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for word to reach her. Even then, I understand they have not heard from her in some time. Unless you know something that we don’t?”
    Len kicked me under the table. “No,” we said in unison.
    “Just the funeral,” I lied.
    “She wasn’t there,” Len added.
    The Governor shifted in his seat. He hated it when we babbled.
    “If she decides to come sort through her inheritance, the Sheriff, your father, and I have agreed to allow Cressyda through the gates due to exigent circumstances.”
    “That’s magnanimous of you,” said Perry, not bothering to hide the contempt in his voice. He and Syd had always butted heads, though the worst was during their last encounter—one of Perry’s rare visits home from his fancy boarding school. This one had something to do with Troy and Syd’s burgeoning preteen romance. Troy had tried hard to mend fences with Perry once Syd left, but no matter the olive branches extended to him, Perry insisted on being a miserable, grudge-holding jerk.
    The Bishop smirked. “The Sheriff and I don’t quite see eye to eye on this issue. But the final say rests with your father.”
    Len gave me a look that said yeah, right .
    The Governor, though, was unsatisfied by our silence. “I thought you’d be showering me with thanks. She was your friend, was she not?”
    “Of course. Thank you,” I said.
    Len cleared his throat. I shook my head at him and his damn principles. He continued anyway. “She deserves to be here, regardless of our friendship.”
    “She doesn’t deserve anything; she’s the enemy,” Perry said, harsh and nasal.
    “Stop,” Troy said, gripping the arms of his chair. “What our father is saying is that he would like some gratitude for defending our friend. I, for one, am thankful.”
    “I bet,” snorted Perry.
    “She was only a child when she left. Still”—the Bishop looked to Len and me—“we must be diligent in protecting what the Spirit has blessed us with.”
    “So if Syd shows up you want Cas and me to babysit her?” Len asked. “Maybe you should babysit her yourself.”
    The peas rolled off my mother’s fork as everyone in the room froze. The Bishop required careful handling, and the whiskey Len had drunk in the parlor had overloosened his tongue.
    “Well, now,” the Bishop said, amused by our discomfort. “If and when Cressyda responds to her uncle’s invitation, doing what I ask is your responsibility as Acolytes, as agents of the Spirit.”
    Len raised his eyebrows. Acolytes were called on to be a lot of different things outside of our duties at services. We corresponded with townspeople about their worries. We attended weddings and funerals to shake hands and say nice things about the future. But standing guard hadn’t ever been a part of our job description.
    “Don’t you think this puts us in a pretty awkward position?” Len asked.
    “I am merely asking you to ensure her motives for returning are pure.”
    “The only thing pure about Cressyda Turner is her ability to be a complete pain in the ass,” Perry said.
    “Perhaps,” the Governor said, his voice sharp with that edge we all hated, “we should continue this conversation later.” We were all too big for him to use his belt, but it wasn’t as if he didn’t have other methods to remind us to stay in line.
    “I think we should have the conversation now,” Perry said. His voice shook. “No one gets in who wasn’t here during the outbreak, right? Why bend the rules?”
    “They let you in after the outbreak,” Len said. “Maybe that wasn’t the best idea, either.”
    Chuckling lightly, as if to clear the air, the Bishop turned to Len. “As your father has pointed out, showing compassion will go a long ways toward proving to the Survivors that their only way forward is through the Spirit.”
    “Well, now,” Mama said. “All this dander up for something that might never even come to pass. I think it’s best if we cross this particular bridge when we come to