Chapter 22: Morgan's Mirror

The hotel was called the St. Regis, which Arthur had chosen for no particular reason except that it was neutral ground — not the Four Seasons where Morgan had held her shareholder dinner, not the Marriott near Camelot's offices where the board had convened twice this year, not anywhere that belonged to either of them. He had texted her directly from his personal number, which she already had, a fact that surprised him less than it might have two weeks ago. The message had said: *No lawyers. No board. I'll buy the coffee.* She had replied forty minutes later with a single address and a time: *Thursday. Eleven.*

He arrived at ten fifty-two and asked for a conference room at the business center desk, and the woman there led him down a corridor that smelled faintly of cut flowers and recirculated air. The room was small and functional — a table for six, four chairs pushed in, a credenza with a coffee station, a window that looked onto the side of another building. Arthur poured a cup he did not particularly want and stood at the window looking at the brick wall opposite and thought about the fact that he had not told anyone he was here. Not Bedivere. Not counsel. Not Merlin, who had submitted his resignation effective thirty days out and who Arthur had not spoken to since he'd walked out of the kitchen at eleven forty-seven on Monday night, an hour and a half after arriving, coat still folded over his arm because he had never sat down comfortably enough to take it off.

He had not told Guinevere either. He wasn't sure she would have advised against it. He wasn't sure he would have listened if she had.