The Unbound: An Archived Novel Part 7

"It's showing."

I cringe. I'm trying so hard, but I know he's right. And if he can see it, Agatha could, too.

My head starts to hurt.

Roland cranes his neck, looking up at the stained gla.s.s that interrupts the highest part of the walls and trails like smoke onto the ceiling. The Archive is always bright, lit by some unseen source, but the s.h.i.+fting light beyond the windows is an illusion, a way to suggest change in a static world. Right now, the windows are dark, and I wonder if Roland sees something in them I don't, because when his eyes sink back to mine he says, "We have some time."

"For what?" I ask, but he's already walking away.

"Follow me."

EIGHT.

I'M THIRTEEN, covered in blood, and sitting cross-legged on a table in a sterile room. I've been a Keeper for less than six months, and this isn't the first time I've landed in the medical wing of the Archive. Roland stands out of the way, arms crossed over his chest while Patrick prepares a cold pack.

"He was twice my size," I say, clutching a b.l.o.o.d.y cloth to my nose.

"Isn't everyone?" asks Patrick. He's only been at the branch a couple weeks. He doesn't like me very much.

"You're not helping," says Roland.

"I thought that's exactly what I was doing," snaps Patrick. "Helping. You called in a favor, and here I am, patching up your little pet project off the books."

I murmur something unkind behind the cloth, one of the many phrases I picked up from Da. Patrick doesn't hear it, but Roland must, because he raises a brow.

"Miss Bishop," he says, addressing Patrick, "is one of our most promising Keepers. She wouldn't be here if the council had not voted her through."

Patrick gives Roland a weighted look. "Did they vote her through, or did you?"

Roland's gray eyes narrow a fraction. "I would remind you who you're speaking to."

Patrick lets off a short sigh like steam and turns his attention back to me, pulling the cloth from my grip to examine the damage over his gla.s.ses. It hurts like h.e.l.l, but I try not to let it show as he presses the cold pack against my face and repositions my hand over it.

"You're lucky it's not broken," he says, peeling off a pair of plastic gloves.

Roland winks. "Our girl, she's made of steel."

I smile a little behind the cold pack. I like the idea of that. Being a girl of steel.

"Hardheaded," says Patrick. "Keep it iced and try not to get punched in the face again."

"I'll do my best," I say, the words m.u.f.fled by the cold pack. "But it's so much fun."

Roland chuckles. Patrick packs up his things and leaves, muttering something that sounds like useless under his breath. I watch him go.

"You threw your arms up when the History took a swing at you," says Roland casually. "Is that what happened?"

I look down and nod. I should have known better. Da taught me better, but it was like two different lessons, in practice and in truth, and I wasn't ready. Da said the right moves have to be like reflex, not just learned but known, and now I see why. There was no time to think, only act. React. My arms came up and the History's fist hit them and they hit me. Heat spreads across my cheeks, even under the cold pack.

"Hop down," he says, uncrossing his arms. "And show me what you did."

I get off the table and set the cold pack aside. Roland throws a punch, slow as syrup, and I bring my arms up, crossed at the wrists. His fist comes to rest lightly against them, and he considers me over my raised hands.

"There is no right pose to strike, no position to take. The worst thing you can do in a fight is stop moving. When someone attacks, they create force, movement, momentum, but you'll be okay as long as you can see and feel the direction of that force and travel with it." He puts some weight behind his fist, s.h.i.+fting to one side as he leans forward. I let myself s.h.i.+ft to the same side and back, and his fist slides away. He nods. "There we go. Now, better get that ice back on your face."

Steps echo in the hall beyond the room, and Roland's gray eyes flick to the door.

"I should go," I say, taking the cold pack with me. But when I get to the door, I hesitate. "Do you regret it?" I ask. "Voting me through?"

Roland folds his arms across his chest. "Not at all," he says with a smile. "You make things infinitely more interesting."

"Where are we going?" I ask under my breath. Roland doesn't answer, only leads me out of the aisle and down the sixth hall that branches off the atrium. The Archive is a network of mismatched s.p.a.ces, branching and intersecting in a system only the Librarians seem able to comprehend. Every time I follow someone through the maze, I struggle to keep hold of my bearings as I count the turns. But tonight, instead of guiding me on a winding path across landings, down corridors, through rooms, Roland goes straight, straight to the very end of the very long hall and through a smaller set of doors set into the end.

