But I don’t think either one’s financial impropriety is enough to warrant my destruction. It’s got to be something else that leads to my betrayal. Thus, every evening, every morning, every car ride, and every lunch hour (on the rare occasions that I get one), when I’m not scrutinizing the details of the Court’s personnel records, I’m going through financial records. Of course, the Checquy’s assets are vast and varied, and I can’t account for everything. But in my role as Rook, I’ve ordered double audits of the major vaults and had them done by rival sections in an effort to ensure that there’s no collaboration. In the meantime, I’m personally reviewing the finances of the bigger projects in the Checquy portfolio. These are quite complex, which makes it easy for financial jiggery-pokery to take place.
It also makes them a complete bitch to review.
At the moment, I am mired hip-deep in the funding that is allocated to the Estate every year, and make no mistake—it’s a lot of money. It would have to be. Every person who comes out of there at the age of nineteen has the equivalent of a thorough education through university, rigorous military training, and as complete a mastery of his or her powers as possible. The budget has to include the facilities of the best public school in the country, the equipment for diagnosing and testing a wide variety of superhuman abilities, the accommodations for a student population of genetically unstable people, the wages for the best-qualified and most open-minded teachers in the world, and security to keep all this a secret. Not to mention therapy for everyone concerned.
I’m telling you all this because, as a result of my weeks and weeks of after-hours studying and reviewing and anal-retentive tracings of moneys, I have found another irregularity, one that may be big enough to justify destroying me.
And as soon as I’ve taken an aspirin, I am going to chase it down.
Yours with a headache,
Me
Well, this is going to be much nicer than the homemade sandwich I brought to work,” said Myfanwy after they’d been ferried to the most exclusive restaurant in the city and seated in a pool of sunshine. “Shantay’s an interesting name. Is it short for something?”
“Not so far as I know,” said Shantay. “Why, is yours short for something?”
“Myfanwy? What could it be short for?”
“God alone knows, but people’s names are weird. Especially those made-up names.”
“Is your name made up?” Myfanwy asked curiously.
“No,” said Shantay.
“So what kind of name is it?”
“Uh, Shantay comes from French,” said Shantay, accepting a glass of wine from an obsequious waiter.
“And what’s the Petoskey part? You don’t look Polish.”
“It’s Chippewa, means ‘the Rising Sun.’ Don’t feel bad, it always confuses people.”
“At least you can be relatively certain that you’re pronouncing yours correctly.”
“Yeah, where does Myfanwy come from? Is it Scottish?”
“Welsh.”
“Really? I know nothing about the Welsh,” said Shantay conversationally.
“No, me either.”
“Didn’t your parents tell you about your heritage?” asked the American Bishop distractedly as she beckoned the waiter back over. “My folks are always telling me about my various cultural and ethnic backgrounds. Actually, we’ll take the whole bottle.” This last part was said to the waiter, who was clearly going to be earning his tip today.
“I don’t actually know my parents,” said Myfanwy, carefully adjusting her sunglasses. The terrace of this restaurant was the place to be eating in London of a sunny afternoon. The air was cool, but elegant heaters had been set up. Normally, one needed to be extremely famous to get a table on the terrace, but somehow, Ingrid had managed to cultivate very good relationships with every restaurateur in the city. When Myfanwy and Shantay turned up, one carrying a credit card that appeared to be made out of actual gold and the other looking like a Nubian goddess, they had quickly been placed in the favored spot, seated ahead of a group of shrill movie stars who had apparently been waiting for ten minutes.
“You don’t know your parents?” Shantay repeated.
“No, I was taken from them at the age of nine,” said Myfanwy, hazarding a taste of the wine.
“Oh my God, I forgot. That’s what you do here, isn’t it?” said Shantay in horror.
“Mm-hm,” confirmed Myfanwy.
“You know, not to be rude,” said Shantay. “But I really can’t believe that you take children from their parents.”
