“I don’t care if it’s feasible. How do I make sure it doesn’t happen again?”
“You need rest. You need to sleep,” he says, a note of desperation working its way into his voice as he slumps back down in his chair. His gray eyes are worried, a paler version of the fear that flashed through them when Agatha first summoned me to be assessed. “Please try.”
I hesitate, but finally nod, slide off my shoes, and curl up on the daybed, resting my head on the folded blanket. I consider telling him that I think I’m being followed, too, but I can’t will the words out.
“Do you regret it yet?” I ask. “Voting me through?”
His mouth twitches, but I don’t hear his answer, because my body is already betraying me, dragging me down into sleep.
When I wake, the room is empty, and for a split second I can’t remember where I am or how I got here. But then I hear the whisper of classical music from the device on the wall and remember that I’m in the Archive, in Roland’s quarters.
I blink away sleep, marveling at the fact it doesn’t cling to me. No dreams. No nightmares. For the first time in days. Weeks. I allow a small, breathless laugh to escape. My eyes burn from the sheer relief of a few hours’ sleep without Owen and his knife.
I fold the blanket Roland let me borrow and return it to the corner of the daybed before getting up. I switch the music off as I pad across the cloisterlike space. Behind a door left ajar on the far wall, I find several versions of his self-assigned uniform: slacks and sweaters and button-down shirts. I look around for a clock even though I know there isn’t one. My eyes go to the silver pocket watch, still on top of the side table. It doesn’t work, but I find myself reaching absently for it when my attention slides to the drawer beneath.
It is barely ajar, just enough for me to see another glint of metal, and when I take the drawer in both hands and slide it open—the wood utters a soft hush—I find two worn silver coins and a notebook no larger than my palm. I lift the notebook. The paper edges are yellowed and fragile, and when I peel the cover back, I find a date written in elegant script in the bottom corner.
1819
The next several pages are filled with notes too small and old to read, and mingled with them, pencil sketches. A stone facade. A river. A woman. The name Evelyn runs in his careful script under her throat.
The journal sings beneath my fingers, brimming with memories, and I hesitate to put the book back. Roland has always been a mystery. He never wanted to talk about the life he’d left behind, the one he claimed he’d go back to when he was done serving. But now I know he didn’t leave a life behind at all, not willingly, and he’ll never go back to it.
The question “Who is Roland?” has become “Who was Roland?” and before I can stop myself, I close my eyes and reach for the thread of memory in the notebook. I catch hold, and time turns back. It rolls away, and darkness ripples into an alleyway at night: a young, smudged Roland standing beneath a pool of flickering lamplight. He’s cradling the notebook in one hand as he shades in the woman’s hair with a short stub of pencil and pins a slip of paper to the opposite page with his thumb. As he draws, letters bleed onto the slip. A name. He snaps the notebook shut and checks his pocket watch, three Crew lines spreading like a shadow across the inside of his wrist.
The sound of voices draws me out of the memory, and I set the notebook back into the table drawer as the door groans a little under someone’s weight, but doesn’t open.
I hold my breath as I ease the drawer shut and step toward the door and the voices on the other side. When I press my ear against it, I can hear his melodic voice and just the edges of Lisa’s soft, even tone. And then my chest tightens as I realize they’re talking about me.
“No,” says Roland quietly, “I realize it’s not a permanent solution. But she just needs time. And rest,” he adds. “She’s been through a lot.”
Another murmur.
“No,” replies Roland. “It hasn’t come to that yet. And it won’t.”
I force myself away from the door as he echoes, “I know, I know.”
When Roland comes back into the room, I’m sitting on the floor, lacing up my shoes.
“Miss Bishop,” he says. “How are you feeling?”
“Like a new person,” I say, getting to my feet. “How long was I out?”
“Four hours.”
Four hours, and I want to cry. How mended could I feel with eight? “It’s amazing,” I say. “The difference. To be free of Owen for a night.”
Roland crosses his arms and looks down at them. “You could be free of him for longer.” His gray gaze slides up. “You don’t have to live with it, the weight of what you’ve been through. There are options. Alterations—”
“No.” Alterations. The word for when the Archive carves out memories from someone’s mind. Cuts their life full of holes. I think of Wesley, missing a day of his life. I think of his great-aunt, Joan, stripped of years when she retired, just as a precaution.
“Miss Bishop,” he says, reading my disgust, “alterations are not carried out solely on those who leave, or those who need to be kept in the dark about the Archive’s existence.”
“No, they’re also for those deemed unfit—”
“And for those who want to forget,” counters Roland. “There’s no shame in it, Mackenzie. Wanting to be free of certain memories. The bad ones.”
“The bad ones?” I echo. “Roland, they’re all tangled up. Isn’t that the idea? Life is messy. And even if it weren’t, I said no.” The truth is, I don’t trust them to stop with the memories I’m willing to lose. And even if I did, it feels like running. I need to remember. “We’ve had this conversation already.”
“Yes, we have, back when you were only fighting bad dreams. But if you keep having tunnel moments—”
“Then we’ll handle it,” I say, making it clear the conversation is over.
Roland’s shoulders slump, his arms falling back to his sides. “Very well.” He lifts his silver watch from the side table and slips it back into his pocket. “Come on, I’ll lead you out.” I notice, as I follow him, that the halls don’t seem to shift around us. Unlike the twisting corridors of the stacks, the path to the Librarians’ quarters is a straight and steady line.
We reach the front desk, and I cringe when I see Patrick sitting there. His eyes flick up, cold behind their black-framed glasses, and his mouth draws into a tight line. Roland anticipates a remark and speaks first.
“It’s come to my attention that Miss Bishop’s predecessor did not adequately prepare her before his demise.”
“Pray tell,” says Patrick, “in what ways is she lacking?”
I frown. Nobody likes being talked about like they’re not in the room, especially when the talk centers on their shortcomings.
“Stillness,” says Roland. “She’s more than competent when it comes to combat, but lacks the patience and conservation of energy that comes with proper training.”
“And how do you plan to assist her?”
“Meditation,” answers Roland. “It’ll benefit her, anyway, when she makes Crew and—”
“If she makes Crew,” corrects Patrick, but Roland continues.
“—and she’s a quick learner, so it shouldn’t take long for her to pick it up. In the meantime, when she comes, send her back.” He straightens, flaunting his full height. “And do it without interrogation, please. I’d like to make the most of everyone’s time.”