Balthazar Quell organized his socks by color.
This was how I knew he was dangerous.
Not the alchemical kit occupying exactly one-third of our shared desk. Not the four reference books stacked according to height. Not the family ring he had placed inside a wooden box rather than displaying on his finger.
The socks.
A man who voluntarily imposed order upon objects no visitor would ever inspect was either destined for greatness or a spectacular nervous collapse.
I had not yet determined which.
Balthazar looked up from his book.
"You've been staring at my wardrobe for twenty seconds."
"I admire craftsmanship."
"You're looking at my socks."
"I admire discipline."
"No, you don't."
Fair.
He closed the book.
Our permanent room assignment had taken effect the night before. Xavier had moved across West House to share a room with Arkad Sol, which had delighted Arkad and disturbed Xavier in approximately equal measure.
I had acquired Balthazar.
The Academy claimed the reassignment reflected our academic tracks.
I suspected it reflected a staff member with a peculiar sense of humor.
Balthazar studied Alchemical Sciences.
I had access only to introductory supervised laboratories because Nexus considered my magical classification an administrative nightmare.
Sharing a room with someone whose family had sponsored half a wing of the library was either coincidence or the universe developing an unhealthy interest in irony.
I sat at the desk.
Between us lay a piece of paper Elisabeth had copied from Devil's Deceptions.
No title.
No explanation.
Only three strings:
XVII–C / 42 / M
III–A / 118 / RED
IX–F / 7 / TRANS
Balthazar read them.
Then read them again.
"You copied these incorrectly."
"Possibly."
"No."
He picked up the sheet.
"You copied them exactly."
"Your confidence is touching."
"This notation isn't current."
I smiled.
That was faster than expected.
Balthazar noticed.
"There. That."
"What?"
"The expression people make when I've accidentally confirmed something they wanted."
"You're surprisingly suspicious for someone who arranges socks."
"Those are unrelated traits."
"Debatable."
He pushed the paper toward me.
"Where did you get this?"
"A book."
"What book?"
"One containing numbers."
"Raymond."
"Balthazar."
He stared.
I waited.
A useful thing about silence: eventually the person least comfortable with it purchases the conversation.
Unfortunately, Balthazar was quite comfortable.
We sat there for nearly half a minute.
I began to respect him.
Then he tapped the first line.
"This is a Nexus catalog reference."
"Current?"
"No."
"How old?"
"Old enough that I only know it because my family collection still uses some transitional copies."
There.
Elisabeth had been right.
Again.
I was beginning to find competence in other people financially ruinous to my ego.
"How old?"
"Before the Great Reclassification."
"That sounds dramatic."
"It was librarians changing shelves."
"Exactly. Some of history's bloodiest people have been librarians with authority."
He ignored me.
"Forty years, perhaps more. Nexus replaced this notation gradually. Some specialist collections kept cross-indexes."
"Your family?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"The Quells donated books."
"How generous."
"We also wanted our name preserved in every record."
"Much more believable."
That earned the smallest smile.
He examined the second line.
"This one might be alchemical."
"Why?"
"RED sometimes meant Reduction Studies. Or Red Wing. Depends on the year."
"And TRANS?"
"Transfer. Translation. Transmutation."
"So essentially everything useful."
"Old librarians were not designing codes for criminal adolescents forty years later."
"A tragic lack of foresight."
He put the paper down.
"Why do you care?"
There were several answers available.
Chessmaster offered them automatically.
Academic curiosity.
Alchemical research.
Inheritance records.
Marduk's estate.
A private collection.
Truth.
I chose something adjacent to truth.
"It came from material left to me by my mentor."
Balthazar's expression changed.
Not enough to become sympathy.
Good.
"Dead?"
"Yes."
"Did he study here?"
"That is one of the questions."
"Name?"
I smiled.
"No."
Balthazar leaned back.
"Then that's as far as I go."
Interesting.
"You've already told me what the code is."
"I told you the notation is old. That's knowledge."
He pointed toward the library visible beyond our window.
"Using my family access to retrieve records for an unnamed dead man is participation."
"And?"
"And I don't participate blind."
I liked him more immediately.
Very inconvenient.
"What would you need?"
"A reason."
"I want to understand something he left incomplete."
"That's a desire."
"Yes."
"Not a reason I should attach the Quell name to it."
Excellent.
I folded the sheet.
"Then don't."
He blinked.
Apparently he had expected negotiation.
"You're giving up?"
"No. I'm respecting your price."
"I didn't give you a price."
"Exactly."
I stood.
Balthazar watched me move toward the door.
"You're still going to search."
"Of course."
"With no access."
"Access is simply permission someone remembers to enforce."
"That sentence is why I'm not helping you."
"Entirely reasonable."
I opened the door.
"Raymond."
I stopped.
Balthazar rubbed his forehead.
"General catalog room. Fourth gallery."
I waited.
"They keep public legacy cross-indexes there."
"Public?"
"Technically."
"Why technically?"
"No one uses them. They're paper volumes. Half the references lead to collections that were moved decades ago."
He pointed at me.
"No Quell authorization. No restricted request. No family name."
"Your virtue survives intact."
"If you attempt to enter a sealed archive and tell anyone I sent you—"
"I'll say we barely know one another."
"Good."
"You should probably move the socks."
The door closed behind me before he could answer.