We end up in another hallway, one much shorter, narrower, and dimly lit. He hesitates, glancing around to see and hear if we're alone.

"Where are we?" I ask when it's clear that we are.

"Librarians' quarters," he answers before setting off again. Halfway down the hall, he reaches a simple dark-paneled door and stops. "Here we go."

The door opens into a cozy room with pale striped walls, spa.r.s.ely furnished with a daybed, a low-backed leather chair, and a table. Cla.s.sical music whispers from a device on the wall, and Roland moves through the small s.p.a.ce with the comfort of someone who knows every inch of it.

He crosses to the table and absently drops the folder he's been carrying into a drawer before pulling something s.h.i.+ny from his pocket. He runs his thumb over the surface once before setting it on top of the table. The gesture is at once worn and gentle, reverent. When he pulls his hand away, I see that the object is a silver pocket watch. It's old, and I can't keep my pulse from quickening when my eyes settle on it. The only objects that come into the Archive arrive on the bodies of Histories. Either he snagged the watch from a body or it came in with his.

"It doesn't work anymore," says Roland, sensing my interest. "Not here." He gestures to the daybed. "Sit."

I sink onto the soft cus.h.i.+on and run a hand over a black blanket folded on the bed beside me. "I didn't think you needed sleep," I say, feeling awkward. It's still so hard to process the idea that he's...not alive.

"Need is a strange thing," he says, methodically rolling up his sleeves. "Physical needs make you feel human. The lack of them can make you feel less so. I don't sleep, no, but I rest. I go through the motions. It provides a psychological relief rather than a physical one. Now try to get some rest."

I shake my head, even as my body begs me to lie down. "I can't," I say quietly.

Roland sits down in the low-backed leather chair opposite, his gold Archive key gleaming against the front of his s.h.i.+rt. Keeper keys unlock doors to the Narrows; Crew keys unlock shortcuts in the Outer; Archive keys unlock Histories, turning them on and off like appliances, not people. I wonder what it would feel like to turn a life off with a single twist of metal. I remember Carmen holding hers out to me, remember the pins-and-needles numbness that shot up my hand when I tried to wrap my fingers around it.

"Miss Bishop," says Roland, his voice drawing my attention up. "You have to try."

"I don't believe in ghosts, Roland. But it's like he's haunting me. Every time I close my eyes, he's there."

"He's gone," says Roland simply.

"Are you sure?" I whisper, thinking of the fear and the pain that follow me out of my nightmares. "It's like there's a part of him that dug its nails into my head and held on. I see him when I close my eyes, and he feels so real.... I feel like I'm going to wake up and he'll still be there."

"Well," says Roland, "you sleep, and I'll keep an eye out for him."

I laugh sadly, but don't lie down. I need to tell him about the blackouts. It would be so much easier not to tell him-he's already worried, and it will only make things worse-but I need to know if I'm losing it, and since I'm the one shot through with nightmares and missing moments, I don't think I'm the best judge.

"Something happened today," I say quietly. "In the Narrows."

Roland steeples his fingers. "Tell me."

"I...I lost time."

Roland sits forward. "What do you mean?"

"I was hunting, and I... It was like I blacked out." I roll my bad wrist. "I was awake, but one minute I was one place, and the next I was somewhere else, and I couldn't remember how I'd gotten there. It was just blank. It came back, though," I add, "after I calmed down."

I don't say how shaky the memory was and how I had to fight to recover it.

Roland's gray eyes darken. "Is this the first time?"

In response, my gaze escapes to the floor.

"How many times?" he asks.

"Just once. A couple weeks ago."

"You should have told me."

I look up. "I didn't think it would happen again."

Roland shoves up from his chair and begins to pace. He should tell me it's going to be okay, but he doesn't bother lying. Bad dreams are one thing. Blacking out on the job is another. We both know what happens to a member of the Archive if they're deemed unfit. There is no such thing as a leave of absence here.

I look up at the cream-colored ceiling.

"How many Keepers lose their minds?" I ask.

