There was still, however, distinct friction between the two organizations. Rooms went silent when Grafters entered. Flat stares were exchanged in hallways. And there were other, more troubling incidents that might have just been happenstance or might have been superpowered harassment. One of the Grafter accountants reported that during meetings with her Checquy counterparts, she kept hearing the distant voice of her long-dead mother reciting items from a grocery list. Jeroen from the lawyers found that all his credit cards and his hotel key card had been twice magnetically wiped. Alessio had come out in a rash along his shoulders, but Odette couldn’t tell if it was natural or the result of supernatural bullying.
Truth be told, she was a little worried about how her brother was getting along with the students from the Estate. He mentioned no names of any friends he’d made, and his descriptions of the field trips were focused solely on where they’d gone.
“Today, we went to the Tate Modern.”
Or: “Today, we went to the Rookery.”
Or: “Today, we went to an abattoir.”
Or: “Today, we went to the National Portrait Gallery.”
“And how was that?” Odette had asked, desperate to get some details.
“We were given special versions of those headsets so that we could learn which prominent people had connections to the Checquy.”
“Yeah? Was Isaac Newton a Pawn?”
“No, but Christopher Marlowe was killed on the orders of the Checquy, Jane Austen’s sister-in-law was a Chevalier, and Francis Walsingham and Dr. John Dee tried to establish a rival organization to the Checquy. We got tested on it,” he’d told her.
“I’ll worry about Alessio later,” Odette murmured to herself now. At the moment, she was more worried about her hat. She was not generally a hat person, and so she did not know the name for the kind of hat it was. It looked, to her ignorant eyes, like someone had taken an extremely broad and shallow fruit bowl, wrapped it in cream cloth, flipped it over, and then added some abstract flower and snowflake shapes to it. When she put it on, though, Odette decided she liked it. For one thing, it was recognizably a hat, and for another, she could use it to hide her eyes if she felt uncomfortable.
“Nice hat,” said Alessio.
“Shut up.”
“Why are you so tense about this? You’ve been to big events before.”
“I always went shopping with Saskia for these sorts of things!” snapped Odette. She took a breath. Alessio was staring at her with wide eyes.
“Sorry, ’Dette,” he said softly.
“It’s fine,” she said. “I just miss her.” She would have loved this.
At that melancholy point, Pawn Clements emerged from her room, looking distinctly ill at ease. She was wearing a fitted black dress that went down to midshin and that seemed specifically designed to prevent the wearer from taking any long strides. She was also wearing a smoldering-red blazer and carrying a hat in the same color.
“You look very nice, Pawn Clements,” said Alessio, earning himself a discreet single-fingered gesture from his sister.
“Thank you,” said the Pawn distractedly. “I borrowed it from one of my roommates.” She teetered a little bit on her heels but recovered and put on her hat, which had an upturned brim and various fluted attachments and so would be useless for hiding her eyes if she felt uncomfortable, although it could probably be jury-rigged into some sort of weapon if necessary. She regarded herself uncertainly in the mirror. She and Odette looked at each other for a moment but said nothing.
“Have you ever been to this thing before?” asked Alessio finally.
“To Ascot, yes, but not the Royal Enclosure,” said the Pawn in the doomed tones of one who will be spending time in the company of one’s supreme commanders whilst wearing an intricate hat about which one is not entirely confident. “Some friends and I went a couple of years ago. It’s cool, very busy.” She went to the bar fridge to get a bottle of massively overpriced orange juice and then paused, peering at Alessio’s mouse cage. “I think one of your mice is gone,” she said uncertainly.
Alessio hurried over and looked in the cage. He opened the lid and took out the only visible mouse. Then he lifted up the little plastic igloo and made an annoyed click with his tongue. Clements was looking about on the floor — not frightened, but certainly not delighted by this development.
“Don’t bother looking,” said Alessio. “It hasn’t escaped. I think it’s denatured.” He deposited the remaining mouse back in the cage and took up a clipboard to note down the date and time. “Odette, can you confirm for me, please?” She came over and carefully examined the shavings.
“Denatured?” asked Clements.
“It happens to clones,” said Alessio. “They unravel.”
“And that’s what happened to this one,” said Odette. She pointed to a corner of the mouse cage. “See the discoloration there? There would have been a puddle of proteins and starches and other stuff where Mouse A(i) dissolved.”
“They dissolve?”
“Yeah,” said Odette, who realized that she’d been cunningly lured out of her uncomfortable silence. “With clones, it depends on the craftsmanship of the cloner.”
“Hey!” said Alessio indignantly.
“It’s okay. You’re just learning,” said Odette, rolling her eyes. “And I’m not that great at it myself. I always got Simon to do mine.
“If you get it right, they don’t dissolve, but it’s very difficult to get them exactly correct,” she continued. “And anything with accelerated aging is inevitably going to break down. When it happens depends on how much you accelerate. You can’t hurry Mother Nature. It’s one of the reasons we don’t clone people. It’s bad enough when it’s just a mouse that suddenly starts melting. Can you imagine how awkward it would be if the butler suddenly went sploosh?”
“So where’s the puddle of proteins and starches?” asked Clements, frowning.
“Ask Mouse A,” said Odette drily.
At this, Clements did look upset, and she glanced at her watch. “You’re all packed?” she asked.
Odette gestured toward her suitcases by the door. After the races, some of the party would be going to Hill Hall in Suffolk, the country-house retreat of the Court of the Checquy. It was to be a long weekend of Grafters and Checquy making a great effort to enjoy each other’s company in a social setting.
Alessio would not be going, since there were various activities he would be attending with the school group from the Estate. They’d arranged for him to join the Ascot trip as a special treat, the irony of which was almost painful. He’d be returning to London in the company of Chevalier Whibley, and then Marie would watch over him for the weekend. While they were away at the races, Odette’s and Clements’s luggage would be driven up to Hill Hall by some hapless Checquy flunky. Clements had been instructed to pack outfits for dinner, walking, and shooting things (not pheasant, because it wasn’t the season, and hopefully not the Grafters). She wasn’t nearly as worried about the weekend as she was about the races because there had been no mention of any specific dress code for the weekend, and the press wasn’t going to be there.
“If you’re ready, then we should go,” said Clements. “We have to catch the train.”
“We’re not being driven?” asked Odette, startled.
“Traffic there is always a nightmare.”
“But Marcel and Grootvader Ernst were talking about driving up,” objected Odette.
“They went with Sir Henry and Lady Farrier early this morning,” said Clements. “They’ll be lunching there, but there was no room in the car for us.”
“We couldn’t take a different car?” Then she rolled her eyes at herself. If I’m getting used to having a driver, it is time to get out of this hotel.
“Parking is also terrible,” explained Clements. “Lady Farrier has a reserved spot in the closest parking lot, but for everyone else, it’s a disaster. To become a member of the Royal Enclosure, you just have to be nominated, but to get one of the good parking places, you have to wait for someone to die.” Odette gave a little laugh, but the Pawn wasn’t smiling. “So we’ll catch the Tube to Waterloo Station, and then there’s a race train.”
“We’re going out on public transport dressed like this?” asked Alessio in horror.