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.”

THIRTY-FOUR

BISHOP’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.