The Archived (29 page)

A
GATHA, 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?”

“Yes. But power in the wrong hands, in too many hands, leads to danger and dissent.
You’ve seen the damage caused by two.”

I resist the urge to look away. “My grandfather used to say that every strong storm
starts with a breeze.”

She crosses behind me, and I curl my fingers around the seat of the chair, pain screaming
through my wounded wrist.

“He sounds like a very wise man,” she says. One hand comes to rest on the back of
the chair.

“He was,” I say.

And then I close my eyes because I know this is it. I picture the gold key plunging
through the chair, the metal burying itself in my back. I wonder if it will hurt,
having my life hollowed out. I swallow hard and wait. But nothing happens.

“Miss Bishop,” says Agatha, “secrets are an unpleasant necessity, but they have a
place and a purpose here. They protect us. And they protect those we care about.”
The threat is subtle but clear.

“Knowledge is power,” she finishes, and I open my eyes to find her rounding the chair,
“but ignorance can be a blessing.”

“I agree,” I say, and then I find her gaze and hold it. “But once you know, you can’t
go back. Not really. You can carve out someone’s memories, but they won’t be who they
were before. They’ll just be full of holes. Given the choice, I’d rather learn to
live with what I know.”

The room around us settles into silence until, at last, Agatha smiles. “Let’s hope
you’re making the right choice.” She pulls something from the pocket of her ivory
coat and places it in my palm, closing my fingers over it with her gloved hand.

“Let’s hope I am, too,” she says, her hand over mine. When she pulls away, I look
down to find a Keeper’s key nestled there, lighter than the one Da gave me, and too
new, but still a handle and a stem and teeth and, most of all, the freedom to go home.

“Is that all?” I ask quietly.

Agatha lets the question hang. At last she nods and says, “For now.”

B
ISHOP’S IS PACKED
with people.

It’s only been two days since my meeting with Agatha, and the coffee shop is nowhere
near finished—half the equipment hasn’t even been delivered—but after the less-than-successful
Welcome!
muffins, Mom insisted on throwing a soft opening for the residents, complete with
free coffee and baked goods.

She beams and serves and chats, and even though she’s operating at her suspiciously
bright full-wattage, she does seem happy. Dad talks coffee with three or four men,
leads them behind the counter to see the new grinding machine Mom broke down and got
for him. A trio of kids, Jill among them, sits on the patio, dangling their legs in
the sun and sipping iced drinks, sharing a muffin between them. A little girl at a
corner table doodles on a paper mat with blue crayons. Mom only ordered blue. Ben’s
favorite. Ms. Angelli admires the red stone rose set in the floor. And, miracle of
miracles, Nix’s chair is pulled up to a table on the patio, my copy of the
Inferno
in his lap as he flicks ash onto a low edge when Betty looks away. The place is brimming.

And all the while, I cling to the four words—
Wesley Ayers is
alive
—because I still haven’t seen him. The Archive is still closed and my list is still
blank, and all I have are those four words and Agatha’s warning buzzing around in
my head.

“Mackenzie Bishop!”

Lyndsey launches herself at me, throws her arms around my neck, and I stagger back,
wincing. Beneath my long sleeves and my apron, I am a web of bruises and bandages.
I could hide most of the damage from my parents, but not the wrist. I claimed it was
a bad fall on one of my runs. It wasn’t one of my strongest lies, but I am so tired
of lying. Lyndsey is still hugging me. With my ring on, she sounds like rain and harmony
and too-loud laughter, but the noise is worth it, and I don’t pull back or push away.

“You came,” I say, smiling. It feels good to smile.

“Duh. Nice apron, by the way,” she says, gesturing to the massive
B
on its front. “Mom and Dad are around here somewhere. And good job, Mrs. Bishop,
this place is full!”

“Free caffeine and sugar, a recipe for making friends,” I say, watching my mother
flit between tables.

“You’ll have to give me a proper tour later—Hey, is that Guyliner?”

She cocks her head toward the patio doors, and everything stops.

His eyes are tired, his skin a touch too pale, but he’s there with his spiked hair
and his black-rimmed eyes and his hands buried in his pockets. And then, as if he
can feel my eyes on him, Wes finds my gaze across the room, and beams.

“It is,” I say, my chest tightening.

But rather than cross the crowded café, Wes nods once in the direction of the lobby
and walks out.

“Well, go on, then,” says Lynds, pushing me with a giggle. “I’ll serve myself.” She
leans across the counter, swipes a cookie.

I pull off the apron, tossing it to Lyndsey as I trail Wes through the lobby—where
more people are milling about with coffee—down the hall and past the study and out
into the garden. When we reach the world of moss and vine, he stops and turns, and
I throw my arms around him, relishing the drums and the bass and the metal rock as
they wash over me, blotting out the pain and guilt and fear and blood of the last
time we touched. We both wince but hold on. I listen to the sound of him, as strange
and steady as a heartbeat, and then I must have tightened my grip, because he gasps
and says, “Gently, there,” and braces himself against the back of a bench, one palm
gingerly against his stomach. “I swear, you’re just looking for excuses to get your
hands on me.”

