“And do you believe in that place?” she asks.
I let the question hang in the air a few long seconds before answering. “I wanted to.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Owen’s mouth tug into a smile.
Hook. Line. Sinker.
“Why the ledger?” I ask as soon as we’re out.
Everyone else is going to lunch, and I’ve chosen a path that rings the campus—a large, circuitous route few students use when they can cut across the quad—so that we can talk in private.
“How much do you know about it?” he asks.
“It sits on the desk in the antechamber. It has one page for every member of the branch. It’s how the Archive communicates with its Keepers and Crew.”
“Exactly,” says Owen. “But at the front of it, before the pages for the Keepers and the Crew, there is one page labeled ALL. A message written on that page would go out to everyone in the book.”
“Which is why you need it,” I say. “You need to be able to contact everyone at once.”
“It is the only connector in a world divided,” says Owen. “The Archive can silence one voice, but not if it’s written on that page. They cannot stop the message from spreading.”
“It’s your match,” I whisper. “To start the fire.”
Owen nods, his eyes bright with hope. “Carmen was supposed to take it, but she obviously failed.”
“When do we take it?”
“Tonight,” he says.
“Why wait?”
Owen gives me a pitying look. “We can’t just walk up to the front desk and rip the page out of the book. We need something to distract the Archive. We don’t need something long, but we need something bright.” He gestures to the quad, where the stalls and booths and decorations are still being erected.
“Fall Fest?” I ask. “But how will something in the Outer distract the Archive?”
“It will,” he says. “Trust me.” Trust. Something I will never feel for Owen. Warning lights go off inside my head. The more factors, the less I can control.
“You and I, Mackenzie, we are the same.” I attacked him once for that very idea, but this time I hold my tongue. “Everyone in the Archive has doubts, but theirs whisper and ours shout. We are the ones who question. We are the bringers of change. Those who run the Archive, who cling to their rules, are terrified of us. And they should be.”
Something sparks inside me at the thought of being feared instead of afraid. I smother it.
“And tonight we will…” He trails off, eyes fixed on something down the path. Not something, I realize. Someone.
Wesley.
He’s standing on the path, holding his lunch tray and talking to Amber. I’ve been clinging to the hope that even if he saw him, Owen might not recognize Wes—the boy he stabbed on the roof of the Coronado had spiked hair and lined eyes and a different manner—but Owen frowns and says, “Didn’t I kill him?”
“You tried,” I say as, to my horror, Wesley catches sight of me and waves before turning back to Amber.
“I saw him written on your skin, but I didn’t realize the marks were so fresh,” says Owen, withdrawing his knife from its holster with one hand, gripping my arm with the other. “You’ve been keeping a secret,” he growls, quiet forcing through my head.
He has nothing to do with our plans, I think as calmly as possible. But this time, the plural pronoun does nothing to placate Owen.
“He is a tether to the life you’re leaving,” he says, tightening his grip. “A rope to be cut.” He twirls the knife.
No. My mind spins with his blade. He can be salvaged. If your grand scheme is for the Keepers and Crew to rise up against the Archive, you’ll need every one of them you can get. And when the call goes out, he’ll stand with me. Killing him would be a waste.
“I’m not convinced of that,” says Owen. “And don’t pretend to be pragmatic where he’s concerned.”
“Fine,” I say, pulling free of his touch, “if you don’t want to listen to logic, then listen to this: this isn’t Wesley’s fight. I haven’t dragged him into it, and neither will you. If you hurt him in any way, you will never get my help. Trust me.”
Owen’s eyes harden. The knife stops spinning, snapping into his grip. For a second his fingers tighten on the handle. Then, to my relief, he puts the weapon away and falls in step behind me.
“Hey, you,” says Wesley, waiting for me to reach him before setting off again toward the Court. My eyes go to his hands to make sure he’s wearing his ring. He is.
“Why weren’t you in Physiology?” asks Amber.
“Doctor’s appointment,” I lie.
“We were just talking about the cops on campus,” says Wesley. “Did you see them?” He’s asking another question underneath the words: Do you know why they’re here?
I shake my head. “No. Amber, do you know what’s up?”
“No idea,” she says with a groan. “Dad’s not giving me anything.”
“The elusive Mackenzie Bishop!” calls Cash as we reach the Court. “No lunch?”
“Not hungry,” I say. Owen wanders over to the Alchemist and watches the scene unfold, and it’s all I can do to keep from looking at him.
“Missed you again in gym,” he says. “Another meeting?”
I’m about to go with “doctor’s appointment” again, but Saf cuts in.
“Gee, what kind of meeting forces you to miss gym multiple days in a row?”
“Don’t be an ass, Saf,” shoots her brother. “You were sent to Dallas, like, seven times last year.”
“It was three, jerk.”
Cash turns his attention to me. “Point is, no big deal. We’ve all been there. Eventually your parents come up with an excuse, or the school does.”
“What did they send you for?” I ask, eager to turn the attention on someone else.
“Hyperactivity,” he announces proudly.
“Perfectionism,” says Saf.
“Stress-induced anxiety,” adds Amber.
“Antisocial tendencies,” says Gavin.
All eyes go to Wesley. “Depression,” he says, twisting a straw absently around his fingers. My heart aches at the thought of Wes suffering. I imagine us in bed, imagine myself pulling him in against me, wrapping my arms around him and warding off his demons. He’s worth it, I think. And I will not—cannot—drag him into this mess.
“And you, Mackenzie?” asks Cash, drawing my attention back. “What have you done to land yourself in Dallas’s office?”
My eyes flick toward Owen. “Apparently I have a problem with authority.” I say.
“Is that why you can’t go to the dance?” asks Gavin. Owen frowns.
“Actually,” I say lightly, “I’ll be there after all.”
Wesley’s eyes light up. “Really?” he asks with a smile. It breaks my heart.
“Yeah,” I say, forcing myself to echo his happiness. “Really.”
I’m relieved as the conversation turns toward the more innocuous topics of whether Saf and Cash will put gold streaks in their hair and what color glasses Gavin will wear. I’m no longer looking at Owen or Wes, but I can’t shake the feeling that both pairs of eyes are still studying me. Wesley’s pretending to listen to something Amber says, but every time I look up, I notice him glancing my way, and Owen’s watching me like a hawk. And then Wesley’s attention starts drifting away from me toward the Alchemist, and it occurs to me for the first time that even though he can’t see Owen, he might be able to sense him. Owen seems to be realizing this, too. He stays quiet and still against the statue, his eyes narrowed in Wesley’s direction. Wes returns the gaze without seeing. They both frown.