Rook

to youngsters who haven’t quite gained control of their touch-based powers. I had been forced to wear them for a few weeks at the beginning of my time at the Estate. I mentally reviewed Martin’s files and recalled that he enjoyed soccer and science and was being fast-tracked toward research. And apparently he had pneumonia.
    “Hullo,” I said hesitantly. “My name is—”
    “I know, you’re Rook Myfanwy,” he wheezed. “I had a dream about you last night.”
    “Oh, yeah?” I asked. “What did you dream?”
    “I dreamed that a member of the Court gave the order,” he whispered, “and then a man took your memories.” He stared at me in terror, and I stared back at him, completely stunned.
    “What?” I whispered.
    “You won’t know who you are,” he said, beginning to draw in deep shuddering breaths. His pupils were enormous, and his eyes were glassy as hell. I noticed with alarm that he was starting to turn faintly blue. My mobile rang, and I looked around. The other children, far from being concerned at their compatriot’s apparent impending respiratory failure, had turned their attention to their books, electronic music thingies, and handheld computer games. “I tried to tell you,” he whispered, “but you didn’t know who you were. You just stood there, with black eyes.”
    A nurse approached. “Ooh, my darling, are we having some trouble?” she asked the gasping child. She easily unlooped a clear plastic mask from a stand by the bed and held it to his mouth. “All right, sweetie, big deep breaths.” His eyes were huge over the mask.
    My phone was still ringing in my bag.
    “This is Rook Thomas,” I said. My mind was whirling, and I was racking my memory, trying to recall if young Martin’s files had mentioned anything about propensities for future-telling.
    The call was from the chief lawyer at the Rookery, and I received a briefing on a minor procedural issue. I replied to every statement by nodding absently, which must have unsettled him somewhat, since it was a telephone conversation.
    But I was having a quiet freak-out. You see, I was beginning to entertain the possibility that young Martin and the homeless guy were onto something. In fact, I’d become quite convinced of it. Both of them seemed so intensely certain, and their predictions matched. Not to mention there was little chance that they’d collaborated.
    I stumbled through the rest of the tour without really absorbing anything. While thunder crashed overhead, I was shown the new indoor target ranges and inspected the boundary guards. I was introduced to the new surgeons, and I picked up Eliza Gestalt. All these events were a distant blur. We got on the boat, and the trip back to the mainland was stormy and rough. Lightning forked overhead as night fell. It rained most of the way back to London, and we passed the time in complete silence.
    “Everything that makes you who you are.” That’s what the homeless man had said to me, and that’s what kept repeating in my head. “Gone forever.”
    Everything that makes me who I am. My memories. My personality. My soul. Gone forever. Obliterated. That’s worse than dying.
    I asked the driver to stop and let me out before we got to the Rookery—we were in the East End. I got out, and the car drove away. That was when I lost it. Standing there on the dark street, I began to cry. For half an hour I stood there, weeping, weeping, weeping.
    When I finally ran out of tears, I started walking. Something about the darkness and the streets appealed to me. My denial and sorrow were giving way to numbness. I wandered into the most disreputable pub I could find and then realized that I couldn’t think of the name of any cocktails. Finally, I asked the man to make me something that would kill the pain and not taste like arse. He eyed me thoughtfully and then produced a drink with an alarming number of layers. I accepted it dully, took a long sip through a bendy straw, and swung around to face the room, my legs dangling from the stool.
    It was kind of interesting to watch normal people interacting. They sat and had conversations, speaking much more loudly than Checquy people did. They didn’t automatically scan the room for threats, and hardly any of them had taken seats that allowed good visuals of the entrances. They hadn’t all situated themselves in positions that would permit them to control important lines of fire. And I was willing to bet that none of them had ordered