“Ouch.” I look down. A bruise is already spreading across my ribs.
“You should really have that looked at, Mac.”
“I thought that’s what you were doing.”
“I meant by a medical professional. We should get you to Patrick, just to be safe.”
“No way,” I say. Patrick’s the last person I want to see right now.
“Mac—”
“I said no.” Pain weaves between my ribs when I breathe, but I
can
breathe, so that’s a good sign. “I’ll live,” I say, taking back my shirt.
Wes sags onto my bed as I manage to get the shirt over my head, and I’m tugging it
down when there’s a knock on my door, and Mom peeks in, holding a plate of oatmeal-raisin
cookies.
“Mackenz—Oh.”
She takes in the scene before her, Wesley shirtless and stretched out on my bed, me
pulling my shirt on as quickly as possible so she won’t see my bruises. I do my best
to look embarrassed, which isn’t hard.
“Hello, Wesley. I didn’t know you were here.”
Which is a a bald-faced lie, of course, because my mother loves me, but she doesn’t
show up with a tray of cookies and a pitcher and her sweetest smile unless I’ve got
company. When did she get home?
“We went for a run together,” I say quickly. “Wes is trying to help me get back in
shape.”
Wesley makes several vague stretching motions that make it abundantly clear he’s not
a runner. I’ll kill him.
“Mhm,” says Mom. “Well, I’ll just…put these…over here.”
She sets the tray on an unpacked box without taking her eyes off us.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Bishop,” says Wesley. I glance over and find him eyeing the cookies
with a wolfish smile. He’s almost as good a liar as I am. It scares me.
“Oh, and Mac,” adds Mom, swiping one of the cookies for herself.
“Yeah?”
“Door open, please,” she chirps, tapping the wooden door frame as she leaves.
“How long have we been running together?” asks Wes.
“A few days.” I throw a cookie at his head.
“Good to know.” He catches and devours the cookie in a single move, then reaches over
and lifts Ben’s bear from the bedside table. The plastic glasses are no longer perched
on its nose but folded on the table, where I dropped them last night before I went
to find my brother. My chest tightens.
Gone gone gone
thuds in my head like a pulse.
“Was this his?” Wes asks, blind pity written across his face. And I know it’s not
his fault—he doesn’t understand, he can’t—but I can’t stand that look.
“Ben hated that bear,” I say. Still, Wesley sets it gently, reverently, back on the
table.
I sink onto the bed. Something digs into my hip, and I pull the Crew key out of my
pocket.
“That was close today,” says Wes.
“But we did it,” I say.
“We did.” Halfway to a smile, his mouth falls. I feel it too.
Wes reaches for his Archive paper as I reach for mine, and we both unfold the lists
at the same time to find the same message scrawled across the paper.
Keepers Bishop and Ayers:
Report to the Archive.
NOW.
I
KNOW THIS ROOM.
The cold marble floors and the walls lined with ledgers and the long table sitting
in the middle of the chamber: it’s the room where I became a Keeper. There are people
seated behind that table now, just as there were then, but the faces—most of them,
at least—have changed. And even as we gather, I can hear the distant sounds of the
disruption spreading.
As Wesley and I stand waiting, my first thought is that I avoided one tribunal only
to end up in another. This morning’s would have been deserved. This afternoon’s makes
no sense.
Patrick sits behind the table, glowering, and I wonder how long he’s been making that
face, waiting for us to walk in. It is, for a moment, absurdly funny, so much so that
I’m worried I’ll laugh. Then I take in the rest of the scene, and the urge dies.
Lisa sits beside Patrick, her two-toned eyes unreadable.
Carmen is beside Lisa, clutching her notepad to her chest.
Roland heads the table, arms folded.
Two more people—the transfer, Elliot, and the woman with the braid, Beth—stand behind
those seated. The expressions in the room range from contempt to curiosity.
