Rook

the Estate but found my attention wandering. I kept thinking about the homeless guy. He’d obviously had someproblems, of which being homeless was only one, and I couldn’t be certain that he’d actually said
Rook.
It sounded more like
Ruck
or possibly even
Rewck.
It could very well have been that he’d wanted to tell some guy named Rick about the memory-licking thing. In any case, it soon became abundantly clear that I was not going to make much progress with my files, and so I contented myself by looking out the window and watching the landscape glide by.
    The Estate is lovely. It’s located on an island off the northeast coast of England. Up until the 1950s, young inductees into the Checquy were trained under a rotating master-apprentice scheme. Wattleman was instructed under this old system. Every year he was placed with a new mentor, who would train him in a variety of disciplines. The teacher would take him into his home and instruct him in everything from diplomacy to a pointed lack thereof. Of course, the Checquy also tried to categorize and study different powers, but our powers somewhat baffle scientists even now, so you can imagine how unsuccessful their studies were in previous decades.
    After World War II, however, one of the Bishops did a little evaluating. The bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki had brought home like nothing else just how far science had come. For the first time, a man-made device had surpassed the highest-known power level of any operative in the history of the Checquy. Everyone was nervous about that, but people were also curious about what else science could do. Could it provide answers about the Checquy operatives and their powers? Perhaps a more rigorous testing regimen was needed.
    Also, it had become evident that not every Checquy mentor was equipped to be a teacher. Agents were being produced who exhibited deficiencies in certain areas. So, Bishop Bastin set about designing a curriculum in the finest tradition of the public service (preternatural or otherwise): he put together a committee.
    Unlike most committees, however, this one was designed to get things done. It was composed of dons and professors from universities, generals and sergeants from the armed forces, and a variety of scientists (even a few folks with German accents and some very original ideas who had abruptly found themselves without homes). As a result, we got the Estate.
    So, back to this trip. Eliza and I soon stopped at a tiny little village andgot on the Checquy boat that ferries us across to Kirrin Island, where the school is. We disembarked at the dock and were met by Steffi Blümen, who shook both our hands but gave me a kiss and observed that Eliza had put on weight (yes!) and looked tired (double yes! If this makes me a bitch, so be it).
    We walked up to the school, which is a collection of handsome brick buildings with red roofs, gardens, shooting ranges, gymnasiums, and all sorts of carefully sculpted terrain suitable for specialized training. It has cliffs, a specially designed bog, and large glasshouses with mini-jungles and rain forests. I saw the dormitory I’d lived in and the heavily buttressed medical center in which I’d undergone a deluge of tests every month.
    We walked around the classrooms and quietly sat in on some classes, and the students looked at us out of the corners of their eyes. I thanked my lucky stars that this wasn’t one of the visits where we had to meet with any students, and from Eliza’s weary step, I gathered she was thanking hers too.
    “You look a little stressed, Rook Gestalt,” said Steffi. “Perhaps we should go somewhere a bit more calm.” She opened a door and ushered us into a softly lit room.
    I looked around with interest because the room contained the most precious resources of the Checquy: nine babies, drawn from all parts of the United Kingdom. I’d reviewed their files the previous evening and could name each of them. Two little boys of Indian descent. An African girl. Three tiny Anglo-Saxons. Two Arab-Britons. And a perfect little Japanese girl who had delicate silver antlers spiraling out from her temples.
    “Shuri Tsukahara,” I murmured. “That must have been a nightmarish birth.”
    “She was a cesarean, of course,” said Steffi. “Performed by Checquy surgeons in Checquy facilities as soon as was safe for both mother and daughter. We’d been making preparations and tracking her progress since the very first