The Hidden Family

holed up with cycle magazines, spokehead Web sites, and the TV blaring extreme sports at her. The second day consisted of being patronized in successive shops by men in skintight neon Lycra bodysuits, to Brill’s quietly scandalized amusement. In the end, the vehicle of Miriam’s desire turned out to be a Dahon folding mountain bike, built out of chromed aluminium tubes. It wasn’t very light, but at thirty pounds—including carrying case and toolset—she could carry it across easily enough, and it wasn’t a toy. It was a real mountain bike that folded down into something she could haul in a backpack and, more importantly, something that could carry herself and a full load over dirt trails as fast as a horse.

“What is that thing?” Brill asked, when she finished unfolding it on a spread of newspapers on Paulette’s living room carpet. “It looks like something you torture people with.”

“That’s a fair assessment.” Miriam grimaced as she worked the allen keys on the saddle-post, trying to get it locked at a comfortable height. “I haven’t ridden a bike in years. Hope I haven’t forgotten how.”

“When you sit on that thing, you can’t possibly be modest.”

“Well, no,” Miriam admitted. “I plan to only use it out of sight of other people.” She finished on the saddle and began hunting for an attachment place for the toolkit. “The Swiss army used to have a regiment of soldiers who rode these things, as mounted infantry—not cavalry. They could cover two hundred miles a day on roads, seventy a day in the mountains. I’m no soldier, but I figure this will get me around faster than my feet.”

“You’ll still need clothing,” Brill pointed out. “And so will I. What I came across in isn’t suitable for stamping around in the forest in winter! And we couldn’t possibly be seen wearing your camping gear if we expect to stay in a coaching inn.”

“Yup. Which is where this machine comes in.” Miriam pointed to the other big box, occupying a large chunk of the floor. “I take it there’s no chance that you already know how to use an overlocker?”

The overlocker took them most of the rest of the day to figure out, and it nearly drove Paulette to distraction when she came home from the errand she’d been running to find Miriam oiling a bicycle in the hall and Brill puzzling out the manual for an industrial sewing machine and a bunch of costume patterns Miriam had bought. “You’re turning my house into an asylum!” she accused Miriam, after kicking her shoes off.

“Yeah, I am. How’s the office hunt going?”

“Badly,” snapped Paulette. Her voice changed: “Offices, oy, have we got offices! You should see our offices, such wonderful offices you have never imagined! By the way, how long have you been in business? There’ll be a deposit if it’s less than two years.”

“Uh-huh.” Miriam nodded. “How big a deposit?”

“Six months rent,” Paulie swallowed. “For two thousand square feet with a loading bay and a thousand feet of office above it, that comes to about thirty thousand bucks. Plus municipal tax, sewer, electric and gas. And the broadband you want.”

“Hmm.” Miriam nodded to herself, then hit the quick-release bolts. The bike folded in on itself like an intricate origami sculpture and she locked it down in its most compact position, then eased the carrying case over it.

“Hey, that’s real neat,” Paulette said admiringly. “You turning into a fitness freak in your old age?”

“Don’t change the subject.” Miriam grunted, then upended the case and zipped it shut. Folded, the bike was a beast. She could get the thing comfortably on her back but would be hard put to carry anything else. Hmm.

“Back in a minute.” She shouldered the bike pack and marched to the back door that opened on Paulette’s yard. “Here goes nothing,” she muttered, and pulled out her locket.

Half an hour later she was back without the bike, staggering slightly, shivering with cold, and rubbing her sore forehead. “Oh, I really don’t need to do that so fast,” she groaned.

“If you will do that with no preparation—” Paulette began to say waspishly.

“No, no.” Miriam waved her away. “I took my pills, boss, honest. It’s just really cold over there.”

“Where did you stash it?” Paulie asked practically.

“Where your back wall is, over on the other side, where there’s nothing but forest. Brrr. Up against a tree, I cut a gash in the bark.” She brandished her knife. “Won’t be hard to find if we go over from here: Main thing will be walking to the road, the nearest one is about half a mile away. Better go in the morning.”

