Rook

opened her mouth to object, various genetically built-in big-sisterly protests arising.
But,
thought Myfanwy,
I wore the crimson dress, so who am I to judge? Plus, if anyone tries to molest my little sister, I’ll make them kick their own ass.
    “All righty,” Myfanwy said, “what are you suggesting I wear, because—oh, hell no. That is not going on my body.”
I’m only willing to wear something as risqué as the crimson dress once a season.
    “Why? What’s wrong with it?” asked Bronwyn in an amused tone. Compared to Bronwyn’s outfit, it was quite modest, but compared to Bronwyn’s outfit, outright nudity was quite modest.
    “Because it suggests that I’d gladly trade sex for a cocktail. In fact, it suggests that I might even trade sex for eye contact,” said Myfanwy. “Plus, won’t we freeze to death when we go outside?”
    “I think you’re overreacting,” said Bronwyn. “Now, how about this?” Myfanwy rejected several options before Bronwyn declared that she was the one studying fashion, the one who knew where they were going, and the one who would decide what Myfanwy would wear. Accordingly, several minutes later they strolled down to the place where Myfanwy had parked the car, Myfanwy clad in something a friend of Bronwyn’s had made at school.
    “Holy shit,” said Bronwyn. “This is what you drive when you’re not being ferried about in a government car?” They both looked at the red sports car, which had attracted a few awestruck admirers. “Maybe I should go into the civil service.”
    Myfanwy, who was beginning to worry that taking the hot rod out for a spin had been a mistake, muttered something about leasing and performed the complicated maneuver of getting into the car, which was so low-slung she was practically sitting on the street.
    “We’re not going to be able to park this car near the club,” warned Bronwyn. “It’ll get scratched or stolen or something.”
    They maneuvered through the traffic, Bronwyn chatting away on her mobile phone, making arrangements with her friends, and giving directions to a secure garage for the car. Eventually, with thevehicle guarded by the good people at a familiar-looking five-star hotel, the sisters joined the queue for a club that Bronwyn assured her was
the
place to be seen getting drunk and dancing.
    When they were finally admitted, Myfanwy looked around with interest. Inside, the club was far less impressive and louder than she’d expected. Bronwyn took her by the hand, led her to the bar, and yelled over the music to ask what she wanted to drink.
Whatever!
Myfanwy mouthed to her sister and slid a banknote into the girl’s hand. Bronwyn winked and then squirmed her way through the press to the bar. Myfanwy wondered briefly how Bronwyn was going to get a drink in that crowd but then remembered the top she was wearing.
If it’s a male bartender, he’ll probably give her a keg.
She tried standing on her tiptoes to see if she could catch a glimpse of her sister, but the rest of the people in the crowd were of a normal height.
    When Bronwyn finally emerged from the mass, she held two large glasses filled with an ominous amount of liquid. They moved cautiously with their beverages to a grouping of chairs where Bronwyn’s friends were seated, looking tall, pretty, and normal. Myfanwy smiled politely, listened to them gossip, and amused herself by surveying the crowd.
All these people, and none of them know the secrets I know
. She took a cautious sip of her cocktail, followed by a long drink, then settled back into the cozy chair and looked at the dance floor through the filter of her powers. Sensory patterns of the crowd rippled before her. Hearts beat in rhythm with the music. Lungs gasped in the air, and sweat shimmered on skin.
    I need to clear my head,
she thought. “I’m going to get some water,” she told Bronwyn. As Myfanwy walked across the club, she tensed her mind and subtly directed the movement of the dancers. The crowd opened up in front of her and closed behind her. She walked up to the bar and people moved aside, not even realizing they were doing it.
Damn, but I’m good,
she thought. She ordered a glass of water, and as she tilted her head back, her control slipped. A big-arsed guy jostled her, and she stumbled awkwardly into someone. “I’m very sorry,” she apologized as she turned around and came face-to-face with Bishop Alrich.
    Two reactions warred within Myfanwy. The first was fear at the thought that