Rook

Well, animals like horses—horses with scales and fangs. I’ll be goddamned.
Then she thought back to the revelations of the interrogation.
    These
are the people invading us?
She flipped through some more recent pictures. She bit her lips as she perused the details and notes.
    Oh, well, we’re totally fucked.
    And I’m supposed to be going out to dinner with Lady Linda Farrier.
    We’re being invaded by evil Belgian fleshcrafters, and I have nothing to wear.
    Myfanwy grimly contemplated the contents of the residence’s wardrobes.
Did Thomas wear nothing but black and gray?
she asked herself.
I mean, there are thirty good-quality suits here, and not a single one with any personality. No skirts cut above the knee, no blouse that isn’t white.
She trailed her fingertips along the coats and then, struck by a sudden thought, slid her hand into the inside pocket of one of them. She pulled out two envelopes, carefully marked
To You
and
2.
The rest ofthe coats yielded identical envelopes, and she put them in a little precarious stack on the floor.
I’ll have to go through every coat I possess and shred all these envelopes,
she thought.
    She grimly opened another closet and found a number of dresses in the same vein as the suits.
More offerings from the House of Puritan Blah,
she thought. Still, she made the best of a bad lot and managed to put together an outfit that said both
elegant
and
I control a secret government organization.
    The meeting with the head of building security turned out to be easier than she’d anticipated. She’d actually been dreading it, since it was her predecessor who had called it, but fortunately the head of security opened the discussion, and Myfanwy learned why there was a small group of fanatics camped outside the building. Apparently, they were convinced that the Rookery was the government base for covert supernatural agents.
    “I realize that this may sound a trifle naive, but isn’t it?” she asked, somewhat confused. “I mean, that’s what we do here, right?”
    “Oh, yes,” agreed the head of security, a tall man of Sudanese descent named Clovis. She realized that he’d been one of the men at the interrogation, standing quietly at the back and observing everything. “They’re completely right.” He smiled cheerfully.
    “And you’re not concerned that our elaborate smoke screen, the safeguards designed to deceive the public and conceal our existence, has been penetrated by a group of computer nerds and conspiracy theorists?” she asked. “I mean, our best minds have gone to a great deal of effort so that we can operate in secrecy.”
    “This is true,” he said and nodded.
    “And they have failed.”
    “Yes. In fact, the group is doing its best to educate the passersby about the nature of our operations.”
    “Are we trying to do anything about this?” she asked.
    “No,” he replied calmly. Myfanwy sighed. She’d taken an instant liking to Clovis and had decided not to make him sit in the deliberately uncomfortable chairs. She ran her fingers through her hair in agitation.
    “Okay, Clovis—may I call you Clovis?” she asked.
    “Certainly, Rook Thomas,” he said.
    “And in private, you can call me Myfanwy,” she invited, on the spur of the moment.
    “Thank you.”
    “Now, explain to me why we are not bothering to drive off these people.”
    “Myfanwy—”
    “These people who have built what amounts to a tent village outside our service entrance,” she said, rapping her fingers sharply on the coffee table.
    “Yes, but—”
    “These people,” she continued, “who are trumpeting the truth about us to every Kev or Nigel who wanders past.” She took a breath and stared at him with her two black eyes. “Explain that to me, please, Clovis.”
    “Nobody pays any attention to computer nerds and conspiracy theorists,” he replied blandly.
    “Excuse me?” she asked, taken aback.
    “Myfanwy,” he said smoothly. “Nobody pays any attention to protesters. Even environmentalists are routinely ignored, and
their
arguments make sense. Think about what these people are claiming, and you will realize that no sane person walking through the financial district is going to listen to them. They’re not even going to give them pity money.”
    “Are you certain?” she asked. “It seems like a distressing breach of security.”
    “Please,” Clovis said. “These
X-Files
fans are shooting themselves in the foot. Have you seen the way they