irate ministers (Prime and otherwise) and members of my own organization. Though the whole incident had taken only half an hour and the lights had been cut off for just fifteen minutes, cleaning up the aftermath took more than an hour and a half. Even as I mouthed platitudes, I was watching three television sets, waiting anxiously for footage.
“Ingrid,” I said, after putting the phone down on Bishop Grantchester, one of my immediate superiors, “call Caspar Dragoslevic and find out what the hell we’re going to tell the public.” I opened a drawer in my desk and took out some aspirin. The phone buzzed, and I flinched away from the sound.
“Rook Thomas here.”
“It’s Caspar.”
“And where are we?” I asked wearily.
“I have exceptionally good news, Rook Thomas,” said Dragoslevic. “Thanks to the lack of electricity and the number of people trying to get out of the city, the media crews weren’t able to get to the epicenter of the event. They were only on the outskirts, and it turns out that cameras couldn’t record the constructs—the ectoplasm didn’t register on film or digital.”
“Thank God.” I sighed. “Have you come up with a plausible story?”
“We have some very nice things that aren’t particularly specific having to do with escaped animals from a cargo ship and the power outage and resultant looting,” he said.
“Sounds convoluted. How much do I need to worry about people reporting herds of ghost animals?” I asked.
“It’s the business district at six in the evening in the middle of the week, so nowhere near as bad as it could have been. But there were still quite a few. They’ll accept the news stories’ explanation, especially once we release a few animals out there and have them caught on television,” said Caspar. He’d worked in television for twenty-three years before I’d headhunted him, and I had confidence in his ability to gauge what humanity would accept. I wanted to ask what kind of animals and where he was going to get them, but I decided my life would be easier without that knowledge.
“Great, well… just try not to go overboard,” I said. “It’s not going to look good to my bosses if we kill more members of the public by releasing water buffalo among them,” I told him, and I hung up on the evening.
Now I am exhausted, but the necessity of being prepared for you combined with the work habits instilled in me at school mean that I am still in the office at eleven at night. The Liars’ explanation went out hours ago and has been broadcast, and though there will inevitably be questions and a difficult cleanup, disaster has largely been averted yet again. But still I sit at my desk, doing research into the past to prepare for your future.
I am combing through old files, looking for something—the merest hint of impropriety—to help me figure out who is trying to destroy me, but so far, I haven’t had much luck. The one good thing is that when people are brought up within the Checquy, pretty much everything they’ve ever done is written down in their files. This is going to call for old-fashioned detectivework, for which I have neither the time nor the inclination. It’s not like I can just drop everything and tail these people around, and I worry that I’m running out of time.
I keep having these embarrassing little episodes where I break down crying. Being a Rook is an exhausting job as it is, and this threat has not made my life any easier. Fortunately, these crying jags usually happen in the office, and I can just go up to the residence and have a little bawl. Then I wash my face and go back to the desk. My secretary comes in with another appointment or a stack of files, and I wonder if she’s noticed.
I’m glad I have these letters to write. At least I can confess my fears to somebody, even if we will never meet and you won’t find out what I’ve been through until after the fact.
Exhaustedly yours,
Me
6
T he room
“Ingrid,” I said, after putting the phone down on Bishop Grantchester, one of my immediate superiors, “call Caspar Dragoslevic and find out what the hell we’re going to tell the public.” I opened a drawer in my desk and took out some aspirin. The phone buzzed, and I flinched away from the sound.
“Rook Thomas here.”
“It’s Caspar.”
“And where are we?” I asked wearily.
“I have exceptionally good news, Rook Thomas,” said Dragoslevic. “Thanks to the lack of electricity and the number of people trying to get out of the city, the media crews weren’t able to get to the epicenter of the event. They were only on the outskirts, and it turns out that cameras couldn’t record the constructs—the ectoplasm didn’t register on film or digital.”
“Thank God.” I sighed. “Have you come up with a plausible story?”
“We have some very nice things that aren’t particularly specific having to do with escaped animals from a cargo ship and the power outage and resultant looting,” he said.
“Sounds convoluted. How much do I need to worry about people reporting herds of ghost animals?” I asked.
“It’s the business district at six in the evening in the middle of the week, so nowhere near as bad as it could have been. But there were still quite a few. They’ll accept the news stories’ explanation, especially once we release a few animals out there and have them caught on television,” said Caspar. He’d worked in television for twenty-three years before I’d headhunted him, and I had confidence in his ability to gauge what humanity would accept. I wanted to ask what kind of animals and where he was going to get them, but I decided my life would be easier without that knowledge.
“Great, well… just try not to go overboard,” I said. “It’s not going to look good to my bosses if we kill more members of the public by releasing water buffalo among them,” I told him, and I hung up on the evening.
Now I am exhausted, but the necessity of being prepared for you combined with the work habits instilled in me at school mean that I am still in the office at eleven at night. The Liars’ explanation went out hours ago and has been broadcast, and though there will inevitably be questions and a difficult cleanup, disaster has largely been averted yet again. But still I sit at my desk, doing research into the past to prepare for your future.
I am combing through old files, looking for something—the merest hint of impropriety—to help me figure out who is trying to destroy me, but so far, I haven’t had much luck. The one good thing is that when people are brought up within the Checquy, pretty much everything they’ve ever done is written down in their files. This is going to call for old-fashioned detectivework, for which I have neither the time nor the inclination. It’s not like I can just drop everything and tail these people around, and I worry that I’m running out of time.
I keep having these embarrassing little episodes where I break down crying. Being a Rook is an exhausting job as it is, and this threat has not made my life any easier. Fortunately, these crying jags usually happen in the office, and I can just go up to the residence and have a little bawl. Then I wash my face and go back to the desk. My secretary comes in with another appointment or a stack of files, and I wonder if she’s noticed.
I’m glad I have these letters to write. At least I can confess my fears to somebody, even if we will never meet and you won’t find out what I’ve been through until after the fact.
Exhaustedly yours,
Me
6
T he room
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