The Merchant’s War

Her shadow fell across the bag as he opened it. "Ah, papers." He opened the leather-bound passport and held the first page up to the light. "That's a good forgery." He felt a Hash of admiration for Margaret's facilities; if he hadn't known better he'd have been certain it was genuine. Below it was a bundle of other documents: birth certificate, residence permit for the eastern provinces, even a-his cheeks colored. "We appear to be married," he murmured.

"Let me see." She reached over and took the certificate. "Damn, I knew something had slipped my mind. Must have been all the champagne at the reception. Dated two days ago, too-what a way to spend a honeymoon." She sighed. "What is it about this month? Everyone seems to want to see me married."

"Lady Bishop probably thought it would be an excellent explanation for travel," he said, heart pounding and vision blurred. The sense of relief had gone, shattered: blown away by a sense of disquiet, the old ache like a pulled tooth that he'd lived with for far too long. The last time he'd seen Annie, alive or dead. "Or perhaps Ed wanted a little joke at our expense. If so, it's in very bad taste." He made to take it from her hand, but Miriam had other ideas.

"Wait up. She's right, if we're traveling together it's a good cover identity." She looked at him curiously. "We're supposed to travel together?"

Erasmus pulled himself together, with an effort. "I'm supposed to take you back to Boston and look after you. Find a way to make her-you-useful, Margaret told me. Personally, I don't know if that's possible or appropriate, but it gives her a respectable excuse to get you off her plate without sticking a knife in you first. What we do afterwards-"

"Okay, I get the idea." Miriam picked up the passport and stared at it, frowning. "Susan Burgeson. Right." She glanced at him. "I could be your long-lost sister or something if you've got trouble with the married couple idea."

He shrugged. Compartmentalize. "It's a cover identity. Nothing more."

She looked thoughtful. "Is Erasmus Burgeson a cover identity, too?"

God's wounds but she's sharp! "If it was, do you think I'd tell you?"

"You'd tell your wife," she said, teasingly-then immediately looked stricken. "Shit! I'm sorry, Erasmus! I'd-it completely slipped my mind. I'm sorry..."

"Don't be," he said tightly. "Not your fault."

"No, me and my-" She took his hand impulsively. "I tend to dig, by instinct. Listen, if you catch me doing it again and it's sensitive, just tell me to back off, all right?"

He took a deep breath. It's not your fault. "Certainly. I think I owe you that much."

"You owe- " She shook her head. "Enough of that. What else have we got?"

"Let's see." The bag turned out to contain a suit of clothes, not new but more respectable than those they'd already given Miriam. "If we're traveling together, you'd probably better change into these first. We'll look less conspicuous together."

"Okay." She paused. "Right here?"

"I'll wait outside."

He stood with his back to the parlor door for a few scant minutes that felt like hours. He spent some of those hours fantasizing about wringing Ed's neck-a necessary proxy, for the thought of challenging Lady Bishop over the matter was insupportable, but damn them! Why did they have to do that, of all things?

Miriam was a sharp knife, too sharp for her own good-sharp enough to cut both ways. Dealing with her as a contact and a supplier of contraband had been dicey, but not impossible. Living with her was an entirely different matter, but it wasn't exactly feasible to stick her in a tenement apartment and leave her to her own devices. She'll figure everything out, sooner rather than later. And then what? The precious vase was back teetering on the edge of the precipice, with no hand in place to catch it this time. And it was full of ashes.

There was a knock at the door. A moment later it opened, as he turned round. "How do I look?" She took a step back.

"You look-" he paused to collect himself, "fine." The black walking suit was a little severe, but it suited her. However... "before we travel, I think we'd better find you a hairdresser."

"Really?" She frowned. "It's not particularly long-" "Or a wig maker," he explained. "You're probably on the Polis watch list. But if you've got long blond or brown hair, a different name, and a husband, and the informants are all looking for a single woman with short black hair, that's a start. Details are cumulative: you can't just change one thing and expect to go unnoticed, you've got to change lots of different things about yourself simultaneously."

"Right. It'll have to be blond. Damn it, I always get split ends." She ran one hand through her hair. It was longer than he remembered. "There's other stuff I need to do. When I can figure out what..."