The headlines in The London Intelligencer were bizarrely familiar, simultaneously tainted with the exotic. “Speaker: House May Impeach Crown for Adultery”—but no, there was no King Clinton in here, just unfamiliar names and a proposal to amend the Basic Law to add a collection of additional charges for which the Crown could be impeached—Adultery, Capitative Fraud, and Irreconsilience, whatever that was. They can impeach the king? Miriam shook her head, moved on to the next story. “Morris and Stokes to hang,” about a pair of jewel thieves who had killed a shopkeeper. Farther down the page was more weirdness, a list of captains of merchantmen to whom had been granted letters of marque and reprise against “the forces and agents of the continental enemy,” and a list of etheric resonances assigned for experimentation by the Teloptic Wireless Company of New Britain.

A waiter appeared at her shoulder as she was about to turn the page. “May I be of service, ma’am?”

“Sure. What’s good, today?”

He smiled broadly. “The kippers are most piquant, and if I may recommend Mrs. Wilson’s strawberry jam for after? Does ma’am prefer tea or coffee?”

“Coffee. Strong, with milk.” She nodded. “I’ll take your recommendations, please. That’ll be all.”

He rustled away from her, leaving her puzzling over the meaning of a story about taxation powers being granted by The-King-In-Parliament to the Grand Estates, and enforcement of the powers of printing rights by the Royal Excise. Even the addition of a powerful dose of coffee and a plate of smoked fish—not her customary start to the day, but nevertheless remarkably edible on an empty stomach—didn’t make it any clearer. This place is so complex! Am I ever going to understand it? She wondered.

She was almost to the bottom of her coffee when a different bellhop arrived, bearing a silver platter. “Message for the Widow Fletcher?” he asked, using the pseudonym Miriam had checked in under.

“That’s me.” Miriam took the note atop the platter—a piece of card with strips of printed tape gummed to it. MEET ME AT 54 GRT MAURICE ST AT 10 SEE BATES STOP EB ENDS. “Ah, good.” She glanced at the clock above the ornate entrance. “Can you arrange a cab for me, please? To Great Maurice Street, leaving in twenty minutes.”

Folding her paper she rose and returned to her room to retrieve her hat and topcoat. The game’s afoot, she thought excitedly.