Rook

to graveyards, morgues, and funky cult headquarters. Don’t get me wrong, a lot of them happen in those sorts of places, but many more turn up in entirely mundane situations, which actually makes them far more upsetting. People are more likely to cope with the appearance of an animated corpse in a graveyard than one in an ice cream parlor or the changing room of a boutique. They won’t be happy with the appearance of the animated corpse in the graveyard, but they tend to be less outraged.
    In order to detect all the things that concern us, we receive a torrent of information, most of it completely unimportant. Stacks of reports, pages of figures, and tons of files. We have teams of analysts who sift through the information and intelligence that is forwarded to us and, out of all the details and minutiae, find the trends that reveal when the wheat market is being manipulated by a vampire.
    We’re also connected to the bureaucracy through the Panic Lines. Varioushigh-placed officials from all branches of government, both national and local, are given discreet briefings that are designed to be simultaneously specific and vague. We don’t tell them to be on the lookout for gremlins or storms of bile, but a few judicious slide shows and the generous use of the adjective
unnatural
ensure that they get the drift. As a result, we receive panicked calls from police chiefs, government ministers, members of the aristocracy, military officers, councillors, intelligence agents, churchmen, surgeons, diplomats, hospital administrators, etc. We also have people placed in key organizations who keep us abreast of significant developments.
    Still, despite all these connections, we maintain our secrecy. Our name does not appear on any piece of paper outside of our organization. In fact, very few on the outside know that we exist. People are given a phone number to call, and information comes to us through twisty channels. Our computer network is not connected to any external system. If you try to track us down, you will not find us, but we will find you.
     
    The meeting with the people from accounting proved spectacularly uninteresting as Myfanwy learned how cheaply one could surreptitiously remove plague-infected bodies and dissect them. The credit for the cost-effectiveness went to the very polite gentleman whom she had coerced into taking a lift ride with her (his name was Colonel Hall). She made a mental note to pass on some sort of praise to him. Despite her boredom, Myfanwy took care to be pleasant to the accountants, who squirmed uncomfortably in their seats and seemed terrified of her.
I guess Thomas wielded some authority,
mused Myfanwy.
Pity she controlled the nerds.
    “Rook Thomas?” Ingrid asked. She’d come in silently behind the poor little accountants, and her voice scared them half to death.
    “Yes, Ingrid?” she replied, looking up from rows of figures that made a surprisingly large amount of sense. Thomas had said she was an able administrator, and apparently some of that talent had been passed along.
    “The headmistress from the Estate is here.” Judging from the accountants’ reactions, Myfanwy assumed this person was similarly impressive and terrifying to them, so she politely ushered theaccountants out and welcomed in the headmistress. Or at least she tried to, but Ingrid insisted on standing in the doorway and loudly announcing the woman.
    “Frau Blümen, Chief Instructrix of the Estate!” the secretary bellowed into the office.
    “Yes, thank you, Ingrid,” Myfanwy said and stood up to welcome the rotund woman who waddled in. Frau Blümen was almost perfectly round and could get through the door only by turning sideways and sucking in her chest. Her blond hair was piled up high in intricate coils and braids, and she descended on Myfanwy with arms outstretched.
    “Little Miffy! My
Liebchen!
Whatever has happened to your eyes?” she bellowed in a thick German accent. She was the first person who had dared to comment on the black eyes that still adorned Myfanwy’s face. Before a response could be given, she had enfolded the hapless Rook in her fleshy arms and was embracing her tightly.
    “It’s lovely to see you, Frau Blümen,” Myfanwy said, gasping; the arms tightened and then released her.
    “Frau Blümen?” she said. “Why are you so formal, Myfanwy? No, we agreed when you rose to the Court that you would call me Steffi. You have not been fighting, have you? Of course not! From when you