The Archived

A dull ache has formed behind my eyes, and I’ve lost hope of finding any useful memory intact, but I keep searching. I have to. Because every time I stop moving, the thought of losing Ben—really losing him—catches up, the pain catches up, the thought of kissing Owen—of using a History for his touch—catches up. So I keep moving.

I start searching for more of Regina’s story. I put my ring on, hoping to dull the headache, and search the old-fashioned way, thankful for the distraction. I check table drawers and shelves, even though sixty years have passed, and the chances of finding anything are slim. I search for hidden compartments in the study, and take down half the books to check behind them. I remember Owen saying something about garden cracks. I know paper would never last out here, but I still search the mossy stones by feel in the dark, grateful for the quiet predawn air.

The sun is rising as I look behind the counters and around the old equipment in the coffee shop, careful not to touch the half-painted walls. And just as I’m about to abandon the search, my eyes drift to the sheeting thrown over the rose pattern in the floor to keep it safe. In garden cracks and under tiles, Owen said. It’s a long shot, but I kneel and pull aside the plastic tarp. The rose beneath is as wide as my arm span, each inlaid marble petal piece the size of my palm. I brush my hand back and forth across the rust-colored pattern. Near the center, I feel the subtle shift of stones beneath my touch. One of the petals is loose.

My heart skips as I get my fingers under the lip of the petal. It lifts. The hiding place is little more than a hole, the walls of which are lined with white cloth. And there, folded and weighted down by a narrow metal bar, is another piece of Regina’s story.

The paper is yellowing but intact, protected by the hidden chamber, and I lift it to the morning light.

The red stones shifted and became steps, a great flight of stairs that led the hero up and up. And the hero climbed.

The pieces are out of order. The last fragment spoke of facing gods and monsters at the top of something. This one clearly goes before. But what comes after?

My attention shifts to the small bar that had held the note in place. It’s roughly the size of a pencil but half the length, one end tapering just like a graphite point. A groove has been cut from the blunt end down, and it’s made of the same metal as the ring that held the first note.

For one horrible, bitter moment, I consider putting the pieces back, leaving them buried. It seems so unfair that Owen should have pieces of Regina when I can have none of Ben.

But as cruel as it is that Ben slipped when Owen didn’t, it isn’t Owen’s fault. He’s the History, and I’m the Keeper. He couldn’t have known what would happen, and I’m the one who chose to wake my brother.

The sun is up now. The morning of my trial. I slip both the paper and the bar into my pocket and make my way upstairs.

Dad is already up, and I tell him I went ru

And then I go.

I cut through the Narrows, and the memory of last night sweeps over me with the humid air and the far-off sounds. The memory of quiet. And as panic eats through me, I wish I could disappear again. I can’t. But there’s something I should do.

I find the alcove, and Owen in it, and press the note and the small iron bar into his hands, staying only long enough to steal a kiss and a moment of quiet. The peace dissolves into fear as I reach the Archive door and step through.

I don’t know what I expected—a row of Librarians waiting, ready to strip me of my key and my ring? Someone named Agatha waiting to judge me unfit, to carve my job right out of my life, taking my identity with it? A tribunal? A lynch mob?

I certainly don’t expect Lisa to look up from her desk, over her green horn-rimmed glasses, and ask me what I want.

“Is Roland here?” I ask unsteadily.

She goes back to her work. “He said you’d stop by.”

I shift my weight. “Is that all he said?”

“Said to send you in.” Lisa straightens. “Is everything all right, Miss Bishop?”

The antechamber is quiet, but my heart is slamming in my chest so loudly, I think she’ll hear. I swallow and force myself to nod. She hasn’t been told. Just then, Elliot rushes in, and I stiffen, thinking he’s come to tell her, come to collect me; but when he leans over her, he says only, “Three, four, six, ten through fourteen.”

Lisa lets out a tight breath. “All right. Make sure they’re blacked out.”

I frown. What kind of technical difficulty is this?

Elliot retreats, and Lisa looks at me again, as if she’d forgotten I was there.

“Firsts,” she says, meaning first wing, first hall, first room. “Can you show yourself?”

“I think I can handle it.”

She nods and throws open several massive ledgers on the desk. I step past her into the atrium. Looking up at the vaulted ceiling of stone and colored glass, I wonder if I’ll ever feel at peace here again. I wonder if I’ll have the chance.

Something in the distance rumbles, followed shortly by an aftershock of sound. Startled, I scan the stacks and spot Patrick on the far side of the atrium, and when he hears the noise, he vanishes down the nearest wing, pulling the doors closed behind him. I pass Carmen standing by a row of stacks before the first hall. She gives me a small nod.

“Miss Bishop,” she says. “What brings you back so soon?”

For a moment, I just stare at her. I feel like my crimes are written on my face, but there’s nothing in her voice to suggest she knows. Did Roland really say nothing?

“Just here to talk to Roland,” I say at last, managing only a ghost of calm. She waves me on, and I turn down the first wing, then the first hall, and stop at the first door. It’s closed, a heavy, glassless thing, and I press my fingertips against it and summon the courage to go in.

When I do, two pairs of eyes meet mine: one gray and quite stern; the other brown and rimmed with black.

Wesley perches on a table in the middle of the room.

“I believe you two know each other,” says Roland.

I consider lying, based on the gut sense that Keepers are supposed to work alone, to exist alone. But Wes nods.

“Hey, Mac,” he says.

“What’s he doing here?” I ask.

Roland steps up. “Mr. Ayers will be assisting you in your territorial duties.”

I turn to him. “You gave me a babysitter?”

“Hey, now,” says Wes, hopping down from the table. “I prefer the term partner.”

I frown. “But only Crew are partnered.”

“I am making an exception,” Roland says.

“Come on, Mac,” says Wes, “it will be fun.”

My mind flicks to Owen, waiting in the dark of the Narrows, but I force the image back. “Roland, what’s this about?”

“You’ve noticed an uptick in your numbers.”

I nod. “And ages. Lisa and Patrick both said there was some minor technical difficulty.”

Roland crosses his arms. “It’s called a disruption.”

“A disruption, I take it, is worse than a minor technical difficulty.”

“Have you noticed how quiet the Archive is kept? Do you know why that is?”

“Because Histories wake up,” says Wesley.