“What’s the Royal Enclosure? A paddock where they keep the King and Queen?”
“It’s an exclusive area open only to members,” Odette informed him.
“Oh.” He paused. “It sounds pretty special.”
“It is.”
“And that’s what you’re wearing?”
She looked at him with genuine hatred for a moment.
“Why am I even asking you?” she wondered. “How did my life reach the point where I ask a thirteen-year-old boy for his opinion on fashion?”
He smiled. “That’s what you get for not being sympathetic about my school uniform. Anyway, if you’re genuinely worried, why don’t you ask Pawn Clements if you look all right?”
The Pawn was in her room, getting changed into her Ascot clothes. Odette was secretly curious to see what she would be wearing. The dress code for the Royal Enclosure was strict, but for her entire tenure as Odette’s bodyguard, Clements had never worn anything that didn’t allow her to free-run through an obstacle course and engage in some kickboxing at a moment’s notice.
“Things have been a little cool between us since St. Paul’s,” said Odette.
“Things have always been cool between the two of you,” said Alessio.
“Yes, well, now they’re extremely cool.” In point of fact, things were glacial. The morning after their excursion to the cathedral, Clements had been called in to attend two meetings even though it was a Sunday. She hadn’t said what they were about or who they were with, but she’d returned pale and silent. Odette, in a moment of sneakitude, had looked at Clements’s organizer and seen that she’d been meeting with Rook Thomas and Bishop Attariwala. Presumably, Clements had recounted Odette’s suspicious dash through St. Paul’s because some very firm instructions had been handed down: there would be no more outings. In addition, Odette had been briskly informed that she would not be attending any more meetings at Apex House for a while.
“There’s the feeling that you’re something of a trouble magnet,” Marie had said to her later. “Whatever possessed you to go running around St. Paul’s like a mad thing? Were you honestly trying to ditch your minder?”
For a moment, Odette had toyed with telling her about the whispered words of the Antagonist and the trail of orange scent that wound through the cathedral, but she drew back from the idea. If it was known that the Antagonists had tracked her and spoken to her, Odette would likely be put in a stasis coma, shipped back to the Continent, and placed in a Swiss vault until the problem was resolved, no matter how long it took.
“She’s exaggerating,” Odette had lied awkwardly. “There were crowds, and I wanted to see everything.” Marie nodded, rolling her eyes.
“Typical. Well, we’ll humor them,” the security chief had said. “Once the negotiations are done, I’m sure they’ll relax.”
And so Odette and Clements had spent the next four days in the hotel, watching television, studying, and glowering at each other. According to the morning meetings in Ernst’s suite, the negotiations were moving right along, despite, or perhaps because of, her absence. The Broederschap had provided a full accounting of their assets and holdings to the Checquy, and the legal protections for the Grafters’ intellectual property were being laid out.
There was still, however, distinct friction between the two organizations. Rooms went silent when Grafters entered. Flat stares were exchanged in hallways. And there were other, more troubling incidents that might have just been happenstance or might have been superpowered harassment. One of the Grafter accountants reported that during meetings with her Checquy counterparts, she kept hearing the distant voice of her long-dead mother reciting items from a grocery list. Jeroen from the lawyers found that all his credit cards and his hotel key card had been twice magnetically wiped. Alessio had come out in a rash along his shoulders, but Odette couldn’t tell if it was natural or the result of supernatural bullying.
Truth be told, she was a little worried about how her brother was getting along with the students from the Estate. He mentioned no names of any friends he’d made, and his descriptions of the field trips were focused solely on where they’d gone.
“Today, we went to the Tate Modern.”
Or: “Today, we went to the Rookery.”
Or: “Today, we went to an abattoir.”
Or: “Today, we went to the National Portrait Gallery.”
“And how was that?” Odette had asked, desperate to get some details.
“We were given special versions of those headsets so that we could learn which prominent people had connections to the Checquy.”
“Yeah? Was Isaac Newton a Pawn?”
