“I will set you free,” he says just before he buries the knife in my chest, and I wake up.
Every night I have that dream, and every night I end up on the roof, checking the air in the circle of demons for signs of a door. There is almost no mark of the void I made; nothing but the faintest ripple, like a crack in the world; and when I close my eyes and press my hands against the space, they always go straight through.
Every night I have that dream, and every day I check my list for signs of a summons. Both sides of the paper are blank, and have been since the incident, and by the third day I’m so scared that the list is broken that I dig out a pen and write a note, not caring who finds it.
Please update.
I watch the words dissolve into the page.
No one answers.
I ask again. And again. And again. And every time I’m met with silence and blank space. Panic chews through my battered body. As my bruises lighten, my fear gets worse. I should have heard by now. I should have heard.
On the third morning, Dad asks about Wes, and my throat closes up. I can barely make it through a feeble lie. And so when, at the end of the third day, a summons finally writes itself across my paper…
Please report to the Archive. —A
I drop everything and go.
I tug my ring off and pull the Crew key from my pocket—Owen took my Keeper key with him into the void—and slide it into the lock on my bedroom door. A deep breath, a turn to the left, and I step through into the Archive.
The branch is still recovering, most of the doors still closed; but the chaos has subsided, the noise diminished to a dull, steady din, like a cooling engine. I’m not even over the threshold when I open my mouth to ask about Wes. But then I look up, and the question catches in my throat.
Roland and Patrick are standing behind the desk, and in front of it is a woman in an ivory coat. She is tall and slim, with red hair and creamy skin and a pleasant face. A sharp gold key hangs on a black ribbon around her throat, and she’s wearing a pair of black fitted gloves. There is something calm about her that clashes with the lingering noise of the damaged Archive.
The woman takes a fluid step forward.
“Miss Bishop,” she says with a warm smile, “my name is Agatha.”
THIRTY-THREE
AGATHA, THE ASSESSOR.
Agatha, the one who decides if a Keeper is fit to serve, or if they should be dismissed. Erased. Her expression is utterly unreadable, but the stern look on Patrick’s face is clear, as is the fear in Roland’s eyes. I suddenly feel like the room is filled with broken glass and I’m supposed to walk across it.
“Thank you for coming,” she says. “I know you’ve been through a lot recently, but we need to talk—”
“Agatha,” says Roland. There is a pleading in his tone. “I really think we should leave this—”
“Your parental sense is admirable.” Agatha gives a small, coaxing smile. “But if Mackenzie doesn’t mind…”
“I don’t mind at all,” I say, mustering a calm I don’t feel.
“Lovely,” says Agatha, turning her attention to Roland and Patrick. “You’re both excused. Surely you’ve got your hands full right now.”
Patrick leaves without looking at me. Roland hesitates, and I beg him with a look for news of Wes, but it goes unanswered as he retreats into the Archive and closes the doors behind him.
“You’ve had quite an exciting few days,” says Agatha. “Sit.”
I do. She sits down behind the desk.
“Before we begin, I believe you have a key you shouldn’t have. Please place it on the desk.”
I stiffen. There’s only one way out of the Archive—the door at my back—and it requires a key. I force myself to take Da’s old Crew key from my pocket and set it on the desk between us. It takes all my strength to withdraw my hand and leave the key there.
Agatha folds her hands and nods approvingly.
“You don’t know anything about me, Miss Bishop,” she says, which isn’t true. “But I know about you. It’s my job. I know about you, and about Owen, and about Carmen. And I know you’ve discovered a lot about the Archive. Most of which we’d rather you’d learned in due course. You must have questions.”
Of course I have questions. I have nothing but questions. And it feels like a trap to ask, but I have to know.
“A friend of mine was wounded by one of the Histories involved in the recent attacks. Do you know what happened to him?”
Agatha offers an indulgent smile. “Wesley Ayers is alive.”
These are the four greatest words I’ve ever heard.
“It was close,” she adds. “He’s still recovering. But your loyalty is touching.”
I try to soothe my frayed nerves. “I’ve heard it’s an important quality in Crew.”
“Loyal and ambitious,” she notes. “Anything else you want to ask?”
The gold key glints on its black ribbon, and I hesitate.
“For instance,” she prompts cheerfully, “I imagine you’re wondering why we keep the origin of the Librarians a secret. Why we keep so many things a secret.”
Agatha has a dangerous ease about her. She’s the kind of person you want to like you. I don’t trust it at all, but I nod.
“The Archive must be staffed,” she says. “There must always be Keepers in the Narrows. There must always be Crew in the Outer. And there must always be Librarians in the Archive. It is a choice, Mackenzie, do know that. It’s simply a matter of when the choice is given.”
“You wait until they’re dead,” I say, straining to keep the contempt from my voice. “Wake them on their shelves when they can’t say no.”
“Won’t, Mackenzie, is a very different thing from can’t.” She sits forward in her chair. “I’ll be honest with you. I think you deserve a bit of honesty. Keepers worry about being Keepers, and rest assured that they’ll learn about being Crew if and when the time comes. Crew worry about being Crew, and rest assured that they’ll learn about being Librarians if and when the time comes. We’ve found that the easiest way to keep people focused is to give them one thing to focus on. The question is, given the influx of distraction, will you be able to continue focusing?”
She’s asking me, but I know my fate doesn’t lie in my decision. It lies in hers. I’m a loose thread. Owen is gone. Carmen is gone. But I’m here. And even after everything, or maybe because of everything, I need to remember. I don’t want to be erased. I don’t want to have the Archive cut out of my life. I don’t want to die. My hands start shaking, so I hold them beneath the edge of the table.
“Mackenzie?” nudges Agatha.
There’s only one thing I can do, and I’m not sure I can pull it off, but I don’t have a choice. I smile. “My mother says there’s nothing that a hot shower can’t fix.”
Agatha laughs a soft, perfect laugh. “I can see why Roland fights for you.”
She stands, circles the desk, one hand brushing its surface.
“The Archive is a machine,” she says. “A machine whose purpose is to protect the past. To protect knowledge.”
“Knowledge is power,” I say. “That’s the saying, right?”