“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.
Immeasurably relieved, she had immediately reported her findings to the Lord and Lady. Did they tell the Prime Minister? Is that why he made his announcement? she wondered. Or did he simply think revealing privileged information would make him look powerful?
The door opened, and the Prime Minister entered, accompanied by the forbidding figure of Bishop Raushan Attariwala. The Bishop’s eyes tracked Myfanwy as she stood and walked up to greet the head of His Majesty’s Government.
“Excellent speech, Prime Minister,” said the Rook.
“Thank you. It’s going to mean a hell of a lot of work for a lot of people, I know,” he said. “But this situation must be addressed immediately.”
“I quite agree, sir,” said Myfanwy. At that point the door opened again and Sir Henry entered.
“Sorry about the delay, Prime Minister,” said Henry. “Had to wait a bit after you’d departed. Didn’t want tongues wagging, not that they’ll lack for things to talk about.”
“Will the rest of the executives be coming?” asked the Prime Minister as he settled himself into one of the seats.
“We thought it best not,” said Sir Henry. “The absence of the entire Court from the reception would draw questions. We’ll brief them later. Now, drinks. Port, Myfanwy?”
“Yes, thank you, my Lord,” said the Rook.
“Prime Minister?”
“Please.”
“Raushan?”
“I’ll take it,” said the Bishop, “but you know I’ll just be holding it in my hand for the look of the thing.”
“Of course,” said the Lord of the Checquy. “And a tonic water in case you actually get thirsty?”
“Much obliged.”
“Surely the Belgians must have pictures of these extremists,” said the Prime Minister. “Since they’re former operatives of the brotherhood.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Myfanwy. “They have already provided us with detailed files.”
“When do you propose to make the photographs public?” asked the Prime Minister.
“We have been advised,” said Bishop Attariwala heavily, “that there would be little point.”
“Little point?” repeated the Prime Minister incredulously. “Raushan, if we can show the public that we have already identified the culprits, it will do a great deal to reassure people.”
“We quite understand, Prime Minister,” said Bishop Attariwala. He looked over to Rook Thomas. “It seems, however, that these targets are quite capable of changing their appearance.”
The PM’s face twisted in distaste. “I really loathe this sort of shit,” he said. “It’s difficult enough running a normal country without all these abnormal issues cropping up.”
“That’s why you have us, sir,” said Myfanwy.
“Yes, it appears to be doing me a mountain of good,” he replied sharply. “Your function is to keep this kind of thing from affecting the citizens of this country. I would not say that you are succeeding at the moment.” The Rook flushed. “These attacks have come as a result of this... amalgamation that you have brought to us?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you think it possible that these radicals might still have contacts among their old allies? Even within the Checquy itself?”
“Yes, sir,” she said quietly.