Rook

ultrasound.”
    “She’s beautiful,” I said. “What was the cover story?”
    “Complications,” said Steffi. “It’s a word that encompasses a lot, and thanks to the surgery we provided, the mother survived and will be able to have more children.” We stood in the nursery looking at the future and breathing in the soft smell of babies. It had been a particularly fecund year,and the nine infants represented a strong continuation for the Checquy. And in time, they’d be joined by others, those whose powers hadn’t been revealed in the womb.
    Back in the 1800s, when the theory of evolution was being bandied about, there were some concerns raised that the gifted of the Checquy might be an endangered species. It is rare for a supernatural individual to produce a supernatural child, and while the members of the Checquy were only distantly aware of Mendel and regarded Darwin’s work with a certain amount of skepticism, the principles of breeding were well known to them. A bit of digging in the archives and an ongoing count have shown, however, that the Checquy population remains relatively stable in relation to the British population and, even more interesting, remains relatively stable in relation to the number and level of threats that arise. Mostly. Read into that what you will.
    In any case, it was very pleasant looking at the babies, right up until one of them stirred and began squalling. A nurse came in, gently scooped the little Arab girl up, and carried her over to a rocking chair. She briskly undid her shirt and put the child to her breast. Cheeks flaming, I jerked my head away and was surprised to see Eliza doing the same thing. She had so many bodies, I wouldn’t have thought she’d be prudish. At that moment, her phone rang. She answered, and listened intently.
    “Right,” she said. “I understand. Stay on the line.” Eliza put the phone against her chest, and turned to us. “Steffi, something has come up—is there a room where I can take this call?”
    “Of course,” said Steffi, ushering her out of the nursery and into an empty classroom.
    “Anything I can help with?” I asked her as she left.
    “No, it’s something that really only I can handle,” said Eliza. “Go on with the tour, and I’ll catch up.”
    “We’re heading to the san next,” said Steffi. “If we finish there before you finish here, just give Miffy a call.” We left Eliza and walked down the hallway. “Well, that’s extremely convenient,” she remarked. “You and I can have a nice wander without her.” And we entered the san.
    They say that smell is the sense most closely linked to memory. I can’t confirm that, but if you ever happen to be at the Estate, stop by the san, open the door, take a big breath in through your nostrils, and see what
happens. I tell you this because, although I had never before been to the nursery, I was intimately acquainted with the sanatorium. In the course of my time at the Estate, I had been taken there with multiple bouts of flu, night terrors, crying hysterics, skinned knees, nervous diarrhea, stress-induced vomiting, anxiety-based nosebleeds, sprained ankles, and exposure to the elements after getting lost on a camping trip; in one memorable incident, I was decanted there after being dredged from the bottom of the pool half drowned. So I felt a trifle uncomfortable as I walked in.
    One of the medical staff immediately grabbed Steffi to discuss the recovery of a child who’d injured his spinnerets on the obstacle course, leaving me to stand awkwardly by myself. The sick children and I regarded each other with a certain amount of wariness. They were there for a variety of things, ranging from sports injuries to having multiple appendices removed to tonsillitis to a bad case of laminitis.
    They knew who I was, of course, and although they had been educated about the awesome authority of a Rook, and although the potential of my supernatural gifts was legend, I was sure that humiliating anecdotes of my youth had been handed down in the dormitory from student to student. I was slightly heartened, however, to see them quail a little under my gaze. Finally, having stood silently for a few minutes, I felt compelled to go over to the child who was regarding me with the widest eyes.
    He was Martin Heyer, a nine-year-old whose touch could literally curdle one’s blood. He was a darling little thing with dirty blond hair and was wearing the child-size latex gloves the Checquy gives