The Hidden Family by Charles Stross

bottom shelf, do you?”
    “It’s only prudent,” he said, apologetically closing it and sliding it under the first book. “I’d strongly recommend it, though,” he added. “Marx pulls no punches.”
    “Right. How much for both of them?”
    “Six shillings for the Alfred, a pound for the Marx—you do realize that simply being caught with a copy of it can land you a flogging, if not five years exile in Canadia?”
    “I didn’t.” She smiled, suppressing a shudder. “I’ll take them both. And the hat, gloves, and coat.”
    “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, madam,” he said fervently. “When shall I see you again?”
    “Hmm.” She narrowed her eyes. “No need for the money tomorrow. I will not be back for at least five days. But if you want another of those pieces—”
    “How many can you supply?” he asked, slipping the question in almost casually.
    “As many as you need,” she replied. “But on the next visit, no more than two.”
    “Well then.” He chewed his lower lip. “For two, assuming this one tests out correctly and the next do likewise, I will pay the sum of two hundred pounds.” He glanced over his shoulder. “But not all at once. It’s too dangerous.”
    “Can you pay in services other than money?” she asked.
    “It depends.” He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t deal in spying, sedition, or popery.”
    “I’m not in any of those businesses,” she said. “But I’m really, truly, from a long way away. I need to establish a toehold here that allows me to set up an import/export business. That will mean… hmm. Do you need identity papers to move about? Passports? Or to open a bank account, create a company, hire a lawyer to represent me?”
    He shook his head. “From too far away,” he muttered. “God help me, yes to all of those.”
    “Well, then.” She looked at him. “I’ll need papers. Good papers, preferably real ones from real people who don’t need them anymore—not killed, just the usual, a birth certificate from a babe who died before their first birthday,” she added hastily.
    “You warm the cockles of my heart.” He nodded slowly. “I’m glad to see you appear to have scruples. Are you sure you don’t want to tell me where you come from?”
    She raised a finger to her lips. “Not yet. Maybe when I trust you.”
    “Ah, well.” He bowed. “Before you leave, may I offer you a glass of port? Just a little drink to our future business relationship.”
    “Indeed you may.” She smiled, surreptitiously pushing back her glove to check her watch. “I believe I have half an hour to spare before I must depart. My carriage turns back into a pumpkin at midnight.”

Part 2.
Point Of Divergence

History Lesson
    “You are telling me that you don’t know where she is?” The man standing by the glass display case radiated disbelief, from his tensed shoulders to his drawn expression.
    Normally the contents of the case—precious relics of the Clan, valuable beyond belief—would have fascinated him, but right now his attention was focused on the bearer of bad news.
    “I told you she’d be difficult.” The duke’s secretary was unapologetic. He didn’t sneer, but his expression was one of thinly veiled impatience. “You are dealing with a woman who was born and raised on the other side; she was clearly going to be a handful right from the start. I told you that the best way to deal with her would be to co-opt her and move her in a direction she was already going in, but you wouldn’t listen. And after that business with the hired killer—”
    “That hired killer was my own blood, I’ll thank you to remember.” Esau’s tone of voice was ominously low.
    “I don’t care whether he was the prince-magistrate of Xian-Ju province, it was dumb! Now you’ve told Angbard’s men that someone outside the Clan is trying to kill her, and you’ve driven her underground, and you’ve ruined her usefulness to me. I had it all taken care of until you