“It’s tradition,” Myfanwy replied, deciding on a food item that had a long and detailed menu description. If she was going to be charging massive amounts to the Checquy expense account, she wanted something that would involve a lot of work for the chef. “People like us are sort of considered to be the property of the nation.”
“Well, we had a similar tradition over in the States—people as property. And then we had a little war that sort of established that tradition would end.”
“Of course,” said Myfanwy. At that moment, a waiter appeared and took their orders—a procedure that took longer than usual because both women insisted on reading out the descriptions of the food in their entirety.
“So do you remember your parents?” said Shantay once the waiter had tottered away, weighed down with culinary adjectives.
“Not at all,” said Myfanwy, with complete honesty.
“And that doesn’t bother you?” asked Shantay.
“Not really,” said Myfanwy, shrugging. She wondered vaguely how Thomas had felt. “So how did you end up in the Croatoan?”
“I tested early. We have this whole program—very thorough. We’ve got so few manifestations that we can’t afford to miss any possibilities. Anyway, there my parents were, in Flint, Michigan. Ever been there?” she asked suddenly.
“I think I’ve heard of it,” said Myfanwy. “Wasn’t there a unicorn running around there last year?”
“Nah, that was East Lansing,” said Shantay dismissively. “Anyway, back when I was little, my parents were having a pretty hard time of it, especially with three kids.”
“I think I was one of three as well,” said Myfanwy.
“Oh, yeah? Which one were you?”
“I’m fairly certain that I was the middle child,” she replied, trying to remember.
“I was the oldest,” said Shantay. “And though we weren’t starving, we weren’t far away from it. Then they get a very official-looking letter.”
“From the government?”
“No, from some extremely expensive boarding school out in New Hampshire, offering free room and board and tuition.”
“Well, then,” said Myfanwy. “Thank heavens for the scrupulous honesty of the American government’s supernatural department.” She paused in her good-natured use of sarcasm as a blunt instrument. “But how does this constitute a more ethical system than ours?”
“My parents had a choice in the matter. Yours, I am led to believe, did not.”
“Yes, although there are certain advantages to our approach. Were there any other perks?”
“I got to go home during vacations,” said Shantay.
“Well, you’ve certainly got me beat there,” said Myfanwy.
The food proved to be delicious. After dessert, they discussed the intricacies of their nations’ security arrangements as they were whisked back to the Rookery.
“Rook Thomas,” said the driver, “it looks as if those protesters have decided to set up a barricade in front of the parking entrance. Security is working at moving them on, but it may take a while.”
“You can just drop us out in front then,” said Myfanwy, pulling on her gloves. “Thank you, Martin.” As the two women got out of the car, they eyed the protesters with distaste.
“Have you thought about siccing the police on them?” asked Shantay.
“I think it would just bring the press here,” said Myfanwy, whose eye had been caught by a familiar-
looking woman across the street.
“Maybe you could blame it on some sort of gang turf war?”
“This is London, not LA,” Myfanwy said. “And besides, this is the financial district.” The conversation broke off as the familiar-looking woman crossed the street and approached them.
“Excuse me,” said the young woman. “I’m sorry to bother you.”
“Yes?” asked Myfanwy. She really looks familiar—is she in the Checquy?
“Is… are you Muvvahnwee Thomas?”
“I guess,” said Myfanwy. “I’m sorry, have we met?”
“My name is Bronwyn.” The girl looked at her hesitantly, waiting for some reaction. “Bronwyn Thomas. I’m your sister.”
17
They stared at each other, the woman claiming to be a sister named Bronwyn with a look of expectancy in her eyes, and Myfanwy completely stunned. Even watching Gestalt strangle Dr. Crisp hadn’t struck her as forcibly as this revelation. She looked at the woman, recognizing her own features, albeit much prettier (gorgeous, really, let’s admit it), along with a taller body and long, fashionably highlighted blond hair.