“Right,” Paulette said skeptically. “About the rent.”

“Yeah.” Miriam nodded. “Look, give me fifteen minutes to recover and I’ll get my coat. Then we can go look over that building, and if it’s right we’ll go straight on to the bank and move another whack of cash so you can wave a deposit under their nose.” She straightened up. “We’ll take Brill. There’s a theatrical costume shop we need to check out; it might speed things up a bit.” Her expression hardened. “I’m tired of waiting, and the longer this drags on the harder it’ll be to explain it to Angbard. If I don’t get in touch soon, I figure he’ll cut off my credit until I surface. It’s time to hit the road.”

Two days later, a frigid morning found Miriam dozing fitfully on a lumpy, misshapen mattress with a quietly snoring lump to her left. She opened her eyes. Where am I? she wondered for a moment, then memory rescued the day. Oh. A pile of canvas bags before her nose formed a hump up against the rough, unpainted planks of the wall. The snoring lump twitched, pushing her closer to the edge. The light streamed in through a small window, its triangular tiles of glass uneven and bubbled. She’d slept fully dressed except for her boots and cloak, and she felt filthy. To make matters worse, something had bitten her in the night, found her to its taste, and invited its family and friends along for Thanksgiving.

“Aargh.” She sat up and swung her feet out, onto the floor. Even through her wool stockings the boards felt cold as ice. The jug under the bed was freezing cold too, she discovered as she squatted over it to piss. In fact, the air was so chilly it leached all the heat out of any part of her anatomy she exposed to it. She finished her business fast and shoved the pot back under the bed to freeze.

“Wake up,” she called softly to Brilliana. “Rise and shine! We’ve got a good day ahead!”

“Oh, my head.” Brill surfaced bleary-eyed and disheveled from under the quilt. “Your hostelries aren’t like this.”

“Well, this one won’t stay like this for long if I get my way,” Miriam commented. “My mouth tastes like something died in it. Let me get my boots on and warm my toes up a bit.”

“Hah.” Brilliana’s expression was pessimistic. “They let the fire run low, I’d say.” She found the chamber pot. Miriam nodded and looked away. So much for en suite bathrooms, she thought mordantly. “You stand up, now,” Brill ordered after a minute.

“Okay. How do I look?” asked Miriam.

“Hmm. I think you will pass. Don’t brush your hair until we are out of sight, though. It’s too clean to be seen in daylight, from all those marvelous soaps everyone uses on the other side, and we don’t want to attract attention. Humph. So what shall we do today, my lady?”

“Well, I think we’ll start by eating breakfast and paying the nice man.” Nice was not an adjective Miriam would normally use on a hotelier like the one lurking downstairs—back home she’d be more inclined to call the police—but standards of personal service varied wildly in the Gruinmarkt. “Let’s hit the road to Hasleholm. As soon as we’re out of sight, I’m going to vanish. You remembered your pistol?”

Brill nodded.

“Okay, then you’re set up. It should just be a quiet day’s walk for you. If you run into trouble, first try to get off the road, then shoot—I don’t want you taking any chances, even if there isn’t much of a bandit problem around these parts in winter. Luckily you’re more heavily armed than anyone you could possibly meet except a Clan caravan.”

“Right.” Brill nodded uncertainly. “You’re sure that strange contraption will work?”

Miriam nodded. “Trust me.”

Breakfast below consisted of two chipped wooden bowls of oatmeal porridge, salted, eaten in the kitchen under the watchful (if squinting) eyes of the publican’s wife—which made it harder for Miriam to palm her pills. She made a song and dance of reciting some kind of grace prayer over the bowls. Miriam waited patiently, moving her lips randomly—her mute and incomprehending condition explained by Brill, in her capacity as long-suffering daughter.

Barely half an hour later, Miriam and Brill were on the road again, heading toward the coast, breath steaming in the frigid morning air. It was bitterly dry, like an icy desert. A heavy frost had fallen overnight, but not much