Rook

didn’t waste a prophetic-duck question on the possibility of unexpected dinner guests. Do you even know how the duck works?”
    “No,” said Gestalt. “And I don’t care. But a special visitor… presumably one who is not in the Checquy—”
    “Who is to be seated at the table next to Wattleman,” I said. “And—”
    “Who has been invited to a secret unveiling,” said Gestalt.
    “The secret unveiling of a major supernatural find that could influence the future of the nation,” I said.
    “Prime Minister?” asked Gestalt.
    “Or royalty,” I suggested.
    “Fuck!” we said together, and we bolted, leaving behind us a team of scientists who had been privy to our dialogue and were now rushing back into the soundproof room to groom the duck and get it ready for its big performance. When important personages are brought into an equation, everything gets more complicated. Everything needed to be perfect.
    At the very least, Gestalt and I wanted to be there to greet whoever it was with a proper show of respect.
    United by desperation, we sprinted through the corridors of the Rookery, Gestalt pulling me by the hand. We knocked several Retainers out of our way, sent stacks of paper flying. Gestalt and I ricocheted off someone made out of concrete, and I lost a shoe.
    “No time!” shouted Gestalt. He tugged on my hand and we kept running. “Leave it!” he said. I kicked off the other shoe.
    “You,” I yelled at a woman ahead of us. “Call Ingrid, and let her know that someone important is coming to dinner and will be sitting next to Sir Henry.” She was nodding frantically as we passed her.
    “Out of the way!” shrieked Gestalt as we rounded a corner and came upon a group of secretaries. They moved back just in time.
    “No siblings?” I gasped out. Maybe one of them could meet the guests.
    “They’re all in the field,” Gestalt said, panting. It was, I admit, slightly encouraging to see that Gestalt was also out of breath. “Hold the lift!” We paused in front of the doors. It was crammed full. “Everybody out,” Gestalt wheezed. The staff stampeded out in the face of his authority, or possibly in the face of the fact that I looked about ready to have a heart attack. We tumbled into the lift and Gestalt pressed the override button, allowing us to go directly to our floor. I leaned against the wall as we descended. I looked at the mirrored wall, and my heart sank.
    “My hair looks like shit,” I said. “I’m in my least impressive suit, have no shoes, and we may have the ruler of the nation coming for dinner—oh God! Will dinner be ready?” I fumbled for my phone and then realized I’d left it in my office. “Do you have a phone?” Gestalt was leaning over, his hands propped on his knees, but he shook his head nonetheless. “Can your other bodies put a call through to the kitchens? Or to Ingrid?”
    “I’m doing it now,” he said.
    “And ask her to bring me a pair of shoes.”
    “Right, shoes,” he agreed from between his knees. “Come here.”
    “Why?” I said suspiciously. In the headlong sprint I had forgotten that I had, at most, a month. At most. Suddenly, I wondered if I was going to be attacked in a lift.
    “I’ll fix your hair,” he said, pulling a comb out of his inner coat pocket and holding it up.
    “Oh,” I said. He unbent and stood behind me, carefully rearranging my hair.
    “You’re good,” I said, eyes downcast. He smelled delicious. I remembered for a moment my crush on his brother, and felt my cheeks flush.
    “I have a female body,” he said briskly. “All right, you look fine.” Actually, though I hated to admit it, I looked quite good.
    “Thanks. And here, your tie is crooked.” I straightened it self-consciously, and smoothed his collar. It was while we were in this pose, with me up on tiptoes, him looking at me, and both of us flushed with running, that the doors opened. Ingrid was there. Anthony was there. Gestalt’s executive assistant and his bodyguard—a slim Chinese chick with lots of facial piercings—were there. Everyone was staring. “Stop that,” I said. “Ingrid, how long do we have? Ingrid!” She blinked and then snapped back to herself and handed me a new pair of shoes.
    “The first car is just pulling in now, Rook Thomas.”
    “And whose is it?”
    “Sir Henry, with his guest,” she said apologetically.
    “Damn it!” exclaimed Gestalt. We moved rapidly toward the entrance, though not running now. “Do we know