I try to catch Roland’s eye, but he’s not watching me. He’s watching them. And it
clicks: Wesley and I are not the only ones on trial.
Roland thinks it’s one of them who has been altering Histories. Is this his way of
rounding up suspects? I scan their faces. Could one of these people be wreaking so
much havoc? Why? I scour my memories of them, searching for one that lights up, any
moment that makes one of them seem guilty. But Roland is like family; Lisa is sometimes
stern but well-meaning; Carmen has confided in me, helped me, and kept my secrets.
And little as I like Patrick, he’s a stickler for rules. But the two people standing
behind them… I’ve never spoken to the woman with the braid, Beth, and I know nothing
about Elliot other than the fact that he transferred in just before the trouble started.
If I could spend some time with them, maybe I could tell—
A shoe knocks against mine, and a tiny flare of metal and drums cuts through my thoughts.
I steal a glance at Wesley, whose forehead is crinkling with concern.
“I still can’t believe you told my mother we were going on a date,” I say under my
breath.
“I told her we were going out. I couldn’t exactly be more specific, could I?” Wesley
hisses back.
“That’s what lying’s for.”
“I try to keep lies to a minimum. Omissions are much less karmically damaging.”
Someone coughs, and I turn to find two more people sidling into the chamber, both
in black. The woman is tall, with a ponytail of blue-black hair, and the man is made
of caramel—gold skin and gold hair and a lazy smile. I’ve never seen them before,
but there is something lovely and frightening and cold about them, and then I see
the marks carved on their skin, just above their wrists. Three lines. They’re Crew.
“Miss Bishop,” says Patrick, and my attention snaps back to the table. “This is not
your first infraction.”
I frown. “What infraction have I committed?”
“You let a History escape into the Outer,” he says, taking off his glasses and tossing
them to the table.
“We also caught him,” says Wesley.
“Mr. Ayers, your record has been, before today, impeccable. Perhaps you should hold
your tongue.”
“But he’s right,” I say. “What matters is that we caught the History.”
“He shouldn’t have gotten into the Coronado in the first place,” warns Lisa.
“He shouldn’t have gotten into the Narrows at all,” I answer. “I returned Jackson
Lerner this week. So tell me how he managed to wake, find his way back into my territory,
and avoid my list? A product of the disruption?”
Roland shoots me a look, but Patrick’s eyes flick down to his desk. “Jackson Lerner
was a filing error.”
I bite back a laugh and he gives me a warning glare, as does Lisa. Carmen avoids eye
contact and chews the side of her lip. She’s the one who took Jackson from me. She
was supposed to return him.
“It was my…” she says softly, but Patrick doesn’t give her the chance.
“Miss Bishop, this was a filing error precipitated by your incorrect delivery of the
History in question. Is it not true you returned Jackson Lerner to the Archive’s antechamber,
as opposed to the Returns room?”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“Jackson Lerner’s presence in the Narrows is not the most pressing issue,” says Lisa.
“The fact that he was allowed into the Outer…”
Allowed,
she says, like we just stepped aside.
Allowed,
because we were still alive when he got through. “The fact that two Keepers were
patrolling the same territory and yet neither—”
“Who authorized that, anyway?” Patrick cuts in.
“I did,” says Roland.
“Why not just give them a Crew key and a promotion while you’re at it?” snaps Patrick.
Da’s Crew key weighs a thousand pounds in my boot.
“The status of Miss Bishop’s territory necessitated immediate aid,” says Roland, meeting
Patrick’s gaze. “Mr. Ayers’s territory has yet to experience any increase. Whereas
the Coronado and surrounding areas are, for
some
reason, suffering the greatest damage during this disruption. The decision was well
within my jurisdiction. Or have you forgotten, Patrick, that I am the highest-ranking
official not only in this branch but in this state, and in this region, and, as such,
your director?”
Roland? The highest ranking? With his red Chucks and his lifestyle magazines?
