The Family Trade

“Oh! But that’s not what I meant—” Brilliana’s cheeks coloured.

Miriam smiled crookedly. “Did your mother by any chance send you away because you pestered her to take you over to the other side one time too often? And did Oliver banish you here for the same reason?”

“Yes,” Brilliana nodded reluctantly. “A lady is someone who never knowingly causes pain to others,” she said quietly. “But what about causing pain to one’s self?”

“I think—” Miriam looked at her, as if for the first time: twenty-two years old, skin like milk and blonde hair, blue eyes, a puzzled, slightly angry expression, a couple of small craterlike scars marring the line of her otherwise perfect jaw. Wearing a slim black dress and a scarf around her hair, a silver necklace set with pearls around her neck, she looked too—tense was the word Miriam was looking for—to fit in here. But give her a jacket and briefcase and nobody would look twice at her in a busy downtown rush hour. “I think you have too low an opinion of yourself, Brill,” she said slowly. “What’s through this door, do you know?”

“It’ll be the way up to the roof.” She frowned, puzzled. “Locked, of course.”

“Of course.” This door had a more modern keyhole and lock. But when Miriam twisted the handle and tugged, it opened, admitting a frigid blast of damp air. “I think you’re right about it leading to the roof,” Miriam added, “but I’d like to know just where the unlocked doors lead, do you follow me?”

“Bit.” Brilliana shivered. She really wasn’t dressed for this, Miriam noted.

“Wait here,” Miriam instructed. Without pause she entered the doorway. Stone steps spiralled tightly up into blackness. She ascended, guided by touch as much as by vision. This must be higher than the doppelgänger warehouse’s roof, she guessed. Cold wind smacked her in the face at the top. She turned and looked out across the steeply pitched roof, past machicolations, across gardens spread far below. And then the town, narrow streets and pitched roofs utterly unlike anything she’d see back home stretching away on all sides, dimly lit by lamplight. What do they burn? she wondered. Above the entire scene, riding high atop a tattered carpet of fast-moving white clouds, hung the gibbous moon. Someone has been up here recently, she thought and shivered. It was freezing cold, wet, and dark. Clambering about on the roof held no appeal, so she turned and carefully descended back into the relative warmth of the moth-eaten outer reception room.

Brilliana jumped as she emerged. “Oh! By my soul, you gave me a fright, my lady. I was so worried for you!”

“I think I gave me a fright too,” Miriam commented shakily. She shut the door. “We’re going back to the heated quarters now,” she said. “And we’re going to bolt the door—on the inside. Come on. I wonder if that bath will be ready.”

The bath was indeed ready, although Miriam had to ransack her luggage for toiletries and chase two ladies-in-waiting and three servants out of the room before she could strip off and get in the tub. In any event, it grew cold too fast for her to soak in it for long. Baths hereabouts were a major chore, it seemed, and if she didn’t get across to the other side regularly, she’d have to get used to making it a weekly event. At least she didn’t have to put up with the local substitute for soap, which was ghastly beyond belief.

Drying herself with her feet up against the back side of the fireplace—which for a miracle had warmed right through the stonework—she reflected on the progress she’d made. Brilliana is going to be okay, she mused. Maybe I could give her to Paulie as a gofer? If she survived the culture shock. It’s no joke, she chided herself. She’d grown up with museums and films about the past—how much harder would she have it if she’d found herself catapulted into the equivalent of the twenty-sixth century, without any means of going home? She’d be helpless. Had Brilliana ever seen a light switch? Or a telephone? Perhaps—and then again, perhaps not. I keep forgetting that clothes don’t make the man—or woman, she prodded herself. You could go really badly wrong if you make that mistake here.

She pulled on her jeans and sweater again, frowning—Should have asked Kara to get something out for me—then went back into the main room. The servants had pulled out a small dining table from somewhere, and it was set with silverware and a huge candelabra. “Wonderful!” she said. Kara and Brill were standing beside it, and Kara gri

Brill had, and the food, which she’d ordered up from the cavernous kitchens far below, was still edible. By the time they’d drained two bottles of a most passable red, Miriam was feeling distinctly tired and even Kara had lost her tendency to squeal, bounce, and end every sentence on an exclamation point. “Bedtime, I think,” she said, pointedly dismissing everyone from her chamber before pulling back the curtain on her bed, pulling out the warming pan, and burrowing inside.

The next morning Miriam awakened rapidly and—for a miracle—without any trace of a hangover. I feel fine, she realized, surprised. Pulling back the curtain, she sat up to find a maid sitting with down turned face beside her bed. Oh. I did feel fine, she amended. “You can send them in,” she said, trying to keep the tone of resignation out of her voice. “I’m ready to dress now.”

Kara bounded in. “It’s your walk with Lady Olga today!” she enthused. “Look what I found for you?”

Miriam looked—and stifled a groan. Kara had zeroed in on one of her work suits, along with a silvery top. “No,” she said, levering herself off the bed. “Bring me what I was wearing yesterday. I think it’s clean enough to do. Then pass me my underwear and get out.”

“But! But—”

“I am thirty-two years old, and I have been putting on my own clothes for twenty-eight of those years,” Miriam explained, one gentle hand on Kara’s back, propelling her gently toward the door. “When I need help, I’ll let you know.” Alone, she leaned against the cold wall for a moment and closed her eyes. Youth and enthusiasm! She made a curse of the phrase.

Miriam dressed quickly and efficiently, then exited her bedroom to find Kara and a couple of servants waiting by the dining table, on which was laid a single breakfast setting. She was about to protest when she took one look at Kara and bit her tongue. Instead, she sat down. “Coffee or tea, whatever’s available,” she said to the maid. “Kara. Come here. Sit down with me. Cough it up.”

“I’m meant to dress you,” she said miserably. “It’s my job.”

“Fine, fine.” Miriam rolled her eyes. “You do know I come from the other side?” Kara nodded. “If it makes you feel better, tell yourself I’m a crazy old bat who’ll be sorry she ignored you later.” She gri

“Games? With heads?”

Ye gods! “If I think someone has made a mistake, I tell them. It doesn’t mean I secretly hate them or that I’ve decided to make their life unpleasant. I don’t do that because I’ve got other things to worry about, and screwing around like that—” she saw Kara’s eyes widen—Don’t tell me swearing isn’t allowed?—“is a waste of time. Do you understand?”

Kara shook her head, mutely.

“Don’t worry about it, then. I’m not angry with you. Drink your tea.” Miriam patted her hand. “It’s going to be all right. You said there’s a reception this evening. You said we were invited. You want to go?”

Kara nodded, slowly, watching Miriam.

“Fine. You’re coming, then. If you didn’t want to go, I wouldn’t make you. Do you understand? As long as you do your job properly when you’re needed, as far as I’m concerned you’re free to do whatever you like with the rest of your time. I am not your mother. Do you understand?”