The Hidden Family

Brill gestured at the TV set. “Put one of those, showing that, in every peasant’s house? Are you kidding? I think it’s the most amazingly wonderful thing I’ve ever heard of!” She frowned. “My mother would say that’s typical of me, and my father would get angry and perhaps beat me for it. But I’m right, and they’re wrong.”

“Ah, the self-confidence of youth.” Miriam picked up her glass again.

“Doesn’t the idea of, like, completely wiping out the culture of your own people worry you? I mean, so much of what we’ve got here is such complete shit—” She stopped. Brill’s eyes were sparkling—with anger, not amusement.

“You really think so? Go live in a one-room hut for a couple of years, bearing illiterate brats half of whom will die before they’re five! Without a fancy toilet, or even a thunder-mug to piss in each morning. Go do that, where the only entertainment is once a week going to the temple where some fat stupid priest invokes the blessings of Sky Father and his court on your heads and prays that the harvest doesn’t fail again like it did five years ago, when two of your children starved to death in front of your eyes. Then tell me that your culture’s shit!”

Miriam tried to interrupt: “Hey, what about—”

Brill steamed right on. “Shut up. Even the children of the well-off—like me—grow up living four to a room and wearing hand-me-downs. We are married off to whoever our parents think will pay best bride-price. Because we’re members of the outer families we don’t die of childbed fever—not since the Clan so graciously gave us penicillin tablets and morphine for the pain—but we get to bear child after child because it’s our duty to the Clan! Are you insane, my lady? Or merely blind? And it’s better for us in the families than for ordinary women, better by far. Did you notice that within the Clan you had rights? Or that outside the Clan, in the ordinary aristocracy, you didn’t? We have at least one ability that is as important, more important, than what’s between our legs: another source of status. But those ordinary peasants you feel such guilt for don’t have any such thing. There’s a better life awaiting me as a humble illegal immigrant in this world than there is as a lady-in-waiting to nobility in my own. Do you think I’d ever go back there for any reason except to help you change the world?”

Taken aback, Miriam recoiled slightly. “Ouch,” she said. “I didn’t realize all that stuff. No.” She picked up her wine glass again. “It’s post-colonial guilt, I guess,” she added by way of explanation. “We’ve got a lot of history here, and it’s really ugly in parts. We’ve got a long tradition of conquering other people and messing them up. The idea of taking over and running people for their own good got a very bad name about sixty years ago—did anyone tell you about the Second World War? So a lot of us have this cringe reflex about the whole idea.”

“Don’t. If you do what you’re planning, you couldn’t invade and conquer, anyway. How many people could you bring through? All you can do is persuade people to live their lives a better way—the one thing the families and the Clan have never bothered trying to do, because they’re swimming desperately against the stream, trying to hold their own lives together. It takes an outside view to realize that if they started building fabulous buildings and machines like these at home they wouldn’t be dependent on imported luxuries from the world next door. And they never—” her chest heaved—“let us get far enough away to see that clearly. Because if we did, we might not come back.”

She looked depressed.

“You don’t want to go back?” asked Miriam. “Not even to visit, to see your family and friends?”

“Not really.” It was a statement of fact. “This is better. I can find new friends here. If I go there, and you fail—” she caught Miriam’s gaze. “I might never be able to come back here.”

For a moment, looking at this young woman—young enough to be at college but with eyes prematurely aged by cynicism and the Clan’s greedy poverty of riches—Miriam had second thoughts. The families’ grip on their young was eggshell-thin, always in danger of bursting. If they ever got the idea that they could just take their lockets or tattoos or scraps of paper and leave, the Clan would be gone within a generation. Am I going to end up making this family tyranny stronger? she wondered. Because if so, shouldn’t I just give up now…? “I won’t fail you,” she heard herself saying. “We’ll fix them.”

Brill nodded. “I know you will,” she said. And Miriam nodded right back at her, her mind awash with all the other family children, her distant relatives—the siblings and cousins she’d never known, might never have known of, who would live and die in gilded poverty if she failed.