“How long have Miss Bishop and Mr. Ayers been paired?” asks Lisa.
Roland draws a watch from his pocket, a grim smile on his lips. “About three hours.”
The man in the corner laughs. The woman elbows him.
“Miss Bishop,” says Patrick, “are you aware that once a History reaches the Outer,
it ceases to be the Keeper’s task, and becomes that of the Crew?” On the last word,
he gestures to the two people in the corner. “Imagine the level of confusion, then,
when the Crew arrives to dispatch the History, and finds it gone.”
“We did find some broken glass,” offers the man.
“Some police, too,” adds the woman.
“And a lady in a robe going off about vandals—”
“But no History.”
“Why is that?” asks Patrick, turning his attention to Wesley.
“When Lerner escaped, we went after him,” says Wes. “Tracked him through the hotel,
caught him before he exited the building, and returned him.”
“You acted out of line.”
“We did our job.”
“No,” snaps Patrick, “you did the Crew’s job. You jeopardized human lives and your
own in the process.”
“It was dangerous for you two to pursue the History once it reached the Outer,” amends
Carmen. “You could have been killed. You’re both remarkable Keepers, but you’re not
Crew.”
“Yet,” says Roland. “But they certainly demonstrated their potential.”
“You cannot be encouraging this,” says Patrick.
“I sanctioned their partnership. I should hope I wouldn’t do that without believing
them capable.” Roland stands. “And to be frank, I can’t see how reprimanding Keepers
for returning Histories is a good use of our time given the current…circumstances.
And given those circumstances, I believe Mr. Ayers should be allowed to continue assisting
Miss Bishop, so long as his own territory does not suffer for it.”
“That is not how the Archive functions—”
“Then for now the Archive must learn to be a little more flexible,” says Roland. “But,”
he adds, “if any evidence presents itself that Mr. Ayers is unable to keep his own
numbers down, the partnership will be dissolved.”
“Granted,” says Lisa.
“Very well,” says Carmen.
“Fine,” says Patrick.
Neither Elliot nor Beth have said a single thing, but now each gives a quiet affirmation.
“Dismissed,” says Roland. Lisa stands first and crosses to the doors, but when she
opens them, another wave of noise—like metal shelves hitting stone floors—reaches
us. She draws her key from her pocket—thin and gleaming gold, like the one Roland
drove into Ben’s chest—and hurries toward the sound. Carmen, Elliot, and Beth follow.
The Crew is already gone, and Wesley and I make our own way out; but Roland and Patrick
stay behind.
As I approach the door, I hear Patrick say something to Roland that makes my blood
run cold. “Since you are the
director
,” he mutters, “it’s my duty to inform you that I’ve asked for an assessment of Miss
Bishop.”
He says it loud enough for me to hear, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of looking
back. He’s just trying to rattle me.
“You will not bring Agatha into this, Patrick,” says Roland, more quietly, and when
Patrick answers, it’s nothing more than a whisper.
I pick up my pace and force my eyes forward as I follow Wesley out. The numbers of
Librarians in the atrium seems to have doubled in the last day. Halfway to the desk,
we pass Carmen giving orders to a few unfamiliar faces, listing the wings, halls,
rooms to be blacked out. When they peel away, I tell Wes to go on ahead, and stop
to ask Carmen something.
“What does that mean, ‘blacking out’ rooms?”
She hesitates.
“Carmen, I already know what a disruption is. So what does this mean?”
She bites her lip. “It’s a last resort, Miss Bishop. If there’s too much noise, too
many Histories waking, blacking out a room is the fastest way to kill the disturbance,
but…”
“What is it?”
“It kills the content, too,” she says, looking around nervously. “Blacking out a room
blacks out everything inside. It’s an irreversible process. It turns the space into
a crypt. The more rooms we have to black out, the more content we lose. I’ve seen
disruptions before, but never like this. Almost a fifth of the branch has already
been lost.” She leans in. “At this rate, we could lose everything.”