“No, but Christopher Marlowe was killed on the orders of the Checquy, Jane Austen’s sister-in-law was a Chevalier, and Francis Walsingham and Dr. John Dee tried to establish a rival organization to the Checquy. We got tested on it,” he’d told her.
“I’ll worry about Alessio later,” Odette murmured to herself now. At the moment, she was more worried about her hat. She was not generally a hat person, and so she did not know the name for the kind of hat it was. It looked, to her ignorant eyes, like someone had taken an extremely broad and shallow fruit bowl, wrapped it in cream cloth, flipped it over, and then added some abstract flower and snowflake shapes to it. When she put it on, though, Odette decided she liked it. For one thing, it was recognizably a hat, and for another, she could use it to hide her eyes if she felt uncomfortable.
“Nice hat,” said Alessio.
“Shut up.”
“Why are you so tense about this? You’ve been to big events before.”
“I always went shopping with Saskia for these sorts of things!” snapped Odette. She took a breath. Alessio was staring at her with wide eyes.
“Sorry, ’Dette,” he said softly.
“It’s fine,” she said. “I just miss her.” She would have loved this.
At that melancholy point, Pawn Clements emerged from her room, looking distinctly ill at ease. She was wearing a fitted black dress that went down to midshin and that seemed specifically designed to prevent the wearer from taking any long strides. She was also wearing a smoldering-red blazer and carrying a hat in the same color.
“You look very nice, Pawn Clements,” said Alessio, earning himself a discreet single-fingered gesture from his sister.
“Thank you,” said the Pawn distractedly. “I borrowed it from one of my roommates.” She teetered a little bit on her heels but recovered and put on her hat, which had an upturned brim and various fluted attachments and so would be useless for hiding her eyes if she felt uncomfortable, although it could probably be jury-rigged into some sort of weapon if necessary. She regarded herself uncertainly in the mirror. She and Odette looked at each other for a moment but said nothing.
“Have you ever been to this thing before?” asked Alessio finally.
“To Ascot, yes, but not the Royal Enclosure,” said the Pawn in the doomed tones of one who will be spending time in the company of one’s supreme commanders whilst wearing an intricate hat about which one is not entirely confident. “Some friends and I went a couple of years ago. It’s cool, very busy.” She went to the bar fridge to get a bottle of massively overpriced orange juice and then paused, peering at Alessio’s mouse cage. “I think one of your mice is gone,” she said uncertainly.
Alessio hurried over and looked in the cage. He opened the lid and took out the only visible mouse. Then he lifted up the little plastic igloo and made an annoyed click with his tongue. Clements was looking about on the floor—not frightened, but certainly not delighted by this development.
“Don’t bother looking,” said Alessio. “It hasn’t escaped. I think it’s denatured.” He deposited the remaining mouse back in the cage and took up a clipboard to note down the date and time. “Odette, can you confirm for me, please?” She came over and carefully examined the shavings.
“Denatured?” asked Clements.
“It happens to clones,” said Alessio. “They unravel.??
?
“And that’s what happened to this one,” said Odette. She pointed to a corner of the mouse cage. “See the discoloration there? There would have been a puddle of proteins and starches and other stuff where Mouse A(i) dissolved.”
“They dissolve?”
“Yeah,” said Odette, who realized that she’d been cunningly lured out of her uncomfortable silence. “With clones, it depends on the craftsmanship of the cloner.”
“Hey!” said Alessio indignantly.
“It’s okay. You’re just learning,” said Odette, rolling her eyes. “And I’m not that great at it myself. I always got Simon to do mine.
“If you get it right, they don’t dissolve, but it’s very difficult to get them exactly correct,” she continued. “And anything with accelerated aging is inevitably going to break down. When it happens depends on how much you accelerate. You can’t hurry Mother Nature. It’s one of the reasons we don’t clone people. It’s bad enough when it’s just a mouse that suddenly starts melting. Can you imagine how awkward it would be if the butler suddenly went sploosh?”