That’s why she looked familiar, Myfanwy thought numbly. She could see Shantay gaping, but all the sounds in the world appeared to have been muted. Instead, there was only Bronwyn, and she felt a connection, a feeling almost of familiarity. As if this girl fit into her life, filling a sister-shaped hole.
What is this? Is it even possible? she thought, looking at eyes that were exactly like hers. Is this really my sister?
I should say something, it’s been a minute.
“My God,” she said, and then couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Hi.” She hesitated, and then put out her hand. The woman calling herself Bronwyn looked a little startled, but then took it with a smile, and they squeezed tentatively.
“This must be a tremendous shock,” said Bronwyn. “Me just coming out of nowhere.”
“It’s the most astounding thing that’s ever happened to me,” said Myfanwy. “The most astounding thing…” She trailed off, still staring, and still holding Bronwyn’s hand.
“I’m Shantay. I work with Myfanwy,” said Shantay flatly, stepping forward. “It looks like she’s in a little bit of shock.”
“Hi,” said Bronwyn.
“You know, I am so sorry to do this to you,” said Shantay, “but there is a really important thing we have to get to. And it just can’t wait.”
There’s a thing we have to get to? thought Myfanwy weakly.
“Bronwyn, you must give me all your contact details. Your address and so on,” Myfanwy said. “And I’ll give you mine, and we’ll make a plan to meet.” She let go of Bronwyn’s hand reluctantly and looked down. She has the same hands as me, she thought giddily. Christ, and I didn’t even take off my gloves when I held her hand! She winced. “You can come to my house, and we’ll learn about each other,” she said in a rush. Even as she spoke, though, she was already aware of the hundreds of complications spooling out from this development.
They traded details and made arrangements for that evening. Myfanwy said that she would call later to set a time. There was an awkward good-bye, and she let Shantay lead her into the Rookery.
“Well,” said Shantay, once they were in the elevator, “that kind of came out of left field.”
“Yeah.” Myfanwy sniffed. Shantay handed her a tissue. “I didn’t take off my gloves when I took her hand,” fretted Myfanwy. “I was so gob-smacked, I didn’t even think of it.”
“Thank God!” exclaimed Shantay. “Girl, if that woman had tried to swoop in for a kiss, or any skin-to-skin contact, I would’ve beat her skull in right there on the sidewalk.”
“What?”
“Are you serious? Some girl comes up to you on the street, you don’t know what she is! Hell, she could be a Grafter agent!”
“I know that I have a sister, and this woman looks exactly like me—well, bits of her do,” amended Myfanwy, thinking of those long legs.
“Oh, please, you know what the Grafters can do,” said Shantay. “Sure, she looks a lot like you, but we’re tussling with people who are pretty much the gods of plastic surgery and weird biological weapons. Shit, forget touching you—if she’d looked like she was gonna even breathe on you, I’d have moved in.”
“Shantay,” said Myfanwy, “if this woman was going to kill me, she didn’t need to use some Grafter weapon. That guy in the B and B had a gun.” She felt a sinking feeling at the thought.
“True!” realized Shantay. “That girl is lucky she isn’t a headless corpse on the street right now.”
“Well, that might have caused a few problems,” said Myfanwy. “But you’re right about this chick. I don’t know anything about her. I’ll need to have her vetted before I let her in my house. I’ll need dossiers on Bronwyn Thomas, including photos, personal history, travel history, where she’s living. The real Bronwyn Thomas could be in Australia now…”
“You okay?” asked Shantay. “I’ll help you with the background check. We can tear through it.”
“Yeah, I just… I hope it really is her, and that there are no problems. It would be nice to have a sister.”
“Maybe she really is your sister,” said Shantay. “We’ll check everything, and if it all works out, then you’ll be having drinks with her tonight. In which case, you’ve got a whole bunch of other problems.”
“Like what?”
“Like where you’re gonna tell her you’ve been all her life.”
Myfanwy sat on one end of her couch at home, her bare feet propped up on a footstool, her head leaning back. Despite a brimming glass of brandy in her hand and the placid presence of Wolfgang on her lap, she was still feeling nauseated about the prospect of Bronwyn’s arrival.
