“I left a ball of Oreo filling out for months one time,” says Wesley. “It never got hard. Lot of unnatural things in the world.”
A laugh escapes my lips, echoes off the granite and glass of the hollowed coffee shop. The laugh is easy, and it feels so, so good. And then Wes picks up the book, and I pick up my sponge, and he promises to read as long as I keep cleaning. I turn back to my work as he clears his throat and starts. I scrub the counter four times just so he won’t stop.
For an hour, the world is perfect.
And then I look down at the frosted blue of the soap, and my mind drifts, of all things, to Owen. Who is he? And what’s he doing in my territory? Some small part of me thinks he was a phantom, that maybe I’ve split myself into one too many pieces. But he seemed real enough, driving the knife into Hooper’s chest.
“Question,” I say, and Wes’s reading trails off. “You said you covered the Coronado’s doors. That this place was shared.” Wes nods. “Were there any other Keepers covering it?”
“Not since I got my key last year. There was a woman at first, but she moved away. Why?”
“Just curious,” I say automatically.
His mouth quirks. “If you’re going to lie to me, you’ll have to try a bit harder.”
“It’s not a big deal. There was an incident in my territory. I’ve just been thinking about it.” My words skirt around Owen and land on Hooper. “There was this adult—”
His eyes go wide. “Adult History? Like a Keeper-Killer?”
I nod. “I took care of it, but…”
He misreads my question about the Keepers on patrol.
“Do you want me to go with you?”
“Where?”
“In the Narrows. If you’re worried—”
“I’m not—” I growl.
“I could go with you, for protect—”
I lift the sponge. “Finish that word,” I say, ready to pitch it at his head. To his credit, he backs down, the sentence fading into a crooked smile. Just then, something scratches my leg. I drop the sponge back to the counter, tug off the plastic gloves, and dig out the list. I frown. The two names, Melanie Allen. 10. and Jena Freeth. 14. hover near the top of the page, but instead of a third name below them, I find a note.
Miss Bishop, please report to the Archive. —R
R, for Roland. Wesley is lounging in the chair, one leg over the side. I turn the paper for him to see.
“A summons?” he asks. “Look at you.”
My stomach sinks, and for a moment I feel like I’m sitting in the back of English class when the intercom clicks on, ordering me to the principal’s office. But then I remember the favor I asked of Roland, and my heart skips. Did he find the murdered girl?
“Go on,” says Wesley, rolling up his sleeves and reaching for my discarded plastic gloves. “I’ll cover for you.”
“But what if Mom comes in?”
“I’m going to meet Mrs. Bishop eventually. You do realize that.”
I can dream.
“Go on now,” he presses.
“Are you sure?”
He’s already taking up the sponge. He cocks his head at me, silver glinting in his ears. He paints quite a picture, decked in black, a teasing smile and a pair of lemon-yellow gloves.
“What’s the matter?” he asks, wielding the sponge like a weapon. “Doesn’t it look like I know what I’m doing?”
I laugh, pocket the list, and head for the closet in the back of the café. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” I hear the slosh of water, a muttered curse, the sounds of a body slipping on a slick floor.
“Try not to hurt yourself,” I call, vanishing among the brooms.
THIRTEEN
CLASSICAL MUSIC WHISPERS through the circular antechamber of the Archive.
Patrick is sitting at the desk, trying to focus on something while Roland leans over him, wielding a pen. A Librarian I’ve never spoken to—though I’ve heard her called Beth—is standing at the entrance to the atrium, making notes, her reddish hair plaited down her back. Roland looks up as I step forward.
“Miss Bishop!” he says cheerfully, dropping the pen on top of Patrick’s papers and coming to meet me. He guides me off in the direction of the stacks, making small talk, but as soon as we turn down a wing on the far side of the atrium, his features grow stern, set.
“Did you find the girl?” I ask.
“No,” he says, leading me through a tight corridor and up a flight of stairs. We cross a landing and end up in a reading room that’s blue and gold and smells like old paper, faded but pleasant. “There’s no one in the branch that fits your description or the time line.”