A woman dressed in black stepped out of the winter twilight.

She looked around curiously, one hand raised to cover her mouth. “I’m in somebody’s garden by the look of things. Hedge to my left, dilapidated shed in front of me—and a house behind. Can’t be sure, but it looks a mess. The hedge is wildly overgrown and the windows are boarded up.”

She glanced around, but couldn’t see into the neighboring gardens. “Seems like an expensive place.” She furtively scratched an arrowhead on the side of the shed, pointing to the spot she’d arrived on, then winced. “This light is hurting my head. Ow…” She hitched her coat out of the grayish snow then stumbled toward the house, crouching below the level of the windows.

She paused. “It looks empty,” she muttered to the dictaphone. “Forward ho.” She walked around to the front of the house, where the snow was banked in deep drifts before the doors and blank-eyed wooden window shutters. Nobody had been in or out for days, that much was clear. There was a short uphill driveway leading to a road, imposing iron gates chained in front. “Damn. How do I get out?” She glanced round, saw a plaque on the front of the house—BLACKSTONES, 1923. A narrow wooden gate next to the pillar supporting one of the cast-iron gates was bolted on the inside. Miriam waded toward it, shivering from the snow, shot the bolt back, and glanced round one final time to look at the house.

It was big. Not as big as the palace in Niejwein, or Angbard’s fortress, but bigger than anything she’d ever lived in. And it was clearly mewed up, shutters nailed across those windows that weren’t boarded, gates chained tight. She grinned, gritting her teeth against the cold. “Right, you’re mine.” Then she slipped through the wooden door and onto the sidewalk. The street here was partially swept. On the other side of it lay an open field in the middle of what was dense forest in world one and downtown Cambridge in world two. She could see other big town houses on the other side of the field, but that didn’t matter. She turned left and began walking toward the crossroads she could see at the far corner of the quadrangle.

Her teeth were chattering by the time she reached the clock tower on the strange traffic circle at the crossroads. There was almost no traffic on this bitterly cold morning. A lone pony-trap clattered past her, but the only vehicles she saw out and about were strange two-deck streetcars, pantographs sparking occasionally as they whirred down the far side of the field and paused at a stand in the middle of the traffic circle. Miriam blinked back the instinctive urge to check her watch. What day is it? she wondered. A sign in heavy classical lettering at the empty tram stop answered her question: Sunday service only. Oh. Below it was a timetable as bemusingly exact as anything she’d seen at an airport back home—evidently trams from this stop ran into the waterfront and over something called Derry Bridge once every half hour on Sundays, for a fare of 3d, whatever that meant. She shivered some more and stepped inside the wooden shelter, then fidgeted with the handful of copper change that she had left. Second thoughts began to occur to her. Was it normal for a single woman to catch a tram, unaccompanied, on a Sunday? What if Burgeson’s shop was closed? What if—

A streetcar pulled up beside the shelter with a screech of abused steel wheels. Miriam plucked up her courage and climbed aboard. The driver nodded at her, then without warning moved off. Miriam stumbled, almost losing her footing before she made it into the passenger cabin. She sat down without looking around. The wooden bench was cold but there seemed to be a heater running somewhere. She surreptitiously examined her fellow passengers, using their reflections in the windows when she couldn’t look at them directly without being obvious. They were an odd collection—a fat woman in a ridiculous bonnet who looked like a Salvation Army collector, a couple of thin men in oddly cut, baggy suits with hats pulled down over their ears, a twenty-something mother, bags under her eyes and two quietly bickering children by her side, and a man in what looked like a Civil War uniform coming toward her, a ticket machine hung in front of his chest. Miriam took a deep breath. I’m going to manage this, she realized.

“I’m going to Highgate, for Holmes Alley. How much is it, please, and what’s the closest stand? And what’s this stop called?”

“That’ll be fourpence, miss, and I’ll call you when it’s your stop. This is Roundgate interchange.” He looked at her slightly oddly as she handed him a sixpence, but wound off a strip of four penny tickets and some change, then