Rook

great,” said Myfanwy with a smile. “A brother. A family. A job. A rabbit. It’s a pretty good life I lucked into, really.”
    “Yeah, now all you need is a boyfriend,” said Shantay dryly.
    “Ms. Thomas, did you want this business card?” asked Val, coming in carrying a basketful of laundry. “It says ‘Call me if you fancy that drink’ on the back.”
    “Where did it come from?” asked Myfanwy.
    “I found it in the pocket of this
heavily
stained men’s business shirt,” sniffed Val.

43
     
    Dear You,
    I thought that I would scribble you one final note before I took my last set of letters to the bank in the morning. It’s late now, and I am at home, sitting on my couch, with my rabbit nestled against my feet. It’s snowing outside, but there’s a fire going, and it’s cozy in here. It’s safe and warm, and I’m finding it hard to stay awake. But I want to write these things down—for you and for me.
    It’s been a long day with no startling revelations or bizarre occurrences (which is kind of bizarre in itself). I had no time to do any detective work—just the day-to-day duties of being me. During my lunch hour, I went to the Rookery infirmary and had a quick checkup. I want to leave you a relatively fit body to inherit.
    I want to leave you with as much as I possibly can.
    It’s so easy to despair. I know that I have no choice in what’s coming, and for me it’s not a matter of faith or fatalism. It’s simply knowledge. I guess you could say this means there’s no free will, but in writing these letters, I like to think that I’m making my own choices. And besides, free will has never been something I had too much of in this life. I’m grateful for whatever I can get.
    In the back of my mind, there’s the knowledge that you might choose the other option, use the other key, and go off to build your own life. I couldn’t blame you if you did. Of course, it means that all the work I’m doing now, all the preparations and letters, are mostly for nothing. But they’re there for you if you want them.
    In the end, no matter what choice you make, I hope you can be happy. I don’t know what kind of person you are or what you’ll do, but I’ve writtendozens of letters to you, and I find myself caring desperately. You don’t exist yet, but you’re my sister (identical!). You’re my daughter. You’re my family. Maybe you’ll be Myfanwy Thomas, or maybe you’ll pick yourself a new name and never think of me. But no matter what life you choose, know that I think of you and pray that everything works out for you and that you have the very best life you can.
    Love, always,
    Me
     

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
     
    Oh boy. There are so many people to thank. And, inevitably, I will forget someone.
    Firstly, my early readers, compassionate and insightful, who consented to go through
The Rook
when it had a different name, then gave thoughtful and merciful feedback.
    The staff of the Foundry, who have been so helpful and welcoming. Cecilia Campbell-Westlind, Kendra Jenkins, and Hannah Gordon, especially, endured several thousand ludicrous questions from me, and still resisted the urge to have me assassinated.
    My copyeditor, the eagle-eyed yet astoundingly tactful Tracy Roe, who gently pointed out that I have been misusing hyphens my entire life.
    Stéphanie Abou, foreign-rights agent and international woman of mystery.
    Jerry Kalajian, my ambassador to the West Coast.
    My editrix, the glorious Asya Muchnick, whose work and belief were invaluable and who made this story so much better. She was willing to engage in long and entertaining debates about the most incidental of points, such as what color of fungus was funnier. And her colleagues at Little, Brown, whose efforts have made all the difference.
    The incomparable Mollie Glick, queen of agents, she of the diplomatic tongue and the razor mind. I am so fortunate to have a friend as enthusiastic, encouraging, and wise as she.
    My dad, Bill O’Malley, the font of all knowledge, who was willing to answer spontaneous questions about a multitude of topics, ranging from the etiquette of government reports to how best to dispose of a duck that can tell the future.
    And finally, my mom, Jeanne O’Malley, who really made it all happen. She comforted me from the other side of the planet when I called, utterly distraught because my aging computer had eaten the first two hundred pages of this novel. She congratulated me twenty-four hours later when I found a