in French employ?” he asked.

“Huh?”

Miriam’s fleeting look of puzzlement seemed to reassure him. “Well that’s good,” he said genially. “Excuse me while I fetch the aqua regia: If this is pure I can advance you, oh, ten pounds immediately and another, ahum—” He picked up the gold bar and placed it on the balance behind him. “—sixty two and eight shillings by noon tomorrow.”

“I don’t think so.” Miriam shook her head. “I’ll take ten today, and sixty tomorrow—plus five full pounds’ credit in your shop, here and now, for goods you hold.” She’d been eyeing the price tags. The shilling, a twentieth of a pound, seemed to occupy the same role as the dollar back home, except that they went further. Pounds were big currency.

“Ridiculous.” He stared at her. “Three pounds.”

“Four.”