It had been a pretty good evening all in all, thought Odette in satisfaction. Some low points, certainly, but the high points had outnumbered them.
And the Prime Minister’s speech was very encouraging, she thought. He really put his support behind the negotiations. After that, she and Alessio had milled around a bit, and Alessio had continued to interrogate her frantically about the Antagonists. Of course her brother had known them all, but he’d been ignorant about their turning against the Broederschap. He’d been told a milder version of the story that had been given to Clements — that they had been killed by a supernatural enemy. He was particularly distraught to hear about Dieter, whom he’d known well. Odette had tried to keep her answers reassuring, but it was hard to sugarcoat the fact that his family was responsible for the atrocities they’d been watching on television all evening.
People had begun looking at the two of them with increasing distaste, and Alessio was almost in tears when, with impeccable timing, the headmistress of the Estate, a well-rounded woman with a German accent, swooped down and engaged him in conversation about his studies and the field trips. Odette, grateful for the break, had looked around for Clements and seen her a few feet away, talking to an acquaintance. Felicity had nodded permission for her to mingle, so Odette drifted through the crowd, listening to snatches of conversations.
“...either have to apply for emergency funding or dig into some of the bequests. I simply have no idea to what extent the government will pay for all this...”
“...I think there were traces of nut in that little pastry thing, does anyone have an epi-pen...”
“Hush, there’s a Grafter walking by.”
“I love her dress.”
“Yeah, but God knows what’s squirming underneath.”
At that last remark, Odette had moved away, focusing on keeping her countenance calm, her complexion unflushed, and her spine straight. You never thought it was going to be easy, she told herself. And one speech from the Prime Minister isn’t going to change minds instantly. For a moment, she considered taking refuge in one of the little clots of Grafters, but then decided against it.
I’ve sculpted bones, delivered babies, and held off a gang of thugs, she told herself. I’m not going to be intimidated by some snobs at a cocktail party. Taking even herself by surprise, she abruptly turned a sharp ninety degrees to the left and stood expectantly by a little clump of Checquy operatives. Their conversation died away awkwardly.
“Good evening,” she said brightly. “I’m Odette Leliefeld. It’s a lovely party tonight.”
Now make pleasant conversation, you fucks.
And make pleasant conversation they did. It was clumsy and stilted at first — none of them had actually met or chatted with a Grafter before — but she had to give them credit, they rallied magnificently. As it turned out, they all worked in Analysis and Assessment: three Pawns (two men and a woman), and three Retainers (two women and a man). They’d discussed trivial things to begin with: the orchestra, the food, the men’s suits. Then they’d moved on to other, more important topics: the attacks on various British cities, the merger, the ladies’ dresses. Everyone had taken care not to say anything that could be considered offensive, but Odette had taken extra care to condemn the attacks and mention that she’d been caught up in one.
“So, what are your preternatural abilities?” she asked during a lull in the conversation, and there was a pause. “Oh God, have I committed some supernatural faux pas?”
“No,” said Pawn Grasby, whose first name she had forgotten. “Not at all. It’s just that we’re used to everyone knowing what we can do.”
“I can summon and command wasps,” said Pawn Harriet Collinge, whom Odette suspected of being a little bit tipsy. “Roger disrupts mathematics, and Louis can draw wasps to him.”
“Very cool,” said Odette. “Wait, so you can both do things with wasps? Are you two related?”
“Oh, no,” said Louis. “Sorry, she does the thing with insects. I can attract white Anglo-Saxon Protestants.”
“That must come in handy,” said Odette.
“What about you?” asked Pawn Grasby curiously.
“Oh, I’m a regular little Swiss army knife,” said Odette. “But nothing as impressive as maths, or, um, white people.”
“Oh, come on,” said Harriet.
I should give them something, thought Odette. Something they can understand.
“Okay, well, I can rearrange my muscles,” she said. She held up her arm and concentrated, and they watched as ripples moved underneath her skin. There were some polite comments, although she suspected that they were used to much more impressive effects among their own. “It lets me perform incredibly tiny microsurgery better than any robot, but it takes a bit of time to arrange the muscles properly. Though I don’t think of that as the coolest thing I can do...”
“All right, then, what’s the coolest thing you can do?” asked Monique, one of the Retainers.
“It’s going to sound terrifically nerdy,” Odette cautioned them.
“We’re analysts,” said Roger, “we like nerdy things.”
“We prefer them,” said Harriet.
“I performed a heart transplant on an unborn baby.”
There was a startled silence.
“That’s actually way more cool than controlling insects,” said Monique.
Then the extremely nice Pawn Louis Marshall had invited her to dance. She’d been conscious of everyone’s eyes on her and him and was thankful that her dress had obligingly absorbed her perspiration, which had been copious. Then more couples had joined them on the dance floor, and suddenly it felt as if a dam had broken. The music swelled, and the party began.
At one point, Great-Uncle Marcel had tangoed by with the headmistress of the Estate. Odette saw Marie whirling with a man whose suit had steam pouring out the collar and sleeves. Odette herself moved from partner to partner, being as charming as she knew how to be.
The tempos changed, and she blessed her mother for insisting that she take dance lessons. She essayed a pavane with a man whose skin chimed whenever she brushed against it; she cha-cha’d with a man who was attended by a troop of hummingbirds that fluttered above him; and she did the twist with Harriet. There were even some slow dances. And always, she took the opportunity to say some pleasant words and leave a better impression than she formerly had.
Finally, a Pawn of the Checquy, with much urging from her comrades, had stepped up to the microphone and begun to sing. As far as Odette could tell, her voice was not supernaturally gifted — no strange emotions or sensations touched her from the sound — it was simply a lovely voice singing “At Last,” written by Mack Gordon and Harry Warren. The lights dimmed overhead, and the room was full of dancers. A hand touched her arm, and she saw that it was Grootvader Ernst, dapper in his tuxedo.
“Kun je je voorvader deze dans?” he asked. Would you grant this dance to your ancestor?
“Met alle plezier,” she replied with a smile. With all pleasure.
He was, of course, a good dancer. Centuries of practice ensured that. And there was a courtly dignity to the slow but stately steps he led her through.
“A big evening,” he said. “Are you having a good time?”
“I am,” said Odette. “They’re just people, once you get to talking to them.”
“Most people are,” he said. “I am very proud of you, Odette. You have been a credit to us this evening.”