“So where’s the puddle of proteins and starches?” asked Clements, frowning.
“Ask Mouse A,” said Odette drily.
At this, Clements did look upset, and she glanced at her watch. “You’re all packed?” she asked.
Odette gestured toward her suitcases by the door. After the races, some of the party would be going to Hill Hall in Suffolk, the country-house retreat of the Court of the Checquy. It was to be a long weekend of Grafters and Checquy making a great effort to enjoy each other’s company in a social setting.
Alessio would not be going, since there were various activities he would be attending with the school group from the Estate. They’d arranged for him to join the Ascot trip as a special treat, the irony of which was almost painful. He’d be returning to London in the company of Chevalier Whibley, and then Marie would watch over him for the weekend. While they were away at the races, Odette’s and Clements’s luggage would be driven up to Hill Hall by some hapless Checquy flunky. Clements had been instructed to pack outfits for dinner, walking, and shooting things (not pheasant, because it wasn’t the season, and hopefully not the Grafters). She wasn’t nearly as worried about the weekend as she was about the races because there had been no mention of any specific dress code for the weekend, and the press wasn’t going to be there.
“If you’re ready, then we should go,” said Clements. “We have to catch the train.”
“We’re not being driven?” asked Odette, startled.
“Traffic there is always a nightmare.”
“But Marcel and Grootvader Ernst were talking about driving up,” objected Odette.
“They went with Sir Henry and Lady Farrier early this morning,” said Clements. “They’ll be lunching there, but there was no room in the car for us.”
“We couldn’t take a different car?” Then she rolled her eyes at herself. If I’m getting used to having a driver, it is time to get out of this hotel.
“Parking is also terrible,” explained Clements. “Lady Farrier has a reserved spot in the closest parking lot, but for everyone else, it’s a disaster. To become a member of the Royal Enclosure, you just have to be nominated, but to get one of the good parking places, you have to wait for someone to die.” Odette gave a little laugh, but the Pawn wasn’t smiling. “So we’ll catch the Tube to Waterloo Station, and then there’s a race train.”
“We’re going out on public transport dressed like this?” asked Alessio in horror.
They were, and they did, and while most of the people on the Tube didn’t give them a second glance, there was a group of tourists who seemed fascinated by them and who snapped several photos with their mobile phones. Odette took advantage of the shielding characteristics of her hat, but Alessio’s mortification and Clements’s Checquy-instilled need for anonymity left both of them red-faced and sullen.
The day was hot, and as they climbed the stairs from the Waterloo Tube station to the Waterloo railway station, Odette noticed a few other people dressed for the races. There seemed to be no consistent rules about what shape a hat ought to take, so she relaxed a little. Hundreds of race-goers were milling about: men in suits (morning and otherwise), looking very English and dashing, and women wearing outfits that ranged from the elegant and refined to the surprisingly tarty. Everyone was dressed in his or her best, but some people’s best was better than others’.
“Right, that’s our train,” said Clements, shooing them forward. “We have first-class tickets, but it will still fill up quickly, so let’s get seats while we can.” The woman seemed to have a thing about getting on trains early, Odette thought. Electronic glass doors slid open, and the blessed touch of air-conditioning lay upon them. The three of them moved to the first-class compartment at the end of the carriage and gratefully sank into seats.
Through the glass doors, they watched more and more race-goers climb into the train. They filled up the seats, and then the aisles, and soon it looked like the train was transporting refugees from a selection of abruptly interrupted weddings. More people entered their compartment too, and all three of them felt compelled to give up their seats to older people.
When they pulled into Ascot Station, the feeling of being festive upper-class asylum seekers was even greater. A crush of people poured out of the train and down the stairs. Odette felt Clements’s hand on her wrist, but she could only hope that Alessio was near them. The press of the people and the inexorable movement of the crowd prevented her from looking around without breaking her neck or, worse, her hat. They were buffeted through the station and past some intent-looking uniformed soldiers with submachine guns. She looked a question at Clements, who shook her head. They weren’t Checquy guards, just routine security at a major public event.
