“Begin when you’re ready,” whispered Bart, too quietly for a camera’s microphone to catch. Sander nodded. He took up a crouching stance and Bart watched as a ripple went through his comrade’s muscles, locking his legs and back into place. The fair man’s jaw opened, wider and wider, finally unhinging itself like a snake’s. His nostrils flared, and his nose swung up and back into his face. He began to take deep breaths, so long and deep that his rib cage expanded much more than was a normal rib cage’s wont. His tongue grew longer and broader and wagged about in the air. It was hardly dignified, but Sander had the smelling ability of a bloodhound and the tasting ability of a Manhattan food critic.
For long minutes, he stood there, drawing in those deep breaths. When he breathed out, however, the air was not released through his mouth. Instead, rows of bladders inflated along his back like balloons. Bart knew that this was so that the particles and traces that Sander had just sampled would not be redistributed to complicate his ongoing search.
The Checquy had scoured the restaurant for any clue of what might have caused the deaths of those people, but they had faced an almost impossible task. Hundreds upon hundreds of people had passed through those rooms, all leaving microscopic vestiges of themselves. With so much to sift through, the Checquy could not find the trail — especially since they had no idea what they were looking for. But the Chimerae knew exactly what they were looking for. The case that the Grafter woman had given them contained ampules of samples that the Broederschap had gathered from the Antagonists. Winnowing out the minute traces of their quarry was still a Herculean task, but then —
“I have it!” exclaimed Sander. He stood up, eyes blazing with triumph. “I’ve got their trail!”
27
“How do I look?” asked Odette.
“Don’t talk to me,” said Alessio.
Odette turned to where he sat on the couch. His arms were folded, and he glared at her from under his miniature top hat. He was wearing black morning dress, and with his tails and waistcoat, he looked like he’d stepped out of a period drama and was about to be sent off to Harrow with a young Winston Churchill to learn his Latin verbs, get up to some merry japes, and maybe get flogged before graduating and going off to supervise the empire. Odette thought he looked adorable but resisted the urge to say so. He appeared to be suffering enough.
“I don’t have to be dressed like this, you know,” said Alessio sullenly. “I looked it up on the web, and it said that since I’m under seventeen, I’m allowed to wear a lounge suit. Then I looked up lounge suit, and it turns out it’s just a suit, which I already have. But instead, I’m dressed like... like...” Words failed him.
“You’re lucky,” said Odette. “You have a uniform; you know exactly what you’re supposed to wear. I’m supposed to wear a ‘formal day dress of modest length.’”
“What’s ‘modest length’?”
“Just above the knee or longer.”
“Well, that’s what you’re wearing,” said Alessio.
“Yes, but is it right?” She sighed and looked at herself in the mirror. “Is it appropriate?” Her dress, a princess cut in cream and the palest of greens, had cost an astounding amount of money, but she was still agonizing over it. She’d bought it in Brussels and was now worrying that it was not British enough.
It came to just below the knee and had long sleeves and a round collar. It was elegant — at least she was pretty sure it was elegant — and cut in such a way that it bullied her into having excellent posture. She felt like the kind of woman who could reject James Bond at a garden party, a woman who would raise a single wry eyebrow at everything anyone said. But was that the appropriate feeling for Royal Ascot? The problem of what to wear to this occasion had worried her slightly less than the prospect of meeting with the inhuman monsters who had tried to destroy her people, but only slightly.
“The dress covers you,” Alessio said with a shrug, “and you don’t look like Mr. Bumble sold you to an undertaker, so I don’t know what you have to worry about.”
“Royal Ascot is a major event in the British social calendar,” said Odette.
“Horse races.” Alessio snorted dismissively.
“Thousands of people attend every year,” said Odette tightly. She anxiously did that thing where you adjust your garments and then panic that you have ruined them. “There is vast press coverage, as much for the fashion as for the races. The Royal Family attends. And we’re going to be in the Royal Enclosure as personal guests of the Court of the Checquy.”
“What’s the Royal Enclosure? A paddock where they keep the King and Queen?”
“It’s an exclusive area open only to members,” Odette informed him.
“Oh.” He paused. “It sounds pretty special.”
“It is.”
“And that’s what you’re wearing?”
She looked at him with genuine hatred for a moment.
“Why am I even asking you?” she wondered. “How did my life reach the point where I ask a thirteen-year-old boy for his opinion on fashion?”
He smiled. “That’s what you get for not being sympathetic about my school uniform. Anyway, if you’re genuinely worried, why don’t you ask Pawn Clements if you look all right?”
The Pawn was in her room, getting changed into her Ascot clothes. Odette was secretly curious to see what she would be wearing. The dress code for the Royal Enclosure was strict, but for her entire tenure as Odette’s bodyguard, Clements had never worn anything that didn’t allow her to free-run through an obstacle course and engage in some kickboxing at a moment’s notice.
“Things have been a little cool between us since St. Paul’s,” said Odette.
“Things have always been cool between the two of you,” said Alessio.
“Yes, well, now they’re extremely cool.” In point of fact, things were glacial. The morning after their excursion to the cathedral, Clements had been called in to attend two meetings even though it was a Sunday. She hadn’t said what they were about or who they were with, but she’d returned pale and silent. Odette, in a moment of sneakitude, had looked at Clements’s organizer and seen that she’d been meeting with Rook Thomas and Bishop Attariwala. Presumably, Clements had recounted Odette’s suspicious dash through St. Paul’s because some very firm instructions had been handed down: there would be no more outings. In addition, Odette had been briskly informed that she would not be attending any more meetings at Apex House for a while.
“There’s the feeling that you’re something of a trouble magnet,” Marie had said to her later. “Whatever possessed you to go running around St. Paul’s like a mad thing? Were you honestly trying to ditch your minder?”
For a moment, Odette had toyed with telling her about the whispered words of the Antagonist and the trail of orange scent that wound through the cathedral, but she drew back from the idea. If it was known that the Antagonists had tracked her and spoken to her, Odette would likely be put in a stasis coma, shipped back to the Continent, and placed in a Swiss vault until the problem was resolved, no matter how long it took.
“She’s exaggerating,” Odette had lied awkwardly. “There were crowds, and I wanted to see everything.” Marie nodded, rolling her eyes.
“Typical. Well, we’ll humor them,” the security chief had said. “Once the negotiations are done, I’m sure they’ll relax.”
And so Odette and Clements had spent the next four days in the hotel, watching television, studying, and glowering at each other. According to the morning meetings in Ernst’s suite, the negotiations were moving right along, despite, or perhaps because of, her absence. The Broederschap had provided a full accounting of their assets and holdings to the Checquy, and the legal protections for the Grafters’ intellectual property were being laid out.