Khabir stood on the threshold, briefcase in one hand and a bundle of envelopes in the other. He spoke his greeting politely enough, but there was a shadow of worry, a hint of puzzlement. It might have been mere suspicion, but his expression could also pass for the face of a man disturbed by the echo of a memory of a dream that had never happened. “Who’s this? New secretary?”

“This is my . . .” Miranda paused in reflection, then grinned. “My companion.”

“Companion?” Khabir repeated in a tone that asked a thousand silent inappropriate questions. He settled on the most innocent query. “So his job is to . . . ?”

“Accompany me,” Miranda replied sweetly, not giving him any satisfaction.

“Good,” Khabir said, cheerfully surrendering. He put the envelopes into Chance’s free hand and took the seat in front of Miranda’s desk. Chance placed the correspondence in Miranda’s in tray, silently served them, and went to get another cup.

“You know, Miranda, I asked you to change the City, and instead you ran away to another place.”

Miranda’s laugh was both amused and slightly cynical. “Jealous? You could always move here. Plenty of room.”

“What, and give up Freeman status?”

“See?” she said sadly. “You’re taken in by the mystique of that title, even you. Let it go, Khabir. It’s meaningless.”

He shrugged, unoffended. “It’s useful to both me and you for now. Anyway, joking aside, did you know that the transient population of the City has dropped by 45 percent at last estimate?”

“And you thought I wasn’t changing the City,” Miranda said with a smug look.

Khabir sputtered at her impertinence, then grimaced in surrender and laughed at himself. And then, with an unconsciousness that made Miranda frown and wince, he raised his half-empty cup toward Chance for a refill without even a glance in his direction. Chance quietly set down his cup, took up the teapot, and poured.

“This is excellent tea,” Khabir complimented Miranda.

“I learned from my mother, who is a professional chef,” Chance said.

Khabir looked startled at being addressed. Miranda smiled. Chance took the tray with the empty teapot and his cup and went through the maze of room dividers to the kitchen.

—

Later, after the sound of conversation had moved to the entrance and was concluded by the sound of the closing door, Chance looked up from his newspaper to find Miranda hovering over him, her face tragic with remorse.

“I am so sorry for his behavior.”

Chance stood up, folded the paper, and rested it on the kitchen table next to his teacup. “His behavior is his responsibility, not yours.”

“But I didn’t say anything to him.”

“Well, he is a typical Freeman. A few words to him about me aren’t going to change his attitude toward the next servant he sees,” Chance reasoned.

Miranda flinched. “You are not a servant.”

“I’m your companion, aren’t I? To most Freemen that’s a servant.”