“Well, that wasn’t very diplomatic,” said Leliefeld.
“He’s probably annoyed about losing his minder gig,” said Felicity. “Oh, there are also some very important civilians here tonight. That’s the chief of the defence staff over there at the bar, and there’s the archbishop of Canterbury talking with Bishop Alrich.” At the mention of the vampire Bishop, she heard Alessio give the tiniest moan.
“Who’s the blind man who’s just coming in?” asked Leliefeld.
“I don’t know,” said Felicity, “but the dog he’s escorting is the ruler of one of the Channel Islands. Let’s see, who else is here? There’s the chancellor of Oxford, the chief constable of Police Scotland, the first minister of Wales, and the mayor of Stowmarket. Oh, and Lady Farrier is now dancing with the chief rabbi.” A waiter bearing a tray of drinks materialized by them.
“Thank God,” said Leliefeld.
“Miss Leliefeld, I brought you a grapefruit juice specially,” said the waiter.
“Huh?”
“Rook Thomas informed us of your throat problems,” said the waiter. His expression did not change as the Grafter woman unwillingly accepted the proffered drink. Felicity, in a move of solidarity that even she didn’t expect, took a glass of orange juice. Alessio made a move toward a glass of wine, but a hissed remark from his sister redirected him toward a soft drink.
“Evening,” said Security Chief Clovis as he came up to them. “Ladies, your gowns are beautiful.”
“Thank you,” said Leliefeld. Felicity smiled weakly.
“Are you enjoying the party?” asked the security chief.
“It’s much bigger than I expected,” said Leliefeld. Then her eyes widened. “Is Sir Henry talking to who I think he’s talking to?”
“Who? Wait, that’s the Prime Minister!” exclaimed Felicity.
“He looks pissed off,” said Leliefeld.
“Yes, well, a terrorist attack on one’s soil will do that,” said Felicity.
“But why is he here?” asked Alessio. “Shouldn’t he be doing prime-ministerial things about the Blinding? Like figuring out what the source was?”
“We already know what the source of the fogs was,” said Clovis.
“You do?” asked Alessio in surprise. “What was it?”
Felicity caught a glimpse of Odette’s horrified face. The Grafter girl’s eyes were wide as she looked at Clovis pleadingly. So, Alessio doesn’t know about the Antagonists.
“Oh, I’m afraid it’s classified,” said Clovis awkwardly. “But we do know it falls within our area of responsibility, and we are obliged to inform the Prime Minister of the truth. As far as the public are concerned, the Prime Minister is currently in camera at Number Ten consulting with the heads of the various intelligence agencies, most of whom are also here, eating little pastries filled with salmon.”
“So the world thinks the leaders of the United Kingdom are addressing matters of dire national security, and instead they’re attending a ball,” marveled Leliefeld.
“They’re doing both,” said a voice behind them, and they turned to see Rook Thomas. She was wearing a magnificent glistening black dress that fell from her shoulders like a waterfall of crude oil and trailed behind her for several feet. It was obvious, even to Felicity, that this was genuine couture. Two large bodyguards, a man and a woman, stood behind her, dressed in purple so dark it was almost black. Felicity suspected that they were there partly to underline the status of the Rook (who was perfectly capable of defending herself against pretty much everyone in the room) and partly to prevent people from stepping on her dress.
“Good evening, Rook Thomas,” they all said in unison. Felicity automatically bobbed a little curtsy.
“Good evening,” said the Rook. “You all look very nice. Good tux,” she said to Alessio, who stood a little taller. “Odette, you are surprised that the great and the good have gathered here for drinks and dancing when disaster has just struck?” Leliefeld flushed a little. “All sorts of important things can happen at a social event.” For a moment, the Rook’s eyes went distant and her face went serious. Then the look was gone, and she smiled again. “Plus, I find that people tend to be a little more open at these kinds of things. A little more courteous. It’s as if they want to live up to their clothes.” She looked at her own gown. “Or possibly down to them. I was rather hoping that tonight’s event might help the Checquy and the Broederschap relax around each other. If nothing else, there’s an open bar.”
