"Sorry," she says. She's got on a giant Caliburn hoodie over these cute little pajama shorts I didn't know she even owned, plus some lumpy, thick wool socks that are two slightly different shades of gray.
Not exactly sexy nightwear. And the only door ajar on this landing is hers.
So she was sleeping alone, too.
"You're good," I murmur. "Ladies first."
I gesture for her to proceed, and she nods, slips down the stairs and away from me. I just stand, watching.
God. I can't believe we almost lost her.
I can't believe they almostkilledher.
And as I'm standing there, a sickening thought creeps into my mind.
St. Ignaty's wanted her dead. For their Archmandrite, for the land, for the glory of Mother Russia or whatever.
So…what do the White Brothers want?
I shiver, actually fucking shiver in a way that has nothing to do with the drafty second floor of Camlann House.
Here I was thinking that Luther was just going to rip her away from us and turn her over to the Consistory for them to, I don't know, study, or something? I was so concerned with thetaking her awaypart that I barely thought about thedoing something to herpart.
But now that I've thought of it, I can't ignore it. And I know one thing for sure.
They can't know. Theycan'tknow, they can't find out, not about any of it. About her, about Luther, about anything even remotely out of the ordinary.
They can't know, and I will make sure they never find out.
Suddenly buzzing with energy, I leap up the stairs to my bedroom two at a time and skid into my desk chair at an angle. I rummage around for a good piece of stationery paper and one of those fountain pens.
Funny skill I have, penmanship. Maybe it comes from forging so many letters and excuse notes when I was a kid. Hell, it's probably half the reason I got a TA job in art history. And my French is good enough, with a little Google Translate assistance on my phone.
I snap on my desk lamp, set my jaw, and put the pen to paper.
Chers Monsieurs Frères, I start.My son and I send our well wishes from Caliburn.
FOUR
CALLAHAN
I don't knowwhat to do with myself. I'm not sure any of us do. We can't even practice bouting--no weapons--and no one seems to feel like doing conditioning or drills. I did all my homework before we left for St. Ignaty's. Classes don't start again until tomorrow. It's too cold to swim in the lake and I don't feel like going to the field house and maybe seeing other students in the pool.
So that's how I end up in the dim quiet of the parlor, surrounded by nothing but oil paintings and wood paneling, readingThe Michelangelo Matrix.
I got the paperback on our way home, when we were killing time at the airport in London and I couldn't sit still any longer. It's actually kind of good, I think. I mean, the writing's probably not that great, but I don't really read a lot for fun to know good writing from bad. I'm pretty sure Gwenna was just reading it as a joke. But the story's interesting enough. And I like to think that she and I could have something to talk about when things get back to normal.
If they ever get back to normal, I mean.
A few feet from where I'm sitting on the couch, the logs snap in the fireplace grate, and I jump a little.
"Good book?"
I jump again, almost drop it in my lap. It's Lanz, leaning in the doorframe.
"I don't know," I say quickly, lowering it.
He looks...
