They were, and they did, and while most of the people on the Tube didn’t give them a second glance, there was a group of tourists who seemed fascinated by them and who snapped several photos with their mobile phones. Odette took advantage of the shielding characteristics of her hat, but Alessio’s mortification and Clements’s Checquy-instilled need for anonymity left both of them red-faced and sullen.
The day was hot, and as they climbed the stairs from the Waterloo Tube station to the Waterloo railway station, Odette noticed a few other people dressed for the races. There seemed to be no consistent rules about what shape a hat ought to take, so she relaxed a little. Hundreds of race-goers were milling about: men in suits (morning and otherwise), looking very English and dashing, and women wearing outfits that ranged from the elegant and refined to the surprisingly tarty. Everyone was dressed in his or her best, but some people’s best was better than others’.
“Right, that’s our train,” said Clements, shooing them forward. “We have first-class tickets, but it will still fill up quickly, so let’s get seats while we can.” The woman seemed to have a thing about getting on trains early, Odette thought. Electronic glass doors slid open, and the blessed touch of air-conditioning lay upon them. The three of them moved to the first-class compartment at the end of the carriage and gratefully sank into seats.
Through the glass doors, they watched more and more race-goers climb into the train. They filled up the seats, and then the aisles, and soon it looked like the train was transporting refugees from a selection of abruptly interrupted weddings. More people entered their compartment too, and all three of them felt compelled to give up their seats to older people.
When they pulled into Ascot Station, the feeling of being festive upper-class asylum seekers was even greater. A crush of people poured out of the train and down the stairs. Odette felt Clements’s hand on her wrist, but she could only hope that Alessio was near them. The press of the people and the inexorable movement of the crowd prevented her from looking around without breaking her neck or, worse, her hat. They were buffeted through the station and past some intent-looking uniformed soldiers with submachine guns. She looked a question at Clements, who shook her head. They weren’t Checquy guards, just routine security at a major public event.
They followed the throng to a lane that climbed a long, gentle slope. Trees crowded along the sides, and bunting composed of little Union Jacks zigzagged up the path. The crowd spread out, and Odette looked around to find Alessio right behind them. They grinned at each other. Despite herself, she was getting caught up in the festive air.
Television cameras filmed them as they walked up the path, and Odette instinctively ducked her head and then decided to throw caution to the wind. I’m wearing the second-most-expensive outfit I’ve ever owned, she thought. And this one didn’t even require any stem cells. She straightened her shoulders and lifted the brim of her hat a little to smile at the cameras. A weathered-looking woman in blue jeans stepped forward from the side holding some bright flowers, each one’s stem wrapped in foil.
“A flower for the young gentleman?” she asked in a lilting accent. “You’ll be blessed by God.”
“Oh, how nice,” said Alessio.
“Touch him, and I’ll break your fucking wrist,” said Clements. The woman fell back, aghast. They walked on, the Leliefeld siblings exchanging wide-eyed glances.
“I don’t think she was a supernatural threat,” ventured Odette. “I think she was just trying to sell him that flower for his buttonhole.”
“Yes, I know,” said Clements absently. “I’d say that to anyone who tried to sell us something.”
“Oh.”
They came to the end of the lane and there on the brow of the hill, beyond a broad street crawling with people and vehicles, was the huge structure of the grandstand at Ascot racecourse.
For some reason, Odette had thought it would be an old, majestic stone structure. There’s something about the adjective royal — you expect everything to look like a castle, she thought. This building looked like the castle of the king of the Internet. It was modern, metal and glass, and stood proudly against the sky. Steel columns climbed up and branched out to support a curving roof of diamond-shaped panels like leaves through which the light shone. Gigantic Union Jacks stretched the height of the building, and golden flags emblazoned with Royal Ascot fluttered gaily in the wind.
Odette was so taken with it that she didn’t even notice Clements prodding her along a bridge, across the road, and down some stairs. She had to concede that Clements had been right about the traffic. If they’d driven, their emaciated corpses might eventually have found a parking space. A stretch limousine inched along at the speed of a tectonic plate, followed by three stretch Humvees in pink, gray, and silver.
She drank in the crowds, the clothes, and, above all, the hats. A tiny woman teetered by on high heels wearing a hat as big as her torso and made of rigid corrugated glitter. Odette could practically hear the woman’s neck bones crumpling under the weight. At the gate, Clements opened her handbag and handed them pink badges with their names on them. “Don’t lose them, or you won’t be allowed back in,” she cautioned. She looked at her watch and sighed. “I’m afraid we’ve missed the royal procession. I expect the Court is scattered around the enclosure, along with Graaf van Suchtlen and Dr. Leliefeld.”
“Any tips?” asked Alessio keenly.
“Lentus Ultimusque in the fifth is what I heard,” said the Pawn, and she ushered them through the gates.
The Royal Enclosure was definitely more than a paddock. They found themselves in a long sweeping garden that curved down toward the grandstand. There were trees and benches dotted about, and white marquees along the sides. They were quite the nicest tents Odette could ever recall seeing, with glass walls and elegant dining rooms inside. Some of them seemed to have their own little outside enclosures of tables and chairs under white canvas umbrellas, barricaded by tasteful little bulwarks of rope and flowerpots.
“What are the tents?” she asked.
“They belong to various clubs — White’s, the Garrick Club, the Cavalry and Guards Club. They’re by invitation only. That one over there is for guests of the monarch.”
“Is there a tent for the Checquy?” asked Odette.
“We’re a covert government agency that no one has ever heard of,” said Clements acidly. “Having a marquee with our name on it would probably draw questions.”
“There’s Rook Thomas,” said Odette, hurriedly changing the subject.
“Where?”
“Over there, under that orange hat.” It was an apt description. The Rook was wearing a teardrop-shaped hat that added a significant amount of height to her silhouette. It swooped up and was adorned with a green rosette and some startling red and green tendrils. It looked like an enormous tropical flower had sprouted from her head.
“Rook Thomas, I love your hat,” said Odette when the three of them reached her. It was true that she looked magnificent, although the hat really appeared to be the dominant partner in the relationship.
“Thank you, Odette,” said the Rook. “And you all look very nice. Alessio, my condolences on the suit, but at least you blend in. Think of it as camouflage.”
“Where is everyone else?” asked Odette.
“I have no idea,” said Thomas. “I only just got here twenty minutes ago, after spending several years in my car and then a couple more walking from the car park. I was just going to find a drink and place a bet. You can come with me, or you can have a stroll.” Odette shot a look at Pawn Clements, who was standing as close to attention as one could in heels on grass.