The Rook (The Checquy Files, #1)

by Daniel O'Malley

Thomas seems like a decent sort, but she’s a glorified paper pusher, she thought ruefully. Even if she does work for a paranormal version of the MI5, she’s probably dealing with the boring bits. “Heavens! Some kind of werewolf is eating the Queen! Fetch some forms and ask her to fill them out in triplicate, and then perhaps we can attend to her needs at some point during the next quarter.” Snorting to herself, Myfanwy opened the binder and read the instructions Thomas had left for getting ready for the office.

“Um, I’m sorry to interrupt, but can I get some cream and sugar in this coffee, please?” Her secretary looked at her blankly. “I’ve decided to change the way I take it.” Myfanwy felt the need to explain the abrupt change in a habit that (for all she knew) had been established for years. “I’m doing that because…” Why? Because I want to put on weight? Because I’ve been told I need more sugar in my diet? “… because I’ve been sleeping badly. And so I wish to dilute the caffeine. But not to cut it out entirely. Because of the headaches.” Ingrid looked at her a little strangely, for which Myfanwy couldn’t blame her at all, but took the coffee and went to modify it. God, who knew it would be so horrendously complicated impersonating oneself? she thought, and opened up Myfanwy’s folder.

“Oh, that would be lovely. Could you please get me a coffee? Ingrid, what would you like?” Both her secretary and the butler looked nonplussed, but eventually an arrangement was entered into whereby Ingrid also would receive a cup of coffee. Judging from the frozen expressions, Myfanwy realized that in the Checquy the people in purple were there to do the waiting, not to be waited on.

“Indeed,” Myfanwy answered, staring at Perry fixedly. “Thank heavens we have you here to tell us when your superiors should be listened to and when they should be ignored.” She could see the lines of his mind traced out around his body and resisted the urge to cut his legs out from under him. Instead, she watched his cheeks flush and his eyes bulge. “I must confess, Perry, I don’t recall that particular responsibility listed as part of your office, but perhaps it is just a service you provide to the community for free.” The room’s focus was him now, and he was so red he would have stopped traffic.

At the end of breakfast, the sun was just beginning to rise. I found out later that the rooster crowing that woke us was a recording, presumably of some rooster whose crow had been identified as the most archetypal and whose voice would strike a primitive part of our brains and kick-start them just as it would have our ancestors’.

The carpet didn’t shag and very likely never had.

Surrounded by sour-faced fanatics, Swansea was obliged to put on a brilliant performance; if his neighbors had discovered any of the records concealed in his house, he would have undoubtedly been hanged. Because of his public good works and seemingly burning piety, however, he was a local hero, regarded with a greater reverence than even the community elders. No man dressed more soberly or was quicker to condemn laxness on the part of others. The poor man must have been in hell.

“Standard operating procedure,” contributed Myfanwy. “Absolutely,” said Poppat, seeming to relax after hearing the magical incantation.

“No plant would have done such a spectacularly obvious job of not being Rook Thomas. Especially since—let’s face it—she wasn’t that difficult to impersonate. All one would need to do is keep one’s head down and look meek. I was fairly sure within the first four hours of your appearance.