They followed the throng to a lane that climbed a long, gentle slope. Trees crowded along the sides, and bunting composed of little Union Jacks zigzagged up the path. The crowd spread out, and Odette looked around to find Alessio right behind them. They grinned at each other. Despite herself, she was getting caught up in the festive air.
Television cameras filmed them as they walked up the path, and Odette instinctively ducked her head and then decided to throw caution to the wind. I’m wearing the second-most-expensive outfit I’ve ever owned, she thought. And this one didn’t even require any stem cells. She straightened her shoulders and lifted the brim of her hat a little to smile at the cameras. A weathered-looking woman in blue jeans stepped forward from the side holding some bright flowers, each one’s stem wrapped in foil.
“A flower for the young gentleman?” she asked in a lilting accent. “You’ll be blessed by God.”
“Oh, how nice,” said Alessio.
“Touch him, and I’ll break your fucking wrist,” said Clements. The woman fell back, aghast. They walked on, the Leliefeld siblings exchanging wide-eyed glances.
“I don’t think she was a supernatural threat,” ventured Odette. “I think she was just trying to sell him that flower for his buttonhole.”
“Yes, I know,” said Clements absently. “I’d say that to anyone who tried to sell us something.”
“Oh.”
They came to the end of the lane and there on the brow of the hill, beyond a broad street crawling with people and vehicles, was the huge structure of the grandstand at Ascot racecourse.
For some reason, Odette had thought it would be an old, majestic stone structure. There’s something about the adjective royal—you expect everything to look like a castle, she thought. This building looked like the castle of the king of the Internet. It was modern, metal and glass, and stood proudly against the sky. Steel columns climbed up and branched out to support a curving roof of diamond-shaped panels like leaves through which the light shone. Gigantic Union Jacks stretched the height of the building, and golden flags emblazoned with Royal Ascot fluttered gaily in the wind.
Odette was so taken with it that she didn’t even notice
Clements prodding her along a bridge, across the road, and down some stairs. She had to concede that Clements had been right about the traffic. If they’d driven, their emaciated corpses might eventually have found a parking space. A stretch limousine inched along at the speed of a tectonic plate, followed by three stretch Humvees in pink, gray, and silver.
She drank in the crowds, the clothes, and, above all, the hats. A tiny woman teetered by on high heels wearing a hat as big as her torso and made of rigid corrugated glitter. Odette could practically hear the woman’s neck bones crumpling under the weight. At the gate, Clements opened her handbag and handed them pink badges with their names on them. “Don’t lose them, or you won’t be allowed back in,” she cautioned. She looked at her watch and sighed. “I’m afraid we’ve missed the royal procession. I expect the Court is scattered around the enclosure, along with Graaf van Suchtlen and Dr. Leliefeld.”
“Any tips?” asked Alessio keenly.
“Lentus Ultimusque in the fifth is what I heard,” said the Pawn, and she ushered them through the gates.
The Royal Enclosure was definitely more than a paddock. They found themselves in a long sweeping garden that curved down toward the grandstand. There were trees and benches dotted about, and white marquees along the sides. They were quite the nicest tents Odette could ever recall seeing, with glass walls and elegant dining rooms inside. Some of them seemed to have their own little outside enclosures of tables and chairs under white canvas umbrellas, barricaded by tasteful little bulwarks of rope and flowerpots.
“What are the tents?” she asked.
“They belong to various clubs—White’s, the Garrick Club, the Cavalry and Guards Club. They’re by invitation only. That one over there is for guests of the monarch.”
“Is there a tent for the Checquy?” asked Odette.
“We’re a covert government agency that no one has ever heard of,” said Clements acidly. “Having a marquee with our name on it would probably draw questions.”
“There’s Rook Thomas,” said Odette, hurriedly changing the subject.