Rook

country might get overrun by brownies and talking trees, but what the hell—there’s always Australia!
Seething, Myfanwy threw down the purple binder and realized that she had been chewing her nails.
Great,
that’s
probably a new habit. I can’t see Rook Thomas, administrator extraordinaire, biting her nails. This must mean that I’m finally developing my own identity.
Myfanwy was staring sourly at the portraits of the Rooks and wondering which of the subjects had been chained up in the Tower of London when Ingrid came bustling in.
    “Rook Thomas, I’ve canceled your lunch at Christifaro’s,” she said.
    “Why?” Myfanwy asked in dismay. “That’s the only thing I’ve had to look forward to!”
    “An emergency has emerged, and both you and Rook Gestalt have been summoned to an interrogation,” the secretary replied in an unruffled manner.
    “Oh. Okay.” Myfanwy looked down at her desk, thought for a moment, and then looked up. “Are we getting interrogated, or are we doing the interrogating?” she asked. Ingrid looked a little startled but explained that some poor twerp the Checquy had captured would be interrogated. Apparently, a specific member of the staff would be doing the questioning, and Myfanwy and Gestalt would be there serving in an audience capacity.
    “So I don’t have to do anything?”
    “No, ma’am.”
    “Should I bring anything, do you think?”
    “What, like snacks?” her secretary asked.
    “I’ll bring my notepad,” Myfanwy decided. “And a pen.”
    “They have stenographers there, you realize. And video cameras,” Ingrid pointed out.
    “Yes, I know,” Myfanwy replied tartly. “But I like to take my own notes.”
    “Very good, ma’am.”
    “Yes. Now, would you accompany me to the interrogatory… the interrararium… the interrogation… place? I would value your observations.” After all, she could hardly ask for directions, could she?
    “Certainly, ma’am. After you.” Ingrid swept aside to allow Myfanwy to walk ahead.
    “No, no,” Myfanwy said hurriedly. “After
you
.”
    “That’s highly irregular, Rook Thomas,” Ingrid observed.
    “Humor me,” Myfanwy answered.
    “As you please.”
    T he two women walked briskly down the hallways, and the people ahead of them pressed themselves against the walls so the Rook and her secretary could get by easily. Heavy wooden doors dotted the corridors. Whenever she passed an open doorway, Myfanwy slowed down and snuck a peek. In one room, three men were poring over a map and shouting at one another in hushed voices, like angry librarians. In another, an elderly Pakistani gentleman with a monoclebrandished a walking stick under the nose of a short fat man in a caftan. Through another door, there was a room filled with bookshelves. Seated at a massive wooden desk, a man with curly hair was reading intently from a ledger and absentmindedly stroking the head of a large condor that perched proudly on his wrist. He looked up as they passed, and his eyes widened in surprise.
    Finally, they came to a pair of massive iron doors with a metal plate set into them. Ingrid stepped aside and looked at Myfanwy expectantly. Fortunately, Myfanwy vaguely recalled reading something about this. She moved forward and placed both her hands flat against the plate. The metal warmed underneath her palms, and the doors opened slowly, with a sound of grinding gears. Behind those doors was, in a stunning anticlimax, another set of doors, which slid open. A lift.
    They descended for many floors, until it was clear that they were several stories beneath the ground. Neither of them said anything, but Myfanwy took the opportunity to eye her secretary in the mirrored walls. Ingrid was tall, in her late forties, and her auburn hair was immaculately coiffed. She was slim and fit-looking, as if she spent every afternoon playing tennis. She wore a few pieces of discreet gold jewelry, including a wedding ring. Myfanwy breathed in gently through her nose and smelled Ingrid’s good perfume. The business suit she wore was of a light purple, and exquisitely cut.
    Myfanwy looked herself over in the mirror. The hair she had swept back into a clip was coming loose, and her suit (although far more expensive than Ingrid’s) was rumpled. She’d neglected makeup entirely, and those damn black eyes lent her the appearance of a raccoon. A raccoon that had gotten hit in the face. After a lifetime of poor nutrition.
    The silence was broken only by the humming