“You’re both idiots,” said Alessio serenely. “They’re all looking at me in my James Bond tux.”
“How well does this gown deal with sweat?” asked Felicity, who was feeling very damp in the pits and lower back.
“It absorbs it and uses the salts and nutrients to launder itself,” said Leliefeld.
“It will be very clean by the end of this evening, then.”
They were not the first Grafters to arrive, and Felicity noted with interest that the normal orders of precedence had been dropped. She saw Sir Henry talking to a tall man with excellent hair. Lady Farrier was actually out on the dance floor, moving in a slow but stately waltz with a nervous-looking young Pawn whom Felicity recognized as having been in the year behind her at the Estate. She also recognized several of the Grafters who had arrived before them.
“Okay, well, now I suppose we mingle,” said Leliefeld. “Do you see anyone you know?” she asked Felicity hopefully.
“Not really,” said Felicity. “That’s the headmistress of the Estate over there, but she seems quite engaged in conversation with your head of security.”
“Who are all these people?” asked Alessio nervously.
“Mostly high-ranking Checquy,” said Felicity, scanning the crowd. “Heads of departments, some division heads, and chiefs from different regional offices. Quite a few people from the Diplomatic section — your friend Pawn Bannister is right over there.” The Grafter siblings automatically turned to look and received a flat stare from the Pawn.
“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.