Rook

down. “Butterfingers.”
    “Not to fret,” she said easily, smiling at him. They proceeded along, and she became absorbed in the frantic energy of his spine, the messages humming back and forth between his brain and the rest of him. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
    “Rook Thomas?” said a distant voice.
    “Hm?”
    “Uh, we’re here,” said the fat Retainer, warily proffering her possessions. She pulled her thoughts back into herself and took the case and binder.
    “Sorry about that,” she said.
I’ll have to be more careful,
she thought.
I’m getting better, though
. Every time she used her powers on someone, she gained a greater understanding of how things worked, intuitively sensing connections.
    The Retainer opened the door, and she stepped through into the boardroom, where she was a little taken aback. With all the talk of the Court, and the impressiveness of her own office, she’d been expecting something pretty amazing. She’d wondered if it would be traditional, with lots of polished wood, or high-tech, with glass and metal. She hadn’t been anticipating a rather stark room that needed a fresh coat of paint. A battered-looking table sat in the center, and two men were on each side of it. Two of the four were Gestalt. The twins.
    “Rook Thomas,” said one of the men who was not Gestalt, rising to greet her. He was tall and slim, in his fifties, and extremely handsome. His wavy black hair was making a slight retreat at the temples, but his blue-gray eyes were mesmerizing. Was it her imagination, or were there faint tendrils of black smoke coiling off his shoulders? He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t quite place him.
    “Good evening,” she said, flashing him a faint smile. Despite the difference in ages, Myfanwy found herself warming under his ardent gaze, and she blushed slightly when he took her hand. “I don’t suppose you’d care to tell us why the meeting has been brought forward?”
    “Um, well, I think we should wait until everyone is here,” Myfanwy said.
    “Fair enough,” he said, smiling. “And how is the residence? Does the decor continue to delight?” he asked.
Oh! Ho ho ho! This is Conrad Grantchester, the man from the portrait, the man behind the circular bed,
Myfanwy realized and then again flushed at the image this had conjured up.
I bet that round mattress got quite a bit of use,
she thought, and she resolved not to sleep on it if she could possibly help it.
    “Well, Bishop Grantchester, the decor continues to continue,” Myfanwy said politely, restraining an unladylike snort. She turned her attention to the other stranger in the room, who had also risen and was waiting to greet her. He had a full head of thick, curly brown hair, no eyebrows, and a large walrus-style mustache. He was not a particularly attractive man, but his eyes were kind.
    “Rook Thomas, it’s good to see you,” he said, his smile apparentlygenuine. She liked him immediately. “What on earth happened to your eyes?”
    “Muggers, of all things,” she replied, trying desperately to figure out who he was. “Two men jumped me and tried to take my purse.”
    “Good God!” he exclaimed with concern. “Are you all right?”
    “Oh, yeah,” said Myfanwy. “You know, whoever takes one of us on is going to regret it.”
    “Well, of course,” said the man. “I know several people who absolutely pray for the chance to smite some evildoers. One of my accountants actually hangs around in rough areas, hoping to get attacked. He’s always disappointed, poor chap. I suppose no one is going to try and mug a man who’s built like the Colossus of Rhodes,” he mused, absently lifting one leg off the floor, and curling it up into the small of his back.
    “Yes, anyway, you look like you’re… well,” she commented, trying not to let her eyes bug out of her head. He had rocked back on his other leg and ended up balancing on his heel. “Anything, uh, new happening in your office?” Fortunately, further conversation was precluded by the arrival of Farrier. She was hanging on the arm of a tall, gruff-looking old gentleman, and everybody bowed his or her head respectfully.
Sir Henry Wattleman,
Myfanwy surmised. The Lord and Lady greeted everyone by name, which helped Myfanwy figure out that the curly-headed contortionist was Heretic Gubbins, one of the two Chevaliers.
    When the Lord and Lady greeted Myfanwy, she gave her most charming smile and a tiny curtsy, which