Books Not Letters
“It is not the same thing as hearing it from you,” Michael said. “It will be very difficult not to gloat over what I know of your future when you get pompous, Seven. Somehow I will manage that, too.” Time played tricks on us during our last days at Sept-Tours, first dragging, then accelerating without warning. On Christmas Eve, Seven went down to the church for Mass along with most of the household. I remained in the château and found Michael in his office on the other side of the great hall. He was, as ever, writing letters. I knocked on the door. It was a formality, since he had no doubt been tracking my approach since I’d left Seven’s tower, but it didn’t seem right to barge in uninvited. “Introite.” It was the same command he’d issued when I’d first arrived, but it sounded so much l
- Writer
