I close my eyes, searching for the right words. “Da is etched so clearly in my memory, I don’t think I could forget anything about him even if I tried. But with Ben, it’s only been a year and I’m already forgetting things. I keep forgetting things, and it terrifies me.”
Roland nods but doesn’t answer, sympathetic but resolute. He can’t help me. He won’t. I’ve come to Ben’s shelf two dozen times in the year since he died, and Roland has never given in and opened it. Never let me see my brother.
“Where is Da’s shelf, anyway?” I ask, changing the subject before the tightness in my chest grows worse.
“All members of the Archive are kept in Special Collections.”
“Where is that?”
Roland arches an eyebrow, but nothing more.
“Why are they kept separately?”
He shrugs. “I don’t make the rules, Miss Bishop.”
He gets to his feet and offers me his hand. I hesitate.
“It’s okay, Mackenzie,” he says, taking my hand; and I feel nothing. Librarians are pros at walling off thoughts, blocking out touch. Mom touches me and I can’t keep her out, but Roland touches me and I feel blind, deaf, normal.
We start walking.
“Wait,” I say, turning back to Ben’s shelf. Roland waits as I pull the key from around my neck and slip it into the hole beneath my brother’s card. It doesn’t turn. It never turns.
But I never stop trying.
I’m not supposed to be here. I can see it in their eyes.
And yet here I am, standing before a table in a large chamber off the atrium’s second wing. The room is marble-floored and cold, and there are no bodies lining the walls, only ledgers, and the two people on the other side of the table speak a little louder, unafraid to wake the dead. Roland takes his seat beside them.
“Antony Bishop,” says the man on the end. He has a beard and small, sharp eyes that scan a paper on the table. “You are here to name your…” He looks up, and the words trail off. “Mr. Bishop, you do realize there is an age requirement. Your granddaughter is not eligible for another”—he consults a folder, coughs—“four years.”
“She’s up for the trial,” you say.
“She’ll never pass,” says the woman.
“I’m stronger than I look,” I say.
The first man sighs, rubs his beard. “What are you doing, Antony?”
“She is my only choice,” answers Da.
“Nonsense. You can name Peter. Your son. And if, in time, Mackenzie is willing and able, she will be considered—”
“My son is not fit.”
“Maybe you don’t do him justice—”
“He’s bright, but he’s got no violence in him, and he wears his lies. He’s not fit.”
“Meredith, Allen,” says Roland, steepling his fingers. “Let’s give her a chance.”
The bearded man, Allen, straightens. “Absolutely not.”
My eyes flick to Da, craving a sign, a nod of encouragement, but he stares straight ahead.
“I can do it,” I say. “I’m not the only choice. I’m the best.”
Allen’s frown deepens. “I beg your pardon?”
“Go home, little girl,” says Meredith with a dismissive wave.
You warned me they would resist. You spent weeks teaching me how to hold my ground.
I stand taller. “Not until I’ve had my trial.”
Meredith makes a strangled sound of dismay, but Allen cuts in with, “You’re. Not. Eligible.”
“Make an exception,” I say. Roland’s mouth quirks up.
It bolsters me. “Give me a chance.”
“You think this is a sport? A club?” snaps Meredith, and then her eyes dart to you. “What could you possibly be thinking, bringing a child into this—”
“I think it’s a job,” I cut in, careful to keep my voice even. “And I’m ready for it. Maybe you think you’re protecting me, or maybe you think I’m not strong enough—but you’re wrong.”
“You are an unfit candidate. And that is the end of it.”
“It would be, Meredith,” says Roland calmly, “if you were the only person on this panel.”
“I really can’t condone this.…” says Allen.
I’m losing them, and I can’t let that happen. If I lose them, I lose you. “I think I’m ready, and you think I’m not. Let’s find out who’s right.”
“Your composure is impressive.” Roland stands up. “But you are aware that not all Histories can be won with words.” He rounds the table. “Some are troublesome.” He rolls up his sleeves. “Some are violent.”
The other two Librarians are still trying to get a word in, but I don’t hear them. My focus is on Roland. Da told me to be ready for anything, and it’s a good thing he did, because between one moment and the next, Roland’s posture shifts. It’s subtle—his shoulders loosen, knees unlock, hands curl toward fists—but I see the change a fraction before he attacks. I dodge the first punch, but he’s fast, faster even than Da, and before I can strike back, a red Chuck connects with my chest, sending me to the floor. I roll back and over into a crouch, but by the time I look up, he’s gone.
I hear him the instant before his arm wraps around my throat, and manage to get one hand between us so I don’t choke. He pulls back and up, my feet leaving the ground, but the table is there and I get my foot on top and use it as leverage, pushing up and off, twisting free of his arm as I flip over his head and land behind him. He turns and I kick, aiming for his chest; but he’s too tall and my foot connects with his stomach, where he catches it. I brace myself, but he doesn’t strike back.
He laughs and lets go of my shoe, sagging against the desk. The other two Librarians sit behind him looking shocked, though I can’t tell if they’re more surprised by the fight or Roland’s good humor.
“Mackenzie,” he says, smoothing his sleeves. “Do you want this job?”
“She does not truly know what this job is,” says Meredith. “So she has a mouth on her and she can dodge a punch. She is a child. And this is a joke—”
Roland holds up a hand, and Meredith goes quiet. Roland’s eyes do not leave mine. They are warm. Encouraging. “Do you want this?” he asks again.
I do want it. I want you to stay. Time and disease are taking you from me. You’ve told me, made it clear, this is the only way I can keep you close. I will not lose that.
“I do,” I answer evenly.
Roland straightens. “Then I approve the naming.”
Meredith makes a stifled sound of dismay.
“She held composure against you, Meredith, and that is something,” says Roland, and finally his smile breaks through. “And as for her fighting, I’m in the best position to judge, and I say she has merit.” He looks past me, to you. “You’ve raised quite a girl, Antony.” He glances over at Allen. “What do you say?”
The bearded Librarian raps his fingers on the table, eyes unfocused.
“You can’t actually be considering…” mutters Meredith.