Bates picked up a pair of half-moon spectacles and balanced them on the bridge of his nose. His whiskers twitched, walruslike. “He has told me enough, I think,” he intoned in a plummy voice. “A woman fallen upon hard times, husband dead after years abroad, papers lost in an unfortunate pursuit—I believe he referred to the foundering of the Greenbaum Lamplight, a most unpleasant experience for you, I am sure—and therefore in need of the emolient reaffirmation of her identity, is that right? He vouched for you most plaintively. And he also mentioned something about a fortune overseas, held in trust, to which you have limited access.”

“Yes, that’s all correct,” Miriam said fervently. “I am indeed in need of new papers—and a few other services best rendered by a man of the law.”

“Well. I can see at a glance that you are no Frenchie,” he said, nodding at her. “And so I can see nothing wrong with your party, ft will take but an hour to draw up the correct deeds and post them with the inns of court, to declare your identity fair and square. Erasmus said you were born at Shreveport on, ah, if I may be so indelicate, the seventh of September, in the year of our lord nineteen hundred and sixty nine. Is that correct?”

Miriam nodded. Near enough, she thought. “Uh, yes.”

“Very well. If you would examine and sign this—” he passed a large and imposing sheet of parchment to her—“and this—” he passed her another, “we will set the wheels of justice in motion.”

Miriam examined the documents rapidly. One of them was a declaration of some sort; asserting her name, age, place of birth, and identity and petitioning for a replacement birth certificate for the one lost at sea on behalf of the vacant authorities of—“Why are the authorities of Shreveport not directly involved?” she asked.

Bates looked at her oddly. “After what happened during the war there isn’t enough left of Shreveport to have any authorities,” he muttered darkly.

“Oh.” She read on. The next paper petitioned for a passport in her name, with a peculiar status—competent adult. “I see I am considered a competent adult here. Can you just explain precisely what that entails?”

“Certainly.” Bates leaned back in his chair. “You are an adult, aged over thirty, and a widow; there is no man under whose mantle your rights and autonomy are exercised, and you are deemed old enough in law to be self-sufficient. So you may enter into contracts at your own peril, as an adult, until such time as you choose to remarry, and any such contracts as you make will then be binding upon your future husband.”