Four hundred meters of twisting alleys and uneven cobblestones led from the Courts of Justice to that convenient drinking stop. Eight hundred and forty of straight avenue, broad sidewalks, and level flagstones went from there to Lucknor & Associates. It was an easy route for most. City professionals of a certain age learned how to be drunk at four in the afternoon and not look it. Miranda still lacked that skill, so she kept her head down and her steps brisk, hoping that would carry her the distance without mishap. She got safely to the main door of Lucknor & Associates, safely inside, and safely, if not steadily, up the curving stairs. Her steps slowed, but she kept her face stern and made it past the receptionist with only a nod. Once inside her office, she stumbled slightly while trying to reach for her chair but managed to sit with dignified grace. She took off her shoes, put her feet on her desk, and drank two cups of sweet lemongrass tea from her flask. Near her heels, near enough for her to kick if she merely straightened a knee, her briefcase lay where she had thrown it. She looked at it with increasing disgust as sobriety slowly returned.

She picked up the phone, dialed, and waited.

“Hello, Miranda. It’s a little busy here.” The words were rushed, distracted. In the background, a recorded voice spoke in a charming professional lilt. “Like many ancient walled settlements on the continental coast, the City has a history that dates back to—”

“I wish I were an ancient walled settlement,” Miranda said. “All that bombardment and danger in the past, nothing but serene meditation in the present, and only a little crumbling at the edges to look forward to in the future.”

“Are you drunk?” the live voice asked in a low, suspicious murmur, clearly trying not to be overheard.

“I have been drinking with Fernando and Khabir,” Miranda replied with dignified precision. “The case is over.”

There was a pause during which Miranda thought she could hear the sound of a long, sympathetic exhalation.

“I’ll get home early, put some soup on.”

“Thanks, Kieran,” Miranda said, trying not to weep at the expected kindness. She swallowed and hung up quickly. Three quick breaths, and she had the composure for another call, this one internal.

“Lucknor here.” His speech remained unslurred, but then again, he had the experience.

“Khabir?”

“Yes, m’dear?”

“I’m going home.” On another day she would have asked.

“Yes,” Khabir replied simply. “I believe I am too.”

“Call Fernando’s wife. He’s still drinking at the bar. He shouldn’t drive.”

“I’ll take him home.” That was fine. Khabir had a chauffeur, befitting his station as head of the firm.

When the call ended, she sat for a while, gazing blank-faced at the briefcase. She muttered: