Page 13 of The Immortal’s Mark

“There’s one more thing,” I say as we climb another set of stairs. The air is cleaner up here. Warmer. The kind of warmth that comes from fireplaces and servants and the accumulated comfort of centuries of wealth.

“I expected there would be.”

“Archive access.”

His stride doesn’t break, but something shifts in his shoulders. Subtle. Barely there.

“The Imperial Archives contain sensitive material.”

“The investigation will need records. Payment trails. Supply manifests. Names.” I keep my voice light. Reasonable. The voice of someone who definitely isn’t already planning what snacks she’ll bring to dig through eight centuries of bureaucratic dirty laundry. “The money that paid for your death passed through three intermediaries. I know how to trace paper trails. But I need paper to trace.”

“You could request specific documents through proper channels.”

“I could...” I let the word hang. “Or I could work efficiently. Your choice.”

He’s quiet for a moment. We pass a corridor that branches east—I can smell old paper and dust drifting from somewhere nearby. Archives. Has to be.

I wait.

“Granted.”

The surprise must show on my face, because his mouth twitches. Not a smile—I’m not sure his face remembers how—but something. The ghost of amusement.

“You’re going to help me find traitors in my own court,” he says. “Restricting your access would only slow the process.”

He’s right. He’s also giving me access to material that could destroy him if I chose to use it. Either he trusts me more than he should, or he’s confident enough in his position that he doesn’t care.

Or he’s smarter than I thought, and there’s something in those archives he wants me to find.

I file that away too.

“The archives open at second bell,” he says. “I’ll arrange an escort.”

“An escort. Wonderful. Because nothing says ‘I trust you’ like a babysitter.”

“The archivist will need to know you have authorization. Unless you’d prefer to explain your presence yourself.”

He has a point. Damn him and his logic and his—

Nope. Not finishing that thought.

General policy: don’t think about the appealing features of people you recently tried to murder. It gets complicated.

We walk in silence for a moment. Not uncomfortable—not exactly. The silence of two people still taking each other’s measure. Still figuring out where the edges are.

I don’t do silence well. Never have. Silence means thinking, and thinking means feeling, and feeling means remembering people I’ve lost and centuries I’ve survived and all the reasons I should have stopped existing a long time ago.

We turn another corner, and the corridor opens into a wing I recognize from three centuries ago—different curtains, different servants, same bones. The guest quarters. Close to the emperor’s own chambers, if memory serves. Close enough to hear footsteps through the walls.

Close enough to be watched.

“Your rooms,” he says, stopping before a carved wooden door. “The servants will provide whatever you need. Clothing, food, writing materials.”

“And if I need a way out?”

“There are three exits.” He says it like he’s discussing the weather. “The main door. The window—though it’s a three-story drop. And a servant passage behind the wall panel.”

I stare at him.