Felicity looked around. There was definite tension in the room, and not a great deal of mingling between Checquy and Grafters. People were staying with their own little groups. Conversations were hushed, and what laughter there was was brittle. Eyes were constantly moving about, evaluating.
“So who else knows about the source of the fog?” Leliefeld asked, still staring at the Prime Minister. “Does it get shared throughout the government?”
“This sort of information is closely held,” said Rook Thomas. “But with something this big, it’s very important to inform the highest authorities and not allow them to blame it on an existing threat, like terrorists. We don’t want bombing strikes ordered in the Middle East because some kid in Doncaster can’t stop bursting into fire. So as soon as we knew who was responsible, we advised the Croatoan, our American equivalent, and they advised the president.”
“So, I expect the Prime Minister is not happy with us?” asked Leliefeld. It was not clear if by us she meant the Grafters or the Checquy.
“It probably doesn’t help that what happened is all over the Internet,” said Alessio sagely.
“That’s true,” said Clovis. “We’re just fortunate that the attack wasn’t unequivocally supernatural. The fog clouds were horrible, but not inexplicable. Even the conspiracy nuts haven’t quite dared to claim it’s something spooky. They’re all busy criticizing the Prime Minister and accusing him of being either incompetent or a terrorist himself.”
Felicity looked over to the aforementioned Prime Minister, who was talking with Sir Henry and Lady Farrier. She automatically started to read his lips but caught only the words fucking disaster before she realized what she was doing and looked away hurriedly.
“What would the Checquy have done if it had been explicitly unnatural?” asked Leliefeld curiously.
Chief Clovis took on a lecturing tone. “The Internet has proven to be both tremendously inconvenient and tremendously useful for us. It’s much more difficult to keep a secret contained. However, the public’s skepticism has also increased.” The security chief smiled. “I know of at least two instances where footage of real harpies fighting in the Shetlands was criticized online for being poorly executed. People didn’t even call it a hoax—to them, it was simply low-quality CGI.”
“The Rookery also has Liars who deal with public perception,” put in Rook Thomas.
“Liars?” said Alessio in puzzlement.
“The Tactical Deception Communications Section,” corrected Chief Clovis patiently. “They send out disinformation after any manifestation that has gotten significant public notice.”
“Fascinating,” remarked Leliefeld.
“Has the Broederschap encountered many other supernatural elements?” asked the Rook. “You must have, surely.”
“Very few,” said Leliefeld. “And it’s never been pretty.” Felicity thought of Marcel’s story about the woman in Paris who killed all those Grafters. And Marcel had hinted at other, even worse incidents.
“I was hoping that you would be able to tell us more about what the supernatural scene is like on the Continent,” said Rook Thomas. “We know so little.”
“We probably know even less,” said the Grafter girl ruefully. “We have always been extremely cautious about anything to do with the supernatural. Almost reclusive.”
Rook Thomas nodded thoughtfully and then looked over as her executive assistant came to them through the crowd. “Hello, Ingrid, you look stressed. I take it something is going to ruin what’s left of my
evening?”
“Rook Thomas,” said Mrs. Woodhouse urgently, “the Prime Minister has decided he is going to make a speech. Now.”
“Oh, hell,” said the Rook, looking pained. She held out her hand and took a glass of champagne from the tray of a waiter who had just appeared at her shoulder and who looked rather surprised about it. The Prime Minister, flanked by the Lord and Lady of the Checquy, waited by the orchestra. As the song came to an end, Sir Henry stepped forward to a microphone.
“Good evening,” said the Lord, and the conversation in the room died away. “And the warmest of welcomes to you all. The Checquy Group is delighted to host tonight’s festivities at Apex House, an evening in which old friends and colleagues join together to welcome new allies. Now, I give you the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.” Applause swept through the room as the head of the government stepped forward.
