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“I know,” she says, and there’s no apology in hers.

When Indie wants something badly enough, her instinct is to jump.

Like Cassia.

Indie breathes in and then she moves.

She moves to me.

Her hands slide into my hair, her lips press against mine.

Nothing like Cassia.

I pull back, breathless. “Indie,” I say.

“I had to,” she says. “I’m not sorry. ”

CHAPTER 17

CASSIA

Someone’s coming into the Archivists’ hiding place; I hear their feet on the stairs. Since I’m waiting in the main area with the others, I shine my flashlight up like the rest. The figure stops, expecting us.

Once I see who it is—a trader I’ve passed down here before—I drop my light. But many of the others don’t. She’s trapped there like a moth. A nearby Archivist signals for me to bring my light back up and so I do, blinking, though the girl standing in the doorway is the one caught in the glare.

“Samara Rourke,” the head Archivist says. “You should not be here. ”

The girl laughs nervously. She wears a bulky pack and she shifts it down a little.

“Don’t move,” the head Archivist says. “We’ll escort you out. ”

“I’m allowed to trade here,” Samara says. “You’re the one who showed me where this place is. ”

“You are no longer welcome,” the head Archivist says. She’s somewhere in the shadows, and then she steps forward, pointing the beam of her flashlight right into the girl’s eyes. This is the Archivists’ place. They decide who stays in shadows and shades and who has to face the light.

“Why?” Samara asks, her voice finally faltering a little.

“You know why,” the Archivist says. “Do you want everyone else to know as well?”

The girl licks her lips. “You should see what I found,” she says. “I promise you’re going to want to know . . . ” She reaches for the pack at her side.

“Samara cheated,” the Archivist says, her voice every bit as powerful as the Pilot’s. It resonates around the room. None of the lights waver and when I close my eyes I can still see their bright spots and the girl’s nervous, blinded expression. “Someone gave an item to Samara to trade on their behalf. She brought it here. We assessed its value, accepted it, and gave an item in return, with a separate, smaller item for the trader fee. And then Samara kept both. ”

There are crooked traders in the world, plenty of them. But they don’t usually dare to try to work with the Archivists.

“You’re not out anything,” Samara says to the Archivist. “You got your payment. ” Her attempt at defiance makes me ache with pity. What made her do this? Surely she knew she’d get caught. “If anyone should get to punish me, it’s the person I stole from. ”

“No,” the head Archivist says. “You undermine us when you steal. ”

Three of the Archivists drop their lights and move forward.

My heart pounds and I step back a little farther into the shadows. Th

ough I come down here often, I’m not an Archivist. At any time my privileges—which are more than those afforded to most traders—could be revoked.

I hear the click of scissors and the head Archivist steps back, holding Samara’s red bracelet up in the air. Samara looks ashen but unharmed, and in the lights still directed on her, I can see her sleeve pulled up and her bare wrist where the bracelet used to be.

“People should know,” the Archivist says to the room at large, “that they can trust when they trade with us. What has happened here undermines everything. Now we will have to pay the price of the trade. ” The others have dropped their lights down now and so her voice is the most recognizable part of her; her face is in shadows. “Paying the price for another is not something we like to do. ” Then her tone changes and the incident is over, finished. “You may all go back to your trades. ”

I don’t move. Who’s to say I wouldn’t do what Samara did, if something passed through my hands that I needed for someone else? Because I think that’s what happened. I don’t think Samara risked this for herself.

I feel a hand on my elbow and I turn to see who it is.

It’s the head Archivist herself. “Come with me,” she says. “There’s something I need to show you. ”

She brings me through rows of shelves and through a long dark hall, her grip firm on my arm. And now we’re in another vast room ribbed with metal shelves, but these are all filled. They’re lined with everything anyone could ever want, every lost piece of a past, every fragment of a future.

Other Archivists move among the shelves while some stand guard. This room has other lights, strung along the ceiling and glowing faintly. I catch a glimpse of cases and boxes and containers of uneven sizes. You would need a map to find your way through a place like this.

I know where we are before she tells me, even though I’ve never been here before. The Archives. It’s a little like seeing the Pilot for the first time; I’ve always known of the existence of this place, but to confront it face to face makes me want to sing or weep or run away; I’m not certain which.

“The Archives are filled with treasures,” the Archivist says, “and I know every one. ”

Her hair shines golden in this light, as if she is one of the treasures she guards. Then she turns to look at me.

“Not many people have been here,” she says.

Then why me? I wonder.

“There are many stories that have passed through my hands,” the Archivist says. “I always liked the one about a girl who was tasked with turning straw into gold. An impossible piece of work, but she managed it more than once. That’s what this job is like. ”

The Archivist walks partway down an aisle and lifts a case from the shelf. She opens it and inside I see rows and rows of paper-wrapped bars. She takes one of them out and holds it up. “If I could,” she says,“I would stay in here all day. This is where I began my work as an Archivist. I sorted the items and cataloged them. ” She closes her eyes and breathes in deeply, and I find myself doing the same.

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