“That’s not possible; you must not have searched wide—” I say.
“Miss Bishop, I scrounged up whatever I could on every female resident—”
“Maybe she wasn’t a resident. Maybe she was just visiting.”
“If she died in the Coronado, she’d be shelved in this branch. She isn’t.”
“I know what I saw.”
“Mackenzie—”
She has to be here. If I can’t find her, I can’t find her killer. “She existed. I saw her.”
“I’m not questioning that you did.”
Panic claws through me. “How could someone have erased her from both places, Roland? And why did you call me here? If there’s no record of this girl—”
“I didn’t find her,” says Roland, “but I found someone else.” He crosses the room and opens one of the drawers, gesturing to the History on the shelf. From his receding hairline to his slight paunch to his worn loafers, the man looks…ordinary. His clothes are dated but clean, his features impassive in his deathlike sleep.
“This is Marcus Elling,” Roland says quietly.
“And what does he have to do with the girl I saw?”
“According to his memories, he was also a resident on the third floor of the Coronado from the hotel’s conversion in 1950 until his death in 1953.”
“He lived on the same floor as the girl, and died in the same time frame?”
“That’s not all,” says Roland. “Put your hand on his chest.”
I hesitate. I’ve never read a History. Only the Librarians are allowed to read the dead. Only they know how, and it’s an infraction for anyone else to even try. But Roland looks shaken, so I put my hand on Elling’s sweater. The History feels like every other History. Quiet.
“Close your eyes,” he says, and I do.
And then Roland puts his hand over mine and presses down. My fingers instantly go numb, and it feels like my mind is being shoved into someone else’s body, pushed into a shape that doesn’t fit my own. I wait for the memories to start, but they don’t. I’m left in total darkness. Typically, memories start with the present and rewind, and I’ve been told the lives of Histories are no different. They begin with their end, their most recent memory. Their death.
But Marcus Elling has no death. I spin back for ten solid seconds of flat black before the dark dissolves into static, and then the static shifts into light and motion and memory. Elling carrying a sack of groceries up the stairs.
The weight of Roland’s hand lifts from mine, and Elling vanishes. I blink.
“His death is missing,” I say.
“Exactly.”
“How is that even possible? He’s like a book with the last pages torn out.”
“That is, in effect, exactly what he is,” says Roland. “He’s been altered.”
“What does that mean?”
He scuffs one sneaker against the floor. “It means removing a memory, or memories. Carving the moments out. It’s occasionally done in the Outer to protect the Archive. Secrecy, you have to understand, is key to our existence. Only a select few members of Crew are capable of and trained to do alterations, and only when absolutely necessary. It’s neither an easy nor a pleasant task.”
“So Marcus Elling had some kind of contact with the Archive? Something that merited wiping the end of his memory?”
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Roland shakes his head. “No, altering is sanctioned only in the Outer, and only to shield the Archive from exposure. If he were dead or dying, there’d be no risk of exposure. In this case, the History was altered after he was shelved. The alteration’s old—you can tell by the way the edges are fraying—so it was probably right after he arrived.”
“But that means that whoever did it wanted Elling’s death hidden from people here in the Archive.”
Roland nods. “And the severity of the implication…the fact that this happened…it’s…”
I say what he won’t. “Only a Librarian possesses the skills to read a History, so only a Librarian would be able to alter one.”
His voice slides toward a whisper. “And to do so goes against the principles of this establishment. Altering is used to modify the memories of the living, not bury the lives of the dead.”
I stare down at Marcus Elling’s face, as if his body can tell me something his memories couldn’t. We now have a girl with no History, and a History with no death. I thought I was being paranoid, thought that Hooper could have been a glitch, that maybe Jackson stole the knife. But if a Librarian was willing to do this, to break the cardinal oath of the Archive, then maybe a Librarian was behind the malfunctioning list and the weapon too. But whoever altered Elling would be long gone by now…right?