“Distinguished guests,” began the Prime Minister. “It is, as always, a privilege to spend time at a gathering such as this.” Felicity’s mind wandered a bit as he went on to praise the Checquy for its centuries of steadfastly defending the kingdom. There was applause, but Felicity saw that the Rook remained tense.
“The reception tonight was meant to be a celebration,” he went on, “marking the first steps toward reconciliation and union between old adversaries. This merger is an exciting idea, an inspiring idea, and I am confident that it will result in something greater than the sum of its parts. It is a tremendous pity that tonight’s pleasure should be marred by tragedy.
“The heinous attacks on innocent civilians have, once again, brought the world’s eyes to our country for the worst of reasons. I have received messages of sympathy and support from nations around the world. In times of misfortune, the importance of friends and allies cannot be overestimated. That is why the work toward the joining of the United Kingdom and the Broederschap is, in these dark days, a thing of hope.”
“This isn’t too bad,” said the Rook in a low, cautiously optimistic tone.
“It is provident to have you all here tonight,” said the Prime Minister. “In the days ahead, all of you will be called upon to lend your strength and courage as we work to track down the enemy that has struck at our people with such cowardice and spite. I say all of you because these attacks have come from the world that the Checquy polices. Indeed, we are already aware of the identity of those responsible.”
“Oh, shit,” said Thomas.
“The attacks were the work of rogue elements from within the Wetenschappelijk Broederschap van Natuurkundigen. They are a small group of extremists, zealots who have torn themselves away from their families and their oaths and who are determined to use terror and cruelty to prevent peace.”
“Well, that was a nice secret while it lasted.” The Rook sighed. She threw the rest of the champagne down her throat and looked about for another waiter.
Around the room, reactions were mixed. The civilian guests were, for the most part, confused and antsy as they absorbed this information. The Grafters were looking about warily and seemed to be drawing together into tighter clumps. Among the Checquy, however, there was the sound of angry muttering.
Felicity became aware of pointed and none-too-friendly stares directed at Leliefeld and Alessio. As she watched, the Grafter girl put out her hand and drew her little brother in closer.
Scents suddenly hovered in the air, musk and compost and electricity. Felicity felt a strange sensation run through her stomach, as if, for a moment, the liquids there had sloshed a little to the left. The glass in her hand hummed a little, vibrating in harmony with a sound she could not hear. A wave of humid air washed over her, followed by a cooler one from a different direction.
Whether or not they realized it, the Pawns of the Checquy were letting their feelings get the better of them.
Automatically, Felicity moved closer to the two Grafters, and she found herself casually standing with her legs shoulder-width apart and her knees and elbows slightly bent. She was ready to defend them.
And then the tension in the room was gone, dissipated. The resentment and the outrage remained, of that she had little doubt, but the moment was over. A decision had been made. The Pawns of the Checquy were too disciplined, too civilized, to turn on their guests. The civilians did not appear to have noticed anything, and the Prime Minister had continued to speak without a break.
Felicity looked at Rook Thomas and saw that the woman’s face was absolutely blank. She must have been ready to do something pretty damn dire if it came down to it. Clements didn’t care to imagine what that could be—everyone in the Checquy thought they knew what Thomas’s powers were capable of, but some startling rumors had been going around. For a few moments, the Checquy had teetered on the brink of disaster.
And what would I do, she thought, if some Checquy Pawn did make a move against that girl and her brother? Would I stand between my people and their worst enemy?
And at that moment, she knew she would. She absolutely would. She had been given a task: she was responsible for Odette Leliefeld. If anyone lays a finger on her, they’ll lose it.
“All of us will work together,” the Prime Minister was saying solemnly. “I expect full cooperation between security personnel, the military, elected officials—indeed, every organization represented in this room. Most encouragingly, our new friends in the Broederschap have already pledged their services and their expertise to both track down their treacherous former comrades and assist the victims.” This announcement was met with cautious, measured applause.
