The Unbound

Then Dad walks in.

“What happened?” he asks, dropping his briefcase. It’s almost fu

“Biking accident,” I repeat. “I’m fine.”

“And the bike?” he asks.

“The bike’s fine, too.”

“I’d better check it out,” he says, turning toward the door.

“Dad, I said it’s fine.”

“No offense, Mac, but you don’t know much about bikes, and—”

“Leave it,” I snap, and Mom looks up from her first aid kit long enough to give me a warning look. I close my eyes and swallow. “The paint might be nicked in a couple places”—I had the sense to scuff it up on the sidewalk—“but it’ll live to ride another day. I took the worst of it,” I say, displaying my hands.

For once, Dad’s not having it. He crosses his arms. “Explain to me the physics of this biking accident.”

And doubt, Da said, is like a current you have to swim against.

“Peter,” starts Mom, but he puts up a hand to stop her.

“I want to know exactly how it happened.”

My heart is pounding as I hold his gaze. “The sidewalk was cracked,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. “The front wheel of the bike caught. I threw my hands out when I went down, but rolled and caught the street with my knuckles instead of my palms. Now, if the Inquisition and the infirmary are both done,” I finish, pulling free of Mom and pushing past Dad, “I have homework.”

I storm down the hall and into my room, slamming the door for good measure before slumping against it as the last of the fight goes out of me. It feels like a poor take on a teen tantrum, but apparently it works.

Neither one of them bothers me the rest of the night.

Roland frowns. “What happened to your hands?”

He’s waiting in the atrium, perched on the edge of a table with his folder in his lap. When I walk up, his eyes go straight to my knuckles.

“Biking accident,” I say automatically.

Something flashes in his eyes. Disappointment. Roland pushes off the table. “I’m not your parents, Miss Bishop,” he says, crossing the room. “Don’t insult me by lying.”

“Sorry,” I say, following him out of the atrium and down the hall toward the Librarians’ quarters. “There was an incident.”

He glances back over his shoulder. “With a History?”

“No. A human.”

“What kind of incident?”

“The kind that’s taken care of.” I consider telling Roland about Eric, but when I form the words in my head—someone in the Archive is having me followed—they make me sound cracked. Paranoid. The worry’s already showing in Roland’s eyes. The last thing I want is to make it worse. Plus, I can’t prove anything, not without letting Roland into my head, and if I do that, if he sees the state I’m in, he’ll… No, I won’t rat out Eric, not until I know what he was doing there or why he’s been following me.

“Did our lovely new doormen see your hands?”

“The sentinels? No.” Patrick did, though. He didn’t say anything, just looked at me like I was that useless kid again. Bloody nose or bloody knuckles, can’t hold her own. If only he knew how the other guy looked.

“Was it another tu

I look down at my hands. “I remember what happened.”

We walk the rest of the way to his room in silence. He lets me in, and I see him pull his watch from his pocket and run his thumb over the surface once before setting it on top of the table. Something tugs at me. It’s the same set of motions he did last night. The exact same set. It’s so hard to think of Roland as a History, but the repetition reminds me that his appearance isn’t the only static thing about him.

He gestures to the daybed, and I sink gratefully onto the soft surface, my body begging for rest.

“Sleep well,” he says, folding into his chair. I close my eyes and listen to the sound of him making notes, the scratch of letters on paper low and comforting, like rain. I feel myself sinking, and there’s a moment—one brief, terrifying moment—where I remember the nightmares that wait. But then the moment is gone and I’m drawn down into sleep.

The next thing I feel is Roland shaking me awake.

I sit up, stiff from the fight and from sleep. I study the fresh bruises that color my hands as Roland moves about the room. The relief at having slept is dampened by dread as I think of the slice of conversation I overheard beyond the door.

It’s not a permanent solution.

Roland’s right. I ca

“Roland,” I say softly. “If it keeps getting worse…if I keep getting worse…will Agatha…?”

“As long as you keep doing your job,” he says, “she can’t hurt you.”

“I want to believe you.”

“Miss Bishop, Agatha’s job is to assess members of the Archive. Her greatest concern is making sure that things run smoothly, that everyone is doing his job. She is not the bogeyman. She ca

“But last time—”

“Last time you confessed to involvement in a crime, so yes, your future was left to her discretion. This is different. She ca

“Consent. How forward-thinking.” But something eats at me. “Did Wesley give permission?”

Roland’s brow crinkles. “What?”

“That day…” We both know which day I’m talking about. “He doesn’t remember it. Any of it.” Did he want to forget? Or was he made to? “Did he give the Archive permission to take those memories?”

Roland seems surprised to hear this. “Mr. Ayers was in very bad shape,” he says. “I doubt he was conscious.”

“So he couldn’t give permission.”

“That would have broken protocol.” Roland hesitates. “Maybe it wasn’t the Archive’s doing, Miss Bishop. You know more than most what trauma does to the mind. Maybe he does remember. Or maybe he’s chosen to forget.”

I cringe. “Maybe.”

“Mackenzie, the Archive has rules, and they are followed.”

“So as long as I don’t grant Agatha permission, I’m supposedly safe? My mind is my own?”

“For the most part,” says Roland, perching on the edge of his chair. “As with any system, there are ways around and through. You’re not the only one who can grant permission. If you denied Agatha access to your mind and she had good reason to believe it harbored guilt, she could petition the board of directors. She wouldn’t do it, not unless she had a strong case—evidence that you had committed a crime or that you could no longer perform your job or be trusted with the things you know—but if she had one…” He trails off.

“If she had a strong case…” I prompt.

“We mustn’t let it come to that,” says Roland. “Every time the board has granted her access to someone’s mind, they’ve been found unfit and been removed from service. Her record means she won’t make the request lightly, but it also means the board will never deny her if she does. And once she has access to your mind—through your permission or theirs—anything she finds there can be used against you. If she found you unfit, you would be sentenced to alteration.”

“Execution.”

Roland cringes, but doesn’t contradict me. “I would challenge the ruling, and there would be a trial, but if the board stands behind her, there is nothing I can do. It is very literally in the directors’ hands. You see, only they are authorized to carry out alterations.”

Da only told me one thing about the board of directors, and that’s that you never want to meet one of them. Now I understand why.