I am not a Keeper yet.
There is a moment, as I pass into the circular antechamber of the Archive and my eyes settle on the Librarian seated behind the desk—a man I’ve never seen before—when I feel lost. A strange fear takes hold, simple and deep, that my family moved too far away, that I’ve crossed some invisible boundary and stepped into another branch of the Archive. Roland assured me it wouldn’t happen, that each branch is responsible for hundreds of miles of city, suburb, country, but still the panic washes through me.
I look over my shoulder at the lintel above the door, the familiar SERVAMUS MEMORIAM etched there. According to two semesters of Latin (my father’s idea), it means “We Protect the Past.” Roman numerals run beneath the inscription, so small and so many that they seem more like a pattern than a number. I asked once, and was told that that was the branch number. I still cannot read it, but I’ve memorized the pattern, and it hasn’t changed. My muscles begin to uncoil.
“Miss Bishop.”
The voice is calm, quiet, and familiar. I turn back toward the desk to see Roland coming through the set of doors behind it, tall and slim as ever—he hasn’t aged a day—with his gray eyes and his easy grin and his red Chucks. I let out a breath of relief.
“You can go now, Elliot,” he says to the man seated behind the desk, who stands with a nod and vanishes back through the doors.
Roland takes a seat and kicks his shoes up onto the desk. He digs in the drawers and comes up with a magazine. Last month’s issue of some lifestyle guide I brought him. Mom subscribed to them for a while, and Roland insists on staying as much in the loop as possible when it comes to the Outer. I know for a fact he spends most of his time skimming new Histories, watching the world through their lives. I wonder if boredom prompts him to it, or if it’s more. Roland’s eyes are tinged with something between pain and longing.
He misses it, I think; the Outer. He’s not supposed to. Librarians commit to the Archive in every way, leaving the Outer behind for their term, however long they choose to stay, and he’s told me himself that being promoted is an honor, to have all that time and knowledge at your fingertips, to protect the past—SERVAMUS MEMORIAM and all—but if he misses sunrises, or oceans, or fresh air, who can blame him? It’s a lot to give up for a fancy title, a suspended life cycle, and an endless supply of reading material.
He holds the magazine toward me. “You look pale.”
“Keep it,” I say, still a little shaken. “And I’m fine.…” Roland knows how scared I am of losing this branch—some days I think the constancy of coming here is all that’s keeping me sane—but it’s a weakness, and I know it. “Just thought for a moment I’d gone too far.”
“Ah, you mean Elliot? He’s on loan,” says Roland, digging a small radio from a drawer and setting it beside the QUIET PLEASE sign. Classical music whispers out, and I wonder if he plays it just to annoy Lisa, who takes the signs as literally as possible. “A transfer. Wanted a change of scenery. So, what brings you to the Archive tonight?”
I want to see Ben. I want to talk to him. I need to be closer. I’m losing my mind.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say with a shrug.
“You found your way here fast enough.”
“My new place has two doors. Right in the building.”
“Only two?” he teases. “So, are you settling in?”
I trace my fingers over the ancient ledger that sits on the table. “It’s got…character.”
“Come now, the Coronado’s not so bad.”
It creeps me out. Something horrible happened in my bedroom. These are weak thoughts. I do not share them.
“Miss Bishop?” he prompts.
I hate the formality when it comes from the other Librarians, but for some reason I don’t mind it from Roland. Perhaps because he seems on the verge of winking when he speaks.
“No, it’s not so bad,” I say at last with a smile. “Just old.”
“Nothing wrong with old.”
“You’d know,” I say. It’s a running line. Roland refuses to tell me how long he’s been here. He can’t be that old, or at least he doesn’t look it—one of the perks is that, as long as they serve, they don’t age—but whenever I ask him about his life before the Archive, his years hunting Histories, he twists the topic, or glides right over it. As for his years as Librarian, he’s equally vague. I’ve heard Librarians work for ten or fifteen years before retiring—just because the age doesn’t show doesn’t mean they don’t feel older—but with Roland, I can’t tell. I remember his mentioning a Moscow branch, and once, absently, Scotland.
The music floats around us.
He returns his shoes to the floor and begins to straighten up the desk. “What else can I do for you?”
Ben. I can’t dance around it, and I can’t lie. I need his help. Only Librarians can navigate the stacks. “Actually…I was hoping—”
“Don’t ask me for that.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to—”
“The pause and the guilty look give you away.”
“But I—”
“Mackenzie.”
The use of my first name makes me flinch.
“Roland. Please.”
His eyes settle on mine, but he says nothing.
“I can’t find it on my own,” I press, trying to keep my voice level.
“You shouldn’t find it at all.”
“I haven’t asked you in weeks,” I say. Because I’ve been asking Lisa instead.
Another long moment, and then finally Roland closes his eyes in a slow, surrendering blink. His fingers drift to a notepad the same size and shape as my Archive paper, and he scribbles something on it. Half a minute later, Elliot reappears, his own pad of paper at his side. He gives Roland a questioning look.
“Sorry to call you back,” says Roland. “I won’t be gone long.”
Elliot nods and silently takes a seat. The front desk is never left unattended. I follow Roland through the doors and into the atrium. It’s dotted with Librarians, and I recognize Lisa across the way, her black bob disappearing down a side hall toward older stacks. But otherwise I do not look up at the arching ceiling and its colored glass, do not marvel at the quiet beauty, do not linger, in case any pause in my step makes Roland change his mind. I focus on the stacks as he leads me to Ben.
I’ve tried to memorize the route—to remember which of the ten wings we go down, to note which set of stairs we take, to count the lefts and rights we make through the halls—but I can never hold the pattern in my head, and even when I think I have, it doesn’t work out the next time. I don’t know if it’s me, or if the route changes. Maybe they reorder the shelves. I think of how I used to arrange movies: one day best to worst, the next by color, the next title…Everyone in these stacks died in the branch’s jurisdiction, but beyond that, there doesn’t seem to be a consistent method of filing. In the end, only Librarians can navigate these stacks.
Today Roland leads me through the atrium, then down the sixth wing, through several smaller corridors, across a courtyard, and up a short set of wooden steps before finally coming to a stop in a spacious reading room. A red rug covers most of the floor, and chairs are tucked into corners; but it is, for the most part, a grid of drawers.