“You caught me,” I say, closing my eyes when they start to burn. “I’m so sorry,” I
say into his shirt.

He laughs, then hisses in pain. “Hey, don’t be. I know you can’t help yourself.”

I laugh tightly. “I’m not talking about the hug, Wes.”

“Then what are you apologizing for?”

I pull back and look him in the eyes. “For everything that happened.” His brow creases,
and my heart sinks.

“Wes,” I say slowly, “you do remember, don’t you?”

He looks at me, confused. “I remember making a date to hunt with you. Nine sharp.”
He eases himself onto the stone bench. “But to be honest, I don’t remember anything
about the next day. I don’t remember being stabbed. Patrick said that’s normal. Because
of trauma.”

Everything aches as I sink down onto the bench beside him. “Yeah…”

“What
should
I remember, Mac?”

I sit and stare at the stones that make up the garden floor.

Knowledge is power, but ignorance can be a blessing.

Maybe Agatha is right. I think of that moment in the stacks when Roland told me about
altering, when he warned me what happened to those who failed and were dismissed.
That moment when I hated him for telling me, when I wished I could go back. But there
is no going back.

So can’t we just go forward?

I don’t want to hurt Wes anymore. I don’t want to cause him pain, make him relive
the betrayal. And after Agatha’s unfriendly meeting, I have no desire to disobey the
Archive. But what sets me over the edge is the fact that there, in my mind, louder
than all those other thoughts, is this:

I don’t want to confess.

I don’t want to confess because
I
don’t want to remember. But Wesley doesn’t have that choice, and the only reason
he’s missing that time is because of me.

The truth is a messy thing, but I tell it.

We sit in the garden as the day stretches out, and I tell him everything. The easy
and the hard. He listens, and frowns, and doesn’t interrupt, except to punctuate with
a small “Oh” or “Wow” or “What?”

And after all of it, when he finally speaks, the only thing he says is, “Why couldn’t
you come to me?”

I’m about to tell him about Roland’s orders, but that’s only a partial truth, so I
start again.

“I was running away.”

“From what?”

“I don’t know. The Archive. That life. This. Ben. Me.”

“What’s so wrong with you?” he asks. “I quite like you.” And then, a moment later,
he adds, “I just can’t believe I lost to a skinny blond guy with a knife.”

I laugh. Pain ripples through me, but it’s worth it. “It was a very big knife,” I
say.

Silence settles over us. Wes is the one to break it.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

I close my eyes. “I don’t know, Wes. Everything hurts. I don’t know how to make it
stop. It hurts when I breathe. It hurts when I think. I feel like I’m drowning, and
it’s my fault, and I don’t know how to be okay. I don’t know if I
can
be okay. I don’t know if I should be
allowed
to be okay.”

Wesley knocks his shoulder against mine.

“We’re a team, Mac,” he says. “We’ll get through this.”

“Which part?” I ask.

He smiles. “All of it.”

And I smile back, because I want him to be right.

T
O MY FATHER,
for liking this book more than the first one. And for wanting to tell everyone. And
to my mother, for elbowing my father every time he did. To Mel, for always knowing
what to say. And to the rest of my family, who smiled and nodded even when they weren’t
sure what I was doing.

To my agent, Holly, for putting up with the often pathetic—but undeniably cute—animal
pictures I use to explain my emotional state, and for believing in me and in this
book.

To my editor, Abby, for building this world brick by brick beside me, then helping
me tear it down and build it again out of stronger stone. And to Laura, for every
bit of mortar added. It is a joy and an adventure.

To my freakishly talented cover designer, Tyler, and to my entire publishing family
at Disney-Hyperion, for making me feel like I am home.

To my friends, who bolstered me with bribes and threats and promises, and followed
through. Specifically, to Beth Revis, for her stern looks and gold stars when I needed
them most. To Rachel Hawkins, for brightening every day with a laugh or a photo of
Jon Snow. To Carrie Ryan, for mountain walks and long talks and for being an incredible
person. To Stephanie Perkins, for shining so brightly when I needed a light. To Ruta
Sepetys, for believing in me, often more than I believe in myself. To Myra McEntire,
for dragging me back from the cliffs of insanity. To Tiffany Schmidt, for reading,
and for loving Wesley so much. To Laura Whitaker, for the tea and good talks. To Patricia
and Danielle, for the kindness and the care. And to the Black Mountain crew, who helped
me meet my deadline and then thrust a flask and a jar of Nutella into my hands immediately
afterward.

To my Liverpool housemates, for always wanting to help, whether it was making tea
or creating quiet spaces so I could work. And to my New York housemates, for not giving
me weird looks when they find me talking to myself, or rocking in corners, or when
I burst into nervous laughter.

To the online community, for its constant love and support.

To the readers, who make every bad day good and every good day better.

And to Neil Gaiman, for the hug.