“I really don’t think that’s necessary,” says Roland as one of the two black-clad figures steps forward. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen one move.
“I hope it’s not,” says Agatha, “but one should always come prepared.”
She turns toward the open doors behind the desk, and I scramble to pull my thoughts together as I follow. Roland catches my shoulder as I pass.
“Do not grant her permission,” he whispers before the sentinel gives me a push through the doors.
I pad barefoot through the atrium of the Archive, the white of Agatha’s coat in front of me, the black of the sentinel’s cloak trailing behind, and for the first time, I feel like a prisoner. As we turn down one of the halls, I catch sight of Patrick standing at the edge of a row of stacks. His eyes follow us—curious, but otherwise unreadable.
Agatha leads me into a room with no shelves and two chairs.
“Have a seat,” she tells me, waving at one as she takes the other. When I hesitate, the sentinel forces me down. His hands stay pressed onto my shoulders, holding me in place until Agatha says, “That won’t be needed,” and then he takes a step back. I can feel him looming like a shadow behind the chair.
“Why am I here?” I ask.
Agatha crosses her legs. “It’s been nearly a month since our last meeting, Miss Bishop. I thought it time for a checkup. Why?” she says, tilting her head innocently. “Can you think of any other reasons I’d summon you?”
A pit forms in my stomach as she pulls a small black notebook from the pocket of her coat and opens it with a small sigh.
“Preceding the obvious failure to report when summoned…” I bite back the urge to cut in, to call her out on the fact she knew I couldn’t come. “…I’ve compiled a rather concerning list of irregularities,” she says, dragging a gloved finger down the page. “We have nights spent in the Archive.”
“Roland’s been training me.”
“The assault of two humans in the Outer.”
“They assaulted me. I merely defended myself.”
“And the Archive had to clean up the mess.”
“I didn’t ask the Archive to.”
She sighs. “An arrest for breaking and entering a crime scene?”
“I was never processed.”
“Then how about crimes more pertinent to the Archive?” she challenges. “Such as failure to return Histories.” I open my mouth, but she holds up a hand. “Do not insult me by claiming you were the one to send those lost souls back, Miss Bishop. I happen to know that Mr. Ayers’s key was used to access the Returns in your territory. The simple fact is that you have been neglecting your job.”
“I’m sorry. I was indisposed.”
“Oh, I know. Hospitalized. For self-harm.” She taps the paper thoughtfully. “Do you understand why I find that so troublesome?”
“It’s not what you—”
“This is a stressful job, Miss Bishop. I am aware of that. The mind bears as many scars as the body. But the mind also keeps our secrets. A weak mind is a threat to the Archive. It is why we alter those who leave. And those who are removed.” Agatha’s eyes hold mine. “Now tell me, what happened?”
I take a deep breath in. Most people do before telling a lie—it’s an almost automatic physical preparation and one of the hardest tells to break—but I make sure to let it out before starting, hoping the hesitation passes for embarrassment. And then I hold out my right hand. The cuts from the glass are shallow, but I’ve made sure they’re covered, and the bandages wrap down around my wrist.
“Last month,” I start, “when I tried to stop Owen, he broke a few of the bones in my wrist.” I think back to my physiology textbook. “He cracked the radius and crushed the scaphoid, lunate, and part of the triquetrum.” I point out the rough placement of each. “The last two didn’t set properly. There were a few small pieces of bone that never re-fused. They were getting in the way, so I did my best to take them out.” Her eyes drift to the bandages that circle my wrist as she leans forward, closing the narrow gap between us. It’s exactly what I want, her to focus on the hand. She need never know about the bandages on my other arm.
“Why not go to the hospital?” she asks.
“I didn’t want my parents to worry.”
“Why not have Patrick see to it?”
“He’s not my biggest fan,” I say, “and I thought I could see to it myself. But I’m afraid the thing about being a teenager is that people tend to notice when you take a knife to yourself, no matter the reason.”
A sad smile touches her lips, and I’m beginning to think she actually bought the lie when she says, “Roll up your sleeves.”
I hesitate, and that brief pause is enough to give me away. Agatha rises to her feet, and I move to rise, too, but the sentinel holds me in my seat as she leans forward and guides up my sleeve—not my right one, but my left—exposing the bandage that winds around my forearm.
“Tell me,” says Agatha, running a finger gingerly over the tape, “did pieces of bone wander into this arm, too?”
“I can—”
But she lifts a finger to silence me.
“I asked you once,” she says, “if you wanted to remember all that had happened to you. I gave you a chance to forget. I fear I might have erred in doing so. Bad memories left in weak minds are like rot. They spread and ruin.”
I grip the chair even though it sends pain up my arm. “I assure you, Agatha, I am not ruined.”
“No,” she says, “but you may be broken.”
I cringe. “I am not. You have to believe me.”
“Actually,” she says, tugging on the fingers of one black glove, “I don’t. Not when I can see for myself.”
The sentinel’s grip tightens on my shoulders, and Roland’s voice rushes in my ears. Once she has access to your mind, anything she finds there can be used against you. If she found you unfit, you would be sentenced to alteration…. Do not grant her permission.
“No,” I say, the words brimming with panic. “You can’t.”
Agatha pauses, her eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t have my permission,” I say, reminding myself that this is law, even though it feels like suicide. Agatha’s false warmth dissolves, and she considers me coldly.
“You are denying me access to your mind.” It is not a question. It is a challenge.
I nod. “It is my right.”
“Only the guilty plead the Fifth, Miss Bishop. I strongly advise you to reconsider.”
But I can’t. I have chosen my path, and she must respect it. She can’t hurt me, at least not right now. It may only be a reprieve, but it’s better than a sentence. I roll my sleeve down over the bandages, and she reads the gesture for the denial it is.
The sentinel’s grip retreats from my shoulders, and I’m about to push myself to my feet when she says, “We are not done.” My stomach twists as she rounds her chair and curls her gloved hands around the back. “You still haven’t explained the crime scene or what you were doing there.”
Lie, lie, lie pounds my heart. But a lie has to be as quick as truth, and the fact I’ve paused yet again means I won’t be able to sell a line. She’ll see through it. If I was standing on ice before, my refusal has driven cracks into it.
“Someone I met was abducted,” I say, the words coming out too cautiously. “I thought I might be able to see something the cops had missed. The man, Gregory Phillip, went missing from his home. The room where the abduction took place was trashed, and the police didn’t have any leads. They couldn’t make sense of the evidence, couldn’t figure out how the man had vanished. Because they couldn’t see it. But when I broke in, I saw it clearly.”