Roland looks down at the body, a deep crease forming between his brows. I’ve never seen him look so worried.
And yet he is the one who asks me if I’m all right. “You seem quiet,” he adds.
I want to tell him about the Keeper-Killer and the Archive knife, but one has been returned and the other is strapped to my calf beneath my jeans, so instead I ask, “Who would do this?”
He shakes his head. “I honestly don’t know.”
“Don’t you have a file or something on Elling? Maybe there are clues—”
“He is the file, Miss Bishop.”
With that he closes the drawer on Elling and leads me from the reading room back to the stairs.
“I’ll keep looking into this,” he says, pausing at the top of the steps. “But Mackenzie, if a Librarian was responsible for this, it’s possible they were acting alone, defying the Archive. Or it’s possible they had a reason. It’s even possible they were following orders. By investigating these deaths, we’re investigating the Archive itself. And that is a dangerous pursuit. Before we go any further, you need to understand the risks.”
There’s a long pause, and I can see Roland searching for words. “Altering is used in the Outer to eliminate witnesses. But it’s also used on members of the Archive if they choose to leave service…or if they’re deemed unfit.”
My heart lurches in my chest. I’m sure the shock is written on my face. “You mean to tell me that if I lose my job, I lose my life?”
He won’t look at me. “Any memories pertaining to the Archive and any work done on its behalf—”
“That is my life, Roland. Why wasn’t I told?” My voice gets louder, echoing in the stairs, and Roland’s eyes narrow.
“Would it have changed your mind?” he asks quietly.
I hesitate. “No.”
“Well, it would change some people’s minds. Numbers in the Archive are thin as it is. We cannot afford to lose more.”
“So you lie?”
He manages a sad smile. “An omission is not the same thing as a lie, Miss Bishop. It’s a manipulation. You as a Keeper should know the varying degrees of falsehood.”
I clench my fists. “Are you trying to make a joke about this? Because I don’t find the prospect of being erased, or altered, or whatever the hell you want to call it very funny.”
My trial plays back like a reel in my head.
If she proves herself unfit in any way, she will forfeit the position.
And if she proves unfit, you, Roland, will remove her yourself.
Would he really do that to me, carve the Keeper out of me, strip away my memories of this world, of this life, of Da? What would be left?
And then, as if he can read my thoughts, Roland says, “I’d never let it happen. You have my word.”
I want to believe him, but he’s not the only Librarian here. “What about Patrick?” I ask. “He’s always threatening to report me. And he mentioned someone named Agatha. Who is she, Roland?”
“She’s an…assessor. She determines if a member of the Archive is fit.” Before I can open my mouth, he adds, “She won’t be a problem. I promise. And I can handle Patrick.”
I run my fingers through my hair, dazed. “Aren’t you breaking a rule just by telling me this?”
Roland sighs. “We are breaking a great many rules right now. That’s the point. And you need to grasp that before this goes any further. You can still walk away.”
But I won’t. And he knows it.
“I’m glad you told me.” I’m not, not at all, I’m still reeling; but I have to focus. I have my job, and I have my mind, and I have a mystery to solve.
“But what about Librarians?” I ask as we descend the steps. “You talk about retiring. About what you’ll do when you’re done serving. But you won’t even remember. You’ll just be a man full of holes.”
“Librarians are exempt,” he says when he reaches the base of the steps, but there’s something hollow in his voice. “When we retire, we get to keep our memories. Call it a reward.” He tries to smile and doesn’t quite manage it. “Even more reason for you to work hard and move up those ranks, Miss Bishop. Now, if you’re certain—”
“I am.”
We head down the corridor back to the atrium.
“So what now?” I ask softly as we pass a QUIET PLEASE sign on the end of a line of stacks.
“You’re going to do your job. I’m going to keep looking—”
“Then I’ll keep looking, too. You look here, and I’ll look in the Outer—”
“Mackenzie—”
“Between the two of us we’ll find out who’s—”
The sound of footsteps stops me midsentence as we round a set of stacks and nearly collide with Lisa and Carmen. A third Librarian, the one with the red braid, is walking a few steps behind them, but when we all pull up short, she continues on.
