Rook

walked through the doorway and turned a corner into the boardroom.
    Myfanwy stopped short. The room was empty except for the person she’d come to accuse.
    “Good evening, Myfanwy.”

39
     
    Dear You,
    The end of me is nigh.
    That was a little gallows humor. I’d like to be able to say that I’ve attained a Zen-like calm. That I have accepted my upcoming obliteration. But the fact is that my time has just about run out. The duck said I had a month at the most (God help me, I’m pointing to a duck as my authority), and that month is almost over. I just can’t stand it.
    I don’t know if you will get this letter. I don’t know if today’s the day it happens. Maybe the door will burst open and I’ll be dragged away, and they’ll find the remains of this letter, and, and… I find myself having these little panic attacks. Every loud noise freaks me out. Every knock at the door, every screech of tires or car horn from outside. My hands shake.
    I know every day has been a gift, and I know I’m supposed to be grateful, but it’s so hard. I hate it. I hate whoever it is who will betray me. I’m coming to the end of my allotted time and I still don’t know why this is going to happen to me. That’s the part that grates the most. I know I’ll lose all my memories, and that’s terrible. But the possibility that I might die without ever knowing the reason is even worse.
    I’ve turned up lots of things in my research. Vendettas. Misappropriation of funds. But what does it have to do with me? Why would anyone want to kill me?
    I’ve learned so much about my colleagues recently. Farrier’s being cut out of her father’s will. Gubbins’s regular communications with a woman in Mongolia. The fact that Grantchester’s wife miscarried three times in three years. I look at all these little factoids and wonder if they are important. What have I missed?
    In the back of my mind, I thought I could prevent this future from coming. I thought that if I found an answer or learned in time not to say or do something, then I could sidestep Lisa’s prophecy. The frantically whispered warnings of that little boy at the Estate would be proven wrong. The duck could be dismissed.
    I didn’t dare stop doing my job, for fear that it would lead to questions being asked and that those questions might be the catalyst for my death. So I worked hard, even as I conducted my private searches. I worked until I almost broke. But in the course of trying to cover every base while still doing my duty as Rook of the Checquy, I ran out of time. I never made it back to Camp Caius, and I never found out who is behind it. I don’t know who will attack me, and who will kill me. I can’t tell you who your enemies are.
    I’m sorry I can’t provide you with all the answers.
    This is the last letter I will write.
    Me
     

40
     
    G ood evening, Bishop Grantchester.”
    Something has gone very, very wrong,
Myfanwy thought, taking in the boardroom with its conspicuous lack of witnesses and non-traitors.
No time to hesitate.
    “Shoot him,” she said to her bodyguards. They unholstered their weapons, and she closed her eyes as two shots rang out on either side of her. When she opened her eyes, Grantchester was still seated, unharmed and looking sardonic.
    “I’ll give you points for quick thinking,” he said. She looked to her bodyguards and saw that they were both lying on the floor, gunshot wounds in the backs of their heads. Behind her, standing several cautious feet away, were the two guards from the door, their guns pointed at her. Myfanwy sliced out with her powers and in unison the gunmen pointed their weapons away from her and shot each other. “
Very
quick thinking,” said Grantchester, and the calm smile on his face became a little more dangerous.
    Myfanwy reached out carefully with her powers. There was a torrent of sensation seething beneath his skin. As she watched, his eyes shifted color, trails of ink wafting across the whites. Darkness covered his irises. She narrowed her eyes and clasped her mind around his body. His reservoirs of chemicals and enzymes were churning, trying to vent themselves. His pores—minuscule fluttering apertures—were not permitted to fulfill their function, thanks to her. Grantchester gaped, and she realized that her reflexes had outdrawn his.
    And yet, Grantchester’s attack system was so intricate, with somany redundancies, that curbing it took all of Myfanwy’s concentration. If she relinquished