She and Shantay had spent the afternoon in a frenzy of security vetting. Myfanwy hadn’t liked the idea of anyone—not even Ingrid—knowing that she was researching her birth sister. Questions would have been asked, and the Checquy might have said there was no way Myfanwy would be permitted to see her. If this Bronwyn really was her sister, then Myfanwy was determined to know her.
And if she wasn’t, well, then something would have to be done.
So Myfanwy had had Ingrid scrub all afternoon appointments from her schedule, and she and Shantay had gone into her office and shut the door behind them. Then they’d set about learning everything they could about Bronwyn Laura Thomas. Being Rook meant that she had practically unlimited access to government information about its citizens, and her predecessor’s focus on research and preparation meant that she could do most of it from her office.
Bronwyn Laura Thomas did not live in Australia. She was living in London, in a flat near Marble Arch. She was enrolled at the University of the Arts London. No criminal record. She’d never left the country to go anywhere, let alone Belgium. Her Internet use was orthodox—almost painfully so. No e-mails to anyone in Belgium, or anyone dubious. There wasn’t time for them to check every person she’d e-mailed in the past six months, but a random selection had shown nothing suspicious. The number for her mobile phone was the one Myfanwy had been given that afternoon.
The person in the photos they accessed was identical to the one they had spoken to.
“Well, it all looks okay,” Shantay had said. “It could actually be her.”
“I think it’s her,” said Myfanwy. “I really do.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
Myfanwy sat and bit her lip. Since she’d entered into this life, there had been very little that filled her with genuine pleasure. The balance in her bank account. The meal she’d eaten while dining with Lady Farrier. Her spontaneous friendship with Shantay. The prospect of meeting—of having—a sister was delightful. She was tired of being an orphan. She wanted a family. Or at least more than one friend.
“I’m going to call her,” decided Myfanwy, and she reached for the phone.
“Wait,” said Shantay. “Don’t call the mobile number—call her home numbe
r.”
“She didn’t give me her home number,” objected Myfanwy. The penny dropped. “Okay, fine.”
She’d dialed the home number, and gotten a Bronwyn Thomas who had been expecting her call. They’d chatted a little and agreed that Myfanwy would send a car to pick up Bronwyn. Which would be happening in five minutes. Val, the housekeeper, whom she’d finally met, had been very excited about the prospect of Myfanwy’s sister coming.
“You know that I’ve always worried about you, Ms. Thomas,” she’d said in her thick northern accent. “You keep too much to yourself. It’s not healthy for you young women to work all day, and then come in and fall asleep on the couch. I’m so glad your sister is visiting. Maybe she’ll be able to talk some sense to you.” And she’d insisted on preparing a huge tray of food. “It’s been how long since you saw each other?”
“Years,” said Myfanwy, with perfect accuracy.
“Years! That’s absolutely dreadful! That’s typical with you career girls. You get the job, and just forget entirely about everything else. Do you know that this is the first time I’ve heard you talk about your family?” Myfanwy had realized when she’d met Val that Thomas had employed her for two reasons. First, it was kind of comforting having someone boss you about your life, and second, she was a marvelous cook and housekeeper. Fearful of offending her, she’d just meekly agreed with everything Val suggested, including the brandy.
“Normally, I don’t encourage drinking,” she’d said. “But I’ve never seen you this nervous.” Val poured Myfanwy a drink and told her to sit back and relax. “I’ll let your sister in, and then I’ll head home.”
So now Myfanwy was stroking Wolfgang’s fur, although she hadn’t yet drunk any of the brandy. Instead, she was trying to simultaneously remain alert and relax her aching muscles. Those damn shoes, the ones she felt obliged to wear when playing the role of Rook, were murder on her ankles. She was so focused on staring at the ceiling that she didn’t hear the doorbell ring, didn’t hear Val open the front door, and then didn’t realize that Bronwyn had entered the room.
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