My stomach drops. Ben is in this branch. Da is in this branch.
“What about the red stacks?” I press. “What about Special Collections?”
“Restricted stacks and Archive members are vaulted. Those shelves are more secure,
so they’re holding for now, but—”
Just then, three more Librarians rush toward her, and Carmen turns away to speak with
them. I think she’s forgotten me altogether, but as I turn to go, she glances my way
and says only, “Be safe.”
“You look sick,” says Wes once we’re back in the Narrows.
I feel sick. Ben and Da are both in a branch that is crumbling, a branch that someone
is trying to topple. And it’s my fault. I started the search. I dug up the past. I
pushed for answers. Tipped the dominoes…
“Talk to me, Mac.”
I look at Wesley. I don’t like lying to him. It’s different lying to Mom and Dad and
Lyndsey. Those are big, blanket lies—easy, all-or-nothing lies. But with Wes, I have
to sift out what I can say from what I can’t, and by
can’t
I mean
won’t
, because I
could
. I
could
tell him. I tell myself I
would
tell him, if Roland hadn’t warned me not to. I
would
tell him everything. Even about Owen. I tell myself I would. I wonder if it’s true.
“I’ve got a bad feeling,” I say. “That’s all.”
“Oh, I don’t see why you would. It’s not like they just put us on trial, or our branch
is falling down, or your territory is out of control in a seriously suspicious way.”
He sobers. “Frankly, Mac, I’d be worried if you had a
good
feeling about any of this.” He glances back at the Archive door. “What’s going on?”
I shrug. “No idea.”
“Then let’s find out.”
“Wesley, in case you haven’t noticed, I can’t afford to get in any more trouble right
now.”
“I have to admit, I never pegged you as such a delinquent.”
“What can I say? I’m the best of the worst. Now, let the Librarians do their job,
and we’ll do ours.
If
you can handle another day of it.”
He smiles, but it seems thinner. “It’ll take more than an overflowing Narrows, an
escaped History, a glass table, and a tribunal to get rid of me. Pick you up at nine?”
“Nine it is.”
Wes veers off into the Narrows toward his own home. I watch him go, then squeeze my
eyes shut. What a mess, I think, just before a kiss lands like a drop of water on
the slope of my neck.
I shiver, spin, and slam the body into the nearest wall. The quiet floods in where
my hand meets his throat. Owen raises a brow.
“Hello, M.”
“You should know better,” I say, “than to sneak up on someone.” I slowly release my
hold on him.
Owen’s hands drift up to touch mine, then past them to my wrists. In one fluid motion,
I’m the one against the wall, my hands pinned loosely overhead. The thrill of warmth
washes over my skin, while the quiet courses under it, through my head.
“If I remember correctly,” he says, “that’s exactly how I saved you.”
I bite my lip as he leans in to kiss my shoulder, my throat—heat and silence thrumming
through me, both welcome.
“I didn’t need saving,” I whisper. He smiles against my skin, his body pressing flush
with mine. I wince.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, lips hovering beneath my jaw.
“Long day,” I say, swallowing.
He pulls back a fraction, but doesn’t stop brushing me with kisses, leaving a trail
of them up my cheek to my ear as his fingers tangle through mine above my head, tighten.
The quiet gets stronger, blotting out thoughts. I want to escape into it. I want to
vanish into it.
“Who was the boy?” he whispers.
“He’s a friend.”
“Ah,” Owen says slowly.
“No, not ‘ah,’” I say defensively. “Just a friend.”
Willingly, necessarily just a friend. With Wesley, there is too much to lose. But
with Owen, there is no future to be lost by giving in. No future at all. Only escape.
Doubt whispers through the quiet. Why does he care? Is it jealousy that flickers across
his face? Curiosity? Or something else? It is so easy for me to read people and so
hard for me to read him. Is this how people are supposed to look at each other? Seeing
only faces, and none of the things behind?