The Hidden Family

“We used Mister Moore’s new sound-echo apparatus.” The thief-taker stood up. “There are no hollow chambers, sir. You can have my hat and my badge if you uncover any, as I stand by my word.”

“Bah. Get out.” Smith glared at the superintendent of thief-takers. “I have a call to make.” He waited for the door to bang shut behind the other man before he added, “Sir Roderick is going to be very annoyed. But I’ll make sure that damned woman gets her comeuppance soon enough…”

Weeks passed: days of pain, days of loss, days of mourning. Finally, an evening clear of snow beneath the winter skies over New London found Miriam standing in the foyer of the Brighton Hotel, dressed to the nines in black, smiling at the guests with a sweet solicitude she hardly felt. “Hello, Lord Macy! And Hello to you too, Mrs. Macy! How have you been? Well, I trust?” The line seemed to stretch around the block, although the red carpet stopped at the curb—many of the visitors were making a point of showing up in new Otto cars, the ones the Durant Motor Company was fitting with the new safety brakes.

“Hello, my dear lady! You’re looking fine.”

Her smile relaxed a bit, losing its grim determination. “I think I am, indeed,” she admitted. “And yourself? Is this to your satisfaction?”

“I think—” Sir Durant raised one eyebrow—“it will do, yes.” He grinned, faintly amused. “It’s your party: Best enjoy it as much as you can. Or are you going to stand by your widowhood forever and a day?” He tipped his hat to her and ambled inside, to the dining room that Miriam’s money had taken over for a night of glittering celebration, and she managed to keep on smiling, holding the line against desolation and guilt. The party was indeed glittering, packed with the high and the mighty of the New London motor trade, and their wives and sons and daughters, and half the board of trade to boot.

Miriam sighed quietly as the carpet emptied and the doors stopped revolving for a moment. “Busy, isn’t it?” Brill remarked cheerfully behind her.

“I’ll say.” Miriam turned to face her. “You’re looking beautiful tonight,” she mimicked, and pulled a face. “Anyone would think I was selling them pin-up calendars, not brake shoes.”

Brill grinned at her cheekily. “Oh, I don’t know,” she began. “If you put out a calendar with yourself on it, that might improve sales—” She held out a full glass of something sparkling.

“Here, give me that. It’s not suitable for young ladies!” Miriam took it and raised it. “To…something or other.” Her daringly bare shoulders slumped tiredly. “Success.”

Brill raised the other glass: “Success. Hey, this isn’t bad.” She took a big mouthful, then wiped her lips with the back of one lace glove. “Do you think they’re enjoying it?”

“They will.” Miriam looked at the dining room doors, then back at the front: It was almost time for the meal to begin. “Or else,” she added bitterly.

“You haven’t seen Lady Olga yet?” asked Brill.

“No—” Miriam caught her eye. “Why?”

“Oh, nothing. It was meant to be her surprise, that’s all. I shan’t give it away.” Brill did her best impression of an innocent at large, nose in the air and glass in hand. “Success,” she muttered. “Most women would be after true love or a rich husband, but this one wants to own skyscrapers.”

“True love and a helmet will stop bullets,” Miriam said bitterly.

“You weren’t to know.” Brill looked at her askance. “Was it really true love?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Miriam drained her glass in one gulp, so that she wouldn’t have to explain. Was it? she wondered, confused. Damn it, he should be here, now. We had so much to talk about.

“Owning skyscrapers makes the need for a rich husband irrelevant,” Brill pointed out. “And anyway, you’re still young. True love is bound to—” She stopped. Another car was pulling up outside, and a small crowd of partygoers was climbing out.

“Here, take this,” Miriam said, passing her her empty glass. “Got to be the hostess again.”

“That’s okay, don’t mind me.” Brill took a step back as Miriam straightened her back and tried to bend her face into a welcoming mask once more. Only another five minutes.

The door opened. “Olga!” she exclaimed.

“My dear!” Olga swept forward and insisted on planting a kiss on her cheek. “I brought you a present!”

“Huh?” Miriam looked past her. The door was still revolving—slowly, for the occupant seemed to be having some trouble. Finally he shuffled out and slowly advanced. “Uncle, you aren’t supposed to be out—”

“Miriam.” He stopped in front of her, looking faintly amused. His costume was, as ever, impeccable, even though he must have found it passing strange. “I thought I should come and see the new business that the prodigal has built for us.” His smile slipped. “And to apologize for nursing that viper. I understand he cost you more than money can ever repay.”

“Oh hell.” She frowned at him. Easy for you to be gracious, now Roland’s dead and you don’t have to worry about your precious braids anymore—But somehow the harsh thought didn’t have any fire behind them. She crossed the six feet between them. “Uncle.” He did his best to return the hug, although he winced somewhat. She leaned her chin on his shoulder. “I’m pleased to see you. I think.”

“It was all her idea,” he said, jerking his chin over his shoulder.

“Her? Why—mother!”

The revolving door ejected another late guest who seemed to be walking with a slight limp. Bundled in a voluminous gown and leaning heavily on a cane, she glowered truculently about the hall for a moment, then spotted Miriam and beamed.

“Hello, dear! You’re looking every inch the princess tonight.”

“Hah.” Miriam walked forward and kissed her mother on the forehead.

“Wait till you meet my disreputable friends.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, dear. We’ve got a family tradition to uphold, haven’t we?”

“Indeed.” A thought struck Miriam. “Where are you staying tonight? I’ve got a suite here. Olga, if you don’t mind—”

“I do mind,” said Olga. “If you want me to give up the guest room, I demand the imperial suite here!”

“But you know that’s booked—” Miriam began, then the doors revolved again and her eyes widened. “What are you doing here?”

“Is that any way to greet a friend?” Paulette grinned widely as she looked around. “Hey, plush! I thought this was going to be all horse manure and steam engines!”

“This is Brill’s fault,” Olga confided. “When she heard about the party, she began plotting—”

“Yeah!” Paulie agreed enthusiastically. “We couldn’t let you keep the limelight all to yourself. Say, is that really a gaslight chandelier? Isn’t that amazing?”

“Children, you’ll be late for dinner!” Brill interrupted. “Take it up some other time, huh? I don’t want to miss Sir Brakepad’s speech. Isn’t he cute?” She gently moved them in the direction of the dining room, steering Angbard discreetly. Miriam followed behind, arm in arm with her mother, and for the first time in months she dared to hope that the worst was behind her.

A preview of

THE CLAN CORPORATE

CHARLES STROSS

Now available in paperback

from Tom Doherty Associates