Heretics book 3 - The Apocryphile Press

Bishop Hammet tugged at his clerical collar in an attempt
to loosen it. Then he poured himself a glass of water. After a
leisurely sip or two, he set the glass down and responded
cautiously. “A couple of months ago, one of our volunteers
uncovered the bulletin board conversations. The
photos...sort of fell into my lap, very recently.”
“Bishop Hammet,” Bishop Tom seethed, “didn’t it occur
to you that perhaps someone is out to get the friars? That
you are most likely being used? That perhaps, we all are?”
A murmur unsettled the room and the Presiding Bishop
rose, looking at his watch. “As fascinated as I am personally
with Bishop Hammet’s answers to these questions, I promised
this Synod we would not run over, and I mean to keep
that promise. We will continue this discussion after completing
our agenda tomorrow. Let us pray....”
Bishop Tom heard not a word of the prayer. He felt proud
of having stood up to Hammet, whom he considered an
oafish bully. But he knew the fight had not been won. It had,
perhaps, only begun.
:: 42 ::
THE KINGDOM :: 205
The fog rolled in early, obscuring the late afternoon light
as the last of the magicians arrived. Larch watched the lower
Haight from the window of the Lodge, internalizing the
gathering gloom of the approaching dusk.
“I brought snacks,” said Frater Parsons, clearing the
stairs. He was a tall and bony man, barely thirty, but already
balding, with thin wisps of blond hair listing where they
would as he moved. He set a paper grocery bag on the coffee
table, and claimed the last seat. Larch took one of the
overstuffed chairs, leaving Frater Charybdis scowling from