"We're not safe," I said quietly, answering my own thought. "But we're ready."
17
At first, I thought it was just a dream.
But something felt wrong.
Dreams usually feel distant, hazy at the edges. This was sharp—too sharp. The air was cold against my skin, the sounds too clear, the emotions hitting me like they belonged to someone standing right behind my ribs.
And the worst part?
None of it felt like it came from me….
"I need you to inspect a book,"Arthur said.
I looked up from the stack of index cards I was aggressively alphabetizing. "Which book?"
"It's... highly sensitive," Arthur said, adjusting his glasses. He wouldn't meet my eyes. "It requires a specialized environment. Outdoor lighting."
I raised an eyebrow. "Outdoor lighting? For a book? Arthur, UV rays are the natural enemy of parchment. You taught me that on day one."
He winced. "It's a... sun-resistant binding. Very rare. Very experimental."
I sighed, dropping the cards. "You're a terrible liar, Penhaligon. What is it? A trap? Is Marrow plotting to publicly execute me over a late fee?"
"No," he said softly. "It's lunch."
I froze. Lunch.
"I eat lunch in the breakroom," I said stiffly. "Protein bar. Water. 15 minutes."
"Not today," he said, producing a wicker basket from behind his desk like a magician producing a rabbit. "Today, we are inspecting the rare flora of the Botanical Gardens. Which just so happens to be next to a very nice bench."
"The Botanical Gardens are closed," I pointed out. "Marrow put a 'Hazardous Spores' sign on the gate."
"I have a key," Arthur grinned, dangling a brass skeleton key. "Perks of being the Archivist. I know which signs are real and which ones are just to keep students from making out in the hydrangeas."
I stared at the key. Then at the basket. Then at Arthur.
He was wearing a tweed jacket with elbow patches. He looked ridiculous. He looked wonderful.
"Fine," I said, standing up and smoothing my jumpsuit. "But if I get eaten by a carnivorous plant, I'm haunting you."
"Deal," he beamd.
The Gardens were overgrown, wild, and breathtaking. Without the groundskeepers (Marrow had fired them all for 'inefficiency'), nature had reclaimed the space. Ivy climbed the statues. Roses spilled over the pathways. It felt secret. Untouched.
We sat on a stone bench beneath a weeping willow. Arthur unpacked the basket with the seriousness of a bomb disposal expert.
"Sandwiches," he announced. "Cucumber and cream cheese. Crusts cut off."
"Stereotypical," I noted, taking one.
"Lemonade," he continued, pouring from a thermos. "Homemade."
"Ambitious."
"And for dessert," he revealed a small box. "Macarons. From the bakery in town. I had to bribe a delivery driver to smuggle them past the barrier."