“Back so soon, Miss Bishop?” asks Lisa, but the question lacks Patrick’s scorn.
“Hello, Roland,” says Carmen, and then, warming when she sees me, “Hello, Mackenzie.” Her sun-blond hair is pulled back, and once again I’m struck by how young she looks. I know that age is an illusion here, that she’s older now than she was when she arrived, even if it doesn’t show, but I still don’t get it. I can see why some of the older Librarians choose the safety of this world over the constant danger of Keeper or Crew. But why would she?
“Hello, Carmen,” says Roland, smiling stiffly. “I was just explaining to Miss Bishop”—he accentuates the formality—“how the different sections work.” He reaches out and touches the name card on the nearest shelf. “White stacks, red stacks, black stacks. That sort of thing.”
The placards are color-coded—white cards for ordinary Histories, red for those who’ve woken, black for those who’ve made it to the Outer—but I’ve only ever seen white stacks. The red and black are kept separately, deep within the branch, where the quiet is thick. I’ve known about the color system for a full two years, but I simply nod.
“Stay out of seven, three, five,” says Lisa. As if on cue, there’s a low sound, like far-off thunder, and she cringes. “We’re having a slight technical difficulty.”
Roland frowns but doesn’t question. “I was just leading Miss Bishop back to the desk.”
The two women nod and walk on. Roland and I return to the front desk in silence. Patrick glances back through the doors and sees us coming, and gathers up his things.
“Thank you,” says Roland, “for standing in.”
“I even left your music going.”
“How kind of you,” Roland says, managing a shadow of his usual charm. He takes a seat at the desk
as Patrick strides off, a folder tucked under his arm. I head for the Archive door.
“Miss Bishop.”
I look back at Roland. “Yes?”
“Don’t tell anyone,” he says.
I nod.
“And please,” he adds, “be careful.”
I force a smile. “Always.”
I step into the Narrows, shivering despite the warm air. I haven’t hunted since the incident with Hooper and Owen, and I feel stiff, more on edge than usual. It’s not just the hunt that has me coiled, it’s also the new fear of failing the Archive, of being found unfit. And at the same time, the fear of not being able to leave. I wish Roland had never told me.
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
My chest tightens, and I force myself to take a long, steadying breath. The Narrows is enough to make me claustrophobic on a good day, and I can’t afford to be distracted like this right now, so I resolve to put it out of my mind and focus on clearing my list and keeping my job. I’m about to bring my hands to the wall when something stops me.
Sounds—the stretched-out, far-off kind—drift through the halls, and I close my eyes, trying to break them down. Too abstract to be words; the tones dissolve into a breeze, a thrum, a…melody?
I stiffen.
Somewhere in the Narrows, someone is humming.
I blink and push off the wall, thinking of the two girls still on my list. But the voice is low and male, and Histories don’t sing. They shout and cry and scream and pound on walls and beg, but they don’t sing.
The sound wafts through the halls; it takes me a moment to figure out which direction it’s coming from. I turn a corner, then another, the notes taking shape until I round a third and see him. A shock of blond hair at the far end of the hall. His back is to me, his hands in his pockets and his neck craned as if he’s looking up at the ceilingless Narrows, in search of stars.
“Owen?”
The song dies off, but he doesn’t turn.
“Owen,” I call again, taking a step toward him.
He glances over his shoulder, startling blue eyes alight in the dark, just as something slams into me, hard. Combat boots and a pink sundress, and short brown hair around huge blackening eyes. The History collides with me, and then she’s off again, sprinting down the hall. I’m up and after her, thankful the pink of her dress is bright and the metal on her shoes is loud, but she runs fast. I finally chance a shortcut and catch her, but she thrashes and fights, apparently convinced I’m some kind of monster, which—as I’m half carrying, half dragging her to the nearest Returns door—maybe I am.