Roland shakes his head. "You're not losing your mind, Mackenzie."

I give him a skeptical look.

"You've been through a lot. What you're experiencing, it sounds like residual trauma and extreme fatigue, paired with the influx of adrenaline, are triggering a kind of tunnel vision. It's a feasible reaction."

"I don't care if it's feasible. How do I make sure it doesn't happen again?"

"You need rest. You need to sleep," he says, a note of desperation working its way into his voice as he slumps back down in his chair. His gray eyes are worried, a paler version of the fear that flashed through them when Agatha first summoned me to be a.s.sessed. "Please try."

I hesitate, but finally nod, slide off my shoes, and curl up on the daybed, resting my head on the folded blanket. I consider telling him that I think I'm being followed, too, but I can't will the words out.

"Do you regret it yet?" I ask. "Voting me through?"

His mouth twitches, but I don't hear his answer, because my body is already betraying me, dragging me down into sleep.

When I wake, the room is empty, and for a split second I can't remember where I am or how I got here. But then I hear the whisper of cla.s.sical music from the device on the wall and remember that I'm in the Archive, in Roland's quarters.

I blink away sleep, marveling at the fact it doesn't cling to me. No dreams. No nightmares. For the first time in days. Weeks. I allow a small, breathless laugh to escape. My eyes burn from the sheer relief of a few hours' sleep without Owen and his knife.

I fold the blanket Roland let me borrow and return it to the corner of the daybed before getting up. I switch the music off as I pad across the cloisterlike s.p.a.ce. Behind a door left ajar on the far wall, I find several versions of his self-a.s.signed uniform: slacks and sweaters and b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rts. I look around for a clock even though I know there isn't one. My eyes go to the silver pocket watch, still on top of the side table. It doesn't work, but I find myself reaching absently for it when my attention slides to the drawer beneath.

It is barely ajar, just enough for me to see another glint of metal, and when I take the drawer in both hands and slide it open-the wood utters a soft hush-I find two worn silver coins and a notebook no larger than my palm. I lift the notebook. The paper edges are yellowed and fragile, and when I peel the cover back, I find a date written in elegant script in the bottom corner.

1819.

The next several pages are filled with notes too small and old to read, and mingled with them, pencil sketches. A stone facade. A river. A woman. The name Evelyn runs in his careful script under her throat.

The journal sings beneath my fingers, br.i.m.m.i.n.g with memories, and I hesitate to put the book back. Roland has always been a mystery. He never wanted to talk about the life he'd left behind, the one he claimed he'd go back to when he was done serving. But now I know he didn't leave a life behind at all, not willingly, and he'll never go back to it.

The question "Who is Roland?" has become "Who was Roland?" and before I can stop myself, I close my eyes and reach for the thread of memory in the notebook. I catch hold, and time turns back. It rolls away, and darkness ripples into an alleyway at night: a young, smudged Roland standing beneath a pool of flickering lamplight. He's cradling the notebook in one hand as he shades in the woman's hair with a short stub of pencil and pins a slip of paper to the opposite page with his thumb. As he draws, letters bleed onto the slip. A name. He snaps the notebook shut and checks his pocket watch, three Crew lines spreading like a shadow across the inside of his wrist.

The sound of voices draws me out of the memory, and I set the notebook back into the table drawer as the door groans a little under someone's weight, but doesn't open.

I hold my breath as I ease the drawer shut and step toward the door and the voices on the other side. When I press my ear against it, I can hear his melodic voice and just the edges of Lisa's soft, even tone. And then my chest tightens as I realize they're talking about me.

"No," says Roland quietly, "I realize it's not a permanent solution. But she just needs time. And rest," he adds. "She's been through a lot."

Another murmur.

"No," replies Roland. "It hasn't come to that yet. And it won't."

I force myself away from the door as he echoes, "I know, I know."

When Roland comes back into the room, I'm sitting on the floor, lacing up my shoes.

"Miss Bishop," he says. "How are you feeling?"

"Like a new person," I say, getting to my feet. "How long was I out?"

"Four hours."

Four hours, and I want to cry. How mended could I feel with eight? "It's amazing," I say. "The difference. To be free of Owen for a night."