Rook

Myfanwy and Ingrid was large and surprisingly luxurious. There was a thick carpet on the floor, and pictures hung on the walls. A sideboard along the left held a selection of cheeses and fruit, and on the right an ornate bar was stocked with an array of decanters and bottles. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, and curlicues traced their way along the plaster. At the far end of the room, facing a wall covered in heavy red drapes, were a number of chairs. A few men in suits were milling about by the buffet.
    “Rook Thomas?” A man dressed as a butler was at Myfanwy’s elbow. She turned to him, startled.
    “Yes?” she asked.
    “Can I fetch you a beverage?” He gestured toward the bar.
    “Oh, that would be lovely. Could you please get me a coffee? Ingrid, what would you like?” Both her secretary and the butler looked nonplussed, but eventually an arrangement was entered into whereby Ingrid also would receive a cup of coffee. Judging from the frozen expressions, Myfanwy realized that in the Checquy the people in purple were there to do the waiting, not to be waited on. Shrugging, she went to the sideboard and loaded up a plate with strawberries and cheese.
    “Ah, Rook Thomas!” exclaimed one of the men there. He was heavyset and loud and had very large teeth and a red face, and he bore down upon her like a truck. Myfanwy stared at him, smiling politely, and stood her ground, popping a strawberry into her mouth. He paused and looked a little puzzled, as if he had expected her to step back or cringe, but then he gamely continued on until he wasstanding uncomfortably close and she was obliged to tip her head back to look at him.
    “Good afternoon,” she said coolly.
Who is this guy, and am I supposed to curtsy or is he supposed to bow?
It seemed as if he anticipated some hesitance or deferral on her part, but when he didn’t receive it, he did not give the impression of being insulted, only surprised.
Perhaps he’s accustomed to the painfully shy Thomas,
she thought.
The Rook who doesn’t dare to speak loudly.
    “Quite inconvenient, having to clear our schedule for this procedure, eh?” he said, although there was less gusto in his voice now than there had been. Under her fixed stare, he actually seemed to be wilting. Still, he tried to make up for it with volume and, apparently, flow.
    “You’re spitting on me,” Myfanwy said coldly. He stammered something as she wiped her face with a napkin. She continued to look him in the eyes and saw his gaze dart nervously behind her. He stepped back and gave a polite nod to whoever had just arrived.
    “Rook Gestalt,” he said in a respectful voice. “Good afternoon.”
Ah, so that’s the way it is,
Myfanwy thought.
Gestalt gets the deference, and Thomas does the bookkeeping.
She swung around and then stepped back in confusion. It was not the twins who were emerging from the lift but a much taller and more powerfully built man. She realized this must be the third of Gestalt’s bodies, and she looked at it with interest.
Oh, Thomas. You had good taste,
she thought. Robert Gestalt was handsome and strong. Dressed casually in khakis and a short-sleeved shirt, he moved forward with a palpable air of confidence.
    “Good afternoon, Perry,” Gestalt said smoothly, and then he turned his attention to her. “Myfanwy, you are looking well,” he said with an extra dose of charm. Only the eyes gave him away.
Don’t forget,
she reminded herself,
you just finished a meeting with this man and heard him kill a bunch of people. He may have been wearing different skin, but it was still him.
“I’m dreadfully sorry this has come up,” he said to her. “I know how these questionings upset you. We shall simply have to endeavor to endure it.” He offered Myfanwy his arm to escort her over to the chairs, and she hesitantly took it.
    As their skin made contact, she felt a shock.
    It was as if she had been plunged into a pool of water whose currents were winding their way around her. Each stream was distinct, separate from the others. She felt as if she could reach out and disrupt the course of that movement—re-channel it, warp it, or stop it entirely. The ribbons were complex, horrendously complex, but she could tell that the system encompassed the physical being of Gestalt.
    Oh my God!
Myfanwy thought. Suddenly, she had control over this man—not through violence but with all the force and power of her own mind. She was no longer defenseless; she was