“This will take a tremendous amount of organization,” the Prime Minister went on. “Everything will be coordinated through a central authority. It has been decided that my longtime friend Bishop Raushan Attariwala will oversee our efforts, and he, along with the Lady and Lord of the Checquy Group, will be reporting to my office.”
“And there’s the icing on my fucking cake,” said the Rook.
“This rare opportunity to share the truth is a gift that I am grateful for,” said the Prime Minister. “All of us will have to turn to each other in future days for support, both emotional and professional. But I am confident that, with God’s grace, we will emerge from this challenge, as we always have, stronger and wiser.”
The applause that greeted this sentiment was heartfelt but hardly thunderous. The audience appeared to be contemplating the immediate future and not finding it especially palatable.
But at that point, the orchestra struck up a lively tune, waiters once again started circulating with drinks (which were noticeably more intricate, and presumably more alcoholic, than the previous wines, champagnes, and fruit juices), and a few people began to dance, although they did not seem particularly enthusiastic about it. The chatter that resumed in the hall was of a different tone than before.
Felicity was not at all certain what she should do. The Rook was talking to her EA in low tones, and Mrs. Woodhouse was taking notes very swiftly on a small tablet. Leliefeld was still tense and was answering Alessio’s questions with an abstracted air. The boy looked utterly shocked by the Prime Minister’s revelations, and as Leliefeld told him more, he seemed about to burst into tears.
Oh, crap, comforting distraught kids is so not in my job description, Felicity thought awkwardly.
Rook Thomas, Sir Henry has invited you for drinks in the Reading Room in fifteen minutes.”
And here it comes, thought Myfanwy grimly.
“Thank you, Marilyn,” she said. “Please let him know that I’ll head there immediately—this dress hampers my progress a little.” The Lord’s EA smiled and nodded. It would not do for various key figures to leave the party all at once; it would draw notice. “Ingrid, it will be closed-door; could you please stay here and keep an eye on the situation?” Her assistant nodded. “Menaz, Sewell,” she said to her bodyguards, “let’s go.”
As she moved through the room, she caught snatches of conversation. Light touches of her power on the bodies of
the guests revealed tensed muscles, churning stomachs—even some trembling hands.
The Prime Minister’s revelation about the Antagonists has hit them hard, she thought. And it will spread. The news has already escaped this room. The waiters are telling the kitchen staff and they’re telling the security guards. It will be all through the Checquy by this time tomorrow. This could throw everything into the toilet.
As she left the room, Myfanwy looked back, and her eye was caught by the figure of Alessio standing small in the crowd. For a moment, he wasn’t a boy in a suit at a party he was too young to be at. Suddenly, Myfanwy pictured him as one of those children who were dressed in suits before being put into coffins. Guilt flushed her face. So much relies on the choices we make, she thought. That boy there, and all the boys and girls at the Estate, and all the people in the Checquy, and all the Grafters, and everyone else. So many lives relying on me.
When they arrived at the Reading Room, one of the guards checked and confirmed it was empty before Myfanwy went in alone and closed the door behind her. The room was dim, and most of the light came from a fire crackling in a large fireplace, with a few lamps contributing a negligible glow. Dark oak bookshelves lined the walls, and the gilt lettering on the books’ spines caught the flickering light.
She settled herself in a leather-covered armchair, taking a moment to arrange her dress’s train about her feet. Honestly, I can’t wear a nice dress without some ridiculous bullshit ruining the evening. She closed her eyes and thought.
Earlier that evening, she had sat in a concealed chamber that opened off the corridor to the assembly room. The room was small, designed to hold one or two soldiers. It, and others like it, had been built against the possibility that the Apex might someday be besieged and breached by an enemy. Checquy warriors could be salted throughout the building to burst out to attack intruders. The Rook had sat gazing through a cunningly hidden spy hole as, in dribs and drabs, the Grafters walked by on their way to the party. She had gently run her powers over them with the softest touch she could muster. There had been some extraordinary features and designs in the bodies of the guests but none was wearing any face but his or her own.