Felicity was moved from the couch of the head of the Southeast Asia section, who very definitely needed his office back. A minibus transported her and several other Checquy patients through the subdued streets of London and then up the road to a large house in Oxfordshire.
The house, Bufo Hall, had been in the Checquy for several centuries and had previously been used as the official residence of one of the Chevaliers. During World War II, it had been a convalescent home for wounded soldiers, and it had served so well in that regard that it had simply been kept that way. Now, of course, all the occupants were members of the Checquy. Most of the patients were either soldiers who had been injured in the line of duty or operatives whose unique physiologies and abilities meant that they needed highly specialized care. There were three women and one man who were recuperating after giving birth (the Checquy had an excellent parental-leave policy), and a lad from the Estate whose tonsils had needed to come out and that now spent their time fluttering in the air around him and chirping cheerfully. A few retired operatives were pottering about the grounds, including one elderly lady who kept asking Felicity about the effects of the Blinding on the security of the Raj.
Felicity spent most of her time on the back lawn of the house, which swept down to the Thames. Sitting in a chair with a radio beside her, she listened to the news, most of which concerned the mysterious fog. All British armed forces and police had gone on emergency standby. The nation’s airports had shut down for a few hours, which had wreaked havoc on the rest of the globe. The stock market had reeled briefly. The normal world was reacting to the supernatural, even if it did not know it.
Late on the first day came the announcement that the fog did not appear to have any permanent effects, except in some very rare cases. The surgeon general, the four chief medical officers, and the Prime Minister (who seemed desperate to have some good news to deliver) sat together to address the nation. They assured people that the blindness and the rash were only temporary and that every hospital and medical practitioner had received instructions on how to alleviate the discomfort until the symptoms faded. Notably, there was no mention of the source of the phenomenon.
Reactions varied. The vast majority of the world had not experienced the Blinding, and the thrill of a pain they had not felt was fascinating, something they could tut over in the office kitchenette. It was comfortably distant. And yet the footage of the clouds washing over the cities was chilling. London, the capital of the world, where the rich could come to enjoy their money in a civilized and secure condition, had been wounded yet again, but this time there was no explanation. It was a mystery — something that people no longer seemed able to cope with.
Accustomed to having the Internet provide them with an answer to any question at the stroke of a key, many people simply could not come to terms with the fact that this time there was no answer for them. How could such a thing happen? It nagged at them. It struck at their assumptions about the world.
Theories ran rife. Pundits and experts speculated. People with opinions, both informed and decidedly not, published them online. Each new idea was pounced upon by the press, who were fueled by both the desire to have the answer and the fear of missing out on the latest trend and losing their audience. Everyone was willing to believe the least likely of possibilities.
Inevitably, the crazies came out. Felicity knew that some were actually Checquy-employed crazies, shouting loudly about corporate conspiracies, ley lines, and Mayan calendars so as to muddy the waters, but a depressingly overwhelming majority were genuine.
Then there was the man from Edinburgh who called in to a radio show to describe what he had seen. Felicity listened grimly as he told the obviously disbelieving radio hosts that he had seen a young homeless woman shambling about in the street with her head lifted as if sniffing the air. He claimed that she then began shuddering violently, threw her head back, and a torrent of fog poured from her mouth and eyes. Felicity scowled, certain that the homeless girl was another one of the sleepwalkers.
I suppose that she, along with that man Simon was holding hands with, were just a delivery system for the weapon. She asked to make a call to the office of Rook Thomas and was eventually connected with a harried-sounding Mrs. Woodhouse, who promised to pass on the insight and then promptly hung up. From the hubbub in the background, it was apparent that the Rookery was an absolute madhouse.
It was also apparent that the Liars of the Checquy still had not come up with an explanation that everyone could agree on. The government had yet to make a formal announcement. At first glance, it seemed as if the Antagonists’ latest attack had done little to further their cause, but there was a tension in the air that seeped through to even the calm riverside gardens of Bufo Hall. Felicity caught snatches of the staff’s conversations as they discussed the fog eruptions. No answers or explanations had come down from the Court. The members of the Checquy were even less accustomed to having no answers than the general populace, and the entire organization was on edge.
Leliefeld did not come to visit her, but she did send a bouquet of sweet-smelling flowers along with a bouquet of prescriptions. The suggested ointments and unguents were diligently applied by the nurses, and Felicity spent two hours in an enormous Victorian bathtub stewing in a mixture of chemicals and herbs. She emerged feeling like she’d been made into a ragout but was advised that her skin looked a thousand times better and that the cuts on her feet were vastly improved.
All the time, she thought she could feel Leliefeld’s vitreous humor floating inside her eyes.
*
“Home again, home again, jiggity-jig,” said Marie as the elevator doors opened on their floor.
“You know, coming back to this hotel after two days away actually does feel like coming home,” said Odette. She paused. “God, that’s depressing.”
“I’m just looking forward to not sleeping on a cot in a warehouse,” said Alessio, yawning. “I am so tired.” It was ten at night, and they’d just been about to bed down in the Checquy’s contingency facility when word came down that the hotel had reopened and that the Grafter delegation would be transported back to their accommodations immediately.
Odette followed Alessio down the hall to their suite and did her best to ignore the clomping of the two hulking guards behind her. For the past two days, everywhere she went, she’d been shadowed by a selection of Checquy guards. There had been men guards and women guards, guards of every race known to man, but all of them had, without exception, been hulking. It was like having hippopotamuses provide one’s personal security.
“Are you coming into the suite?” she asked the current hulking guards, and they shook their heads. “Good night, then,” she said and shut the door in their faces. She watched tiredly as Alessio kicked off his shoes, went into his room, and launched himself onto his bed. She couldn’t be certain, but she was fairly sure he’d fallen asleep in midair.
“I need a drink,” said Odette to herself. She wandered over to the suite’s minibar and found that it had been completely emptied of alcohol. Well, thank you, Marcel. At least he hadn’t left a pointed note reminding her that she wasn’t supposed to be drinking. “I don’t care, I am having a drink.”
She opened the hotel-room door and found that the two hulking guards were stationed just outside it.
“Hi,” she said.
“Miss Leliefeld,” said the one on the right. “Is everything okay?”
“I want a drink. An alcoholic one.”
“You’re not supposed to drink alcohol,” objected the one on the left.
“Yes, I know,” said Odette.