carefully, grateful for the support.
“Leave us.” Angelin’s gimlet stare sent all but two of the guards packing. The last two stood in front of the door, their faces turned to the woodwork but their hands on the hilts of their swords. The Queen Mother looked back at Miriam. “It is seven years since Eloise died,” said Angelin. “And Alexis is not inclined to remarry. He’s got his heir, and for all his faults, lack of devotion to his wife’s memory is not one of them.”
“Ah.” Miriam realized her fingers were digging into her knees, and she forced herself to let go.
“You can relax. This is not a job interview; nobody is going to offer you the throne,” Angelin added, so abruptly that Miriam almost choked.
“But I didn’t want-” She brought herself up fast. “I’m sorry. You, uh, speak English very well. The vernacular-”
“I grew up over there,” said Angelin, then was silent for almost a minute.
She grew up there? The statement was wholly outrageous, even though the individual words made sense.
Eventually, Angelin began to speak again. “The six families have aspired to become seven for almost a century now. I was only eighteen, you know. Back in 1942. Last time the council tried to capture the throne. They didn’t want me siding with my braid lineage, so they had me brought up in secrecy, in America; it wouldn’t be the first time, or the last. They brought me back and civilized me then farmed me out to the third son when I came of age. Both his elder brothers subsequently died, in a hunting accident and of a fever, respectively. The council of landholders-the laandsknee-screamed blue murder and threatened to annul the marriage: but then the six started tearing each other’s guts out in civil war, and that was an end to the matter, for a generation.”
The lamplight flickered and Miriam felt an icy certainty clutching at her guts. “You mean, the Clan?” she asked. “You’re a world-walker?”
“I was.” Angelin’s eyes were dark hollows in the dim light. “Pregnancy changes you, you know. And I doubt I’d survive if I tried it, today. My old bones are not what they were. And I gather the other world has changed, too. But enough about me.” A withered flicker of a smile: “I know your grandmother. She swears by you, you know. Well, she swears about you, but that’s much the same: it means you’re in her thoughts. She’s pigheaded, too.”
“I don’t see eye to eye with her,” Helge said tightly. The Duchess Hildegarde had once sent agents to kill or dishonor her, thinking her an imposter; since proven wrong, she had subsided into a resentful sulk broken only by expressions of disdain or contempt. What a loving family we aren’t.
“She told me that herself,” the Queen Mother said dismissively. Her eyes gleamed as she looked directly at Helge. “I wanted to see you myself before I made my mind up,” she said.
“Made your mind up?” Miriam could hear her voice rising unpleasantly, even though everything she’d learned as Helge told her she must stick to a cultivated awe in the royal personage. “About what? I’ve just been threatened by your grandson-”
“Don’t you worry about that.” Angelin sounded almost amused. “I’ll deal with Egon later. You may leave now. I won’t stand on ceremony. Thurman, show the lady out-”
“What is this?” Miriam demanded plaintively.
“Later,” said the Queen Mother, as one of the guards-Thurman-urged Helge toward the door. “The trait is recessive,” she added, slightly louder. “That means-”
“I know what it means,” Miriam replied sharply.
“We’ll talk later. Go now.” The Queen Mother looked away dismissively. The door closed behind Helge, stranding the younger woman at one side of a sprung dance floor where couples paced in circles around each other in complex patterns that defied interpretation. Miriam-at this moment she felt herself to be entirely Miriam, not even an echo of the social
“Leave us.” Angelin’s gimlet stare sent all but two of the guards packing. The last two stood in front of the door, their faces turned to the woodwork but their hands on the hilts of their swords. The Queen Mother looked back at Miriam. “It is seven years since Eloise died,” said Angelin. “And Alexis is not inclined to remarry. He’s got his heir, and for all his faults, lack of devotion to his wife’s memory is not one of them.”
“Ah.” Miriam realized her fingers were digging into her knees, and she forced herself to let go.
“You can relax. This is not a job interview; nobody is going to offer you the throne,” Angelin added, so abruptly that Miriam almost choked.
“But I didn’t want-” She brought herself up fast. “I’m sorry. You, uh, speak English very well. The vernacular-”
“I grew up over there,” said Angelin, then was silent for almost a minute.
She grew up there? The statement was wholly outrageous, even though the individual words made sense.
Eventually, Angelin began to speak again. “The six families have aspired to become seven for almost a century now. I was only eighteen, you know. Back in 1942. Last time the council tried to capture the throne. They didn’t want me siding with my braid lineage, so they had me brought up in secrecy, in America; it wouldn’t be the first time, or the last. They brought me back and civilized me then farmed me out to the third son when I came of age. Both his elder brothers subsequently died, in a hunting accident and of a fever, respectively. The council of landholders-the laandsknee-screamed blue murder and threatened to annul the marriage: but then the six started tearing each other’s guts out in civil war, and that was an end to the matter, for a generation.”
The lamplight flickered and Miriam felt an icy certainty clutching at her guts. “You mean, the Clan?” she asked. “You’re a world-walker?”
“I was.” Angelin’s eyes were dark hollows in the dim light. “Pregnancy changes you, you know. And I doubt I’d survive if I tried it, today. My old bones are not what they were. And I gather the other world has changed, too. But enough about me.” A withered flicker of a smile: “I know your grandmother. She swears by you, you know. Well, she swears about you, but that’s much the same: it means you’re in her thoughts. She’s pigheaded, too.”
“I don’t see eye to eye with her,” Helge said tightly. The Duchess Hildegarde had once sent agents to kill or dishonor her, thinking her an imposter; since proven wrong, she had subsided into a resentful sulk broken only by expressions of disdain or contempt. What a loving family we aren’t.
“She told me that herself,” the Queen Mother said dismissively. Her eyes gleamed as she looked directly at Helge. “I wanted to see you myself before I made my mind up,” she said.
“Made your mind up?” Miriam could hear her voice rising unpleasantly, even though everything she’d learned as Helge told her she must stick to a cultivated awe in the royal personage. “About what? I’ve just been threatened by your grandson-”
“Don’t you worry about that.” Angelin sounded almost amused. “I’ll deal with Egon later. You may leave now. I won’t stand on ceremony. Thurman, show the lady out-”
“What is this?” Miriam demanded plaintively.
“Later,” said the Queen Mother, as one of the guards-Thurman-urged Helge toward the door. “The trait is recessive,” she added, slightly louder. “That means-”
“I know what it means,” Miriam replied sharply.
“We’ll talk later. Go now.” The Queen Mother looked away dismissively. The door closed behind Helge, stranding the younger woman at one side of a sprung dance floor where couples paced in circles around each other in complex patterns that defied interpretation. Miriam-at this moment she felt herself to be entirely Miriam, not even an echo of the social
Similar Books