---
I found Xavier at breakfast with three problems.
Their names were Arkad, Anata and porridge.
The porridge appeared most dangerous.
Arkad Sol was speaking with the passionate outrage of a man who had recently discovered that institutional regulations applied far less effectively in alleys.
"We should report them."
Anata LeeRoy ate without looking up.
"No."
"They tried to rob us."
"Yes."
"They've probably done it before."
"Yes."
"Then why in all the saints' names would we not report them?"
"Because they'll deny it."
Arkad opened his mouth.
Anata continued.
"And their friends will say they were elsewhere."
He closed it.
She ate another spoonful.
Very introverted people often receive credit for being quiet.
Anata wasn't quiet.
She was economical.
Different phenomenon.
Balthazar sat opposite them.
Apparently he had arrived through another route.
He looked at Arkad.
"You need evidence."
"I have bruises."
"So do they."
"Xavier caused those."
Xavier raised his cup.
"Allegedly."
I sat beside him.
He looked pleased with himself.
Zack Ryder was already a bad influence.
Arkad noticed me.
"You."
"Frequently."
"You tripped one of them."
"He suffered an unexpected disagreement with the floor."
"You saw what happened."
"Yes."
"Then you're a witness."
"Technically."
"Good. You'll come with us."
"No."
Arkad stared.
Xavier hid a smile behind his cup.
"Why not?"
"Because my testimony establishes that three students approached you, demanded property, and eventually became involved in an altercation."
"That's exactly what happened."
"It doesn't establish what happened before I arrived."
Anata finally looked up.
Her eyes were dark and extremely unimpressed with the universe.
"He's right."
Arkad turned toward her.
"Don't encourage him."
"I didn't."
She looked at me.
"I said you're right."
There was a distinction.
I appreciated it.
Balthazar pushed a folded sheet toward Arkad.
"What is that?" Arkad asked.
"Names."
Anata stopped eating.
Balthazar continued.
"Dormitory assignments. Training schedules. One belongs to Second Martial Cohort. One to Merchant Defense. Third is independent studies."
Arkad stared.
"You looked them up?"
"They attacked my friends."
No drama.
No threat.
Simple statement.
Loyalty in its least decorative form.
Anata took the paper.
"Give me this."
"No."
Her gaze sharpened.
"Why?"
"Because I know what you'll do with it."
"What?"
"Remember it forever."
"I already remember their names."
"Exactly."
Something passed between them.
Old familiarity.
Balthazar reached over and took the sheet back.
"We document. Then report properly."
Arkad groaned.
"That's boring."
"Boring complaints survive hearings."
I leaned toward Xavier.
"Keep him."
"Who?"
"Balthazar."
"He's your roommate."
"A temporary administrative tragedy."
Balthazar heard me.
"I regret the catalog information already."
Arkad looked between us.
"What catalog?"
"Nothing," we said together.
Anata watched us.
Too carefully.
Wonderful.
More observant people.
Exactly what every secret investigation required.
The breakfast bell rang.
Students started leaving.
Xavier stood.
"Zack wants me early."
That name changed Arkad's expression.
"Zack Ryder?"
"Yes."
"The Zack Ryder?"
Xavier frowned.
"How many are there?"
Arkad leaned closer.
"He trained the northern dueling team three years ago."
Xavier looked at me.
I shrugged.
"Apparently your new master has advertising."
"He's not my master."
"Give him a week."
Xavier shoved my shoulder.
Not the injured one.
Progress.
He left with Arkad.
Anata followed more slowly.
Balthazar stayed seated for half a moment.
"Fourth gallery," he reminded me.
"I heard."
"And public records only."
"Your confidence in me is inspiring."
"My confidence in you is precisely why I'm specifying limits."
Then he left.
I smiled.
The group was becoming alarmingly difficult to manipulate.
Marduk would have called that a defect.
I was beginning to suspect it might be infrastructure.
---
Professor Layton Ambre caught me asleep at eleven twenty-three.
In my defense, he had been explaining epistemic hierarchy for thirty-seven minutes.
Excellent material.
Terrible voice.
"Raymond."
My eyes opened.
Thirty-two students were looking at me.
Professor Ambre stood at the front of Methodological Reasoning with a piece of chalk between two fingers.
He had the appearance of a man who ironed his shirts out of personal hostility toward wrinkles.
"Yes?"
"Since my lecture appears insufficiently stimulating, perhaps you can assist."
"Gladly."
Several students laughed.
He did not.
"Three witnesses report the same event independently. Their testimonies agree in every detail. A fourth contradicts them but possesses physical evidence inconsistent with all three accounts. Which source receives priority?"
"None."
His jaw moved.
"Explain."
"Priority is premature."
I sat upright.
"Agreement among witnesses increases confidence only if their independence is real. Physical evidence increases confidence only if provenance and interpretation are reliable. First determine whether the three witnesses shared information and whether the fourth evidence could have been planted, contaminated or misunderstood."
Ambre stared at me.
"Then?"
"Build competing explanations and attempt to kill them."
A girl in front turned.
"Kill?"
"The explanations."
Ambre placed the chalk down.
"And if two explanations survive?"
"Keep both."
"Until?"
"Reality becomes less lazy."
A few more laughs.
Layton did not appreciate them.
But he did not call me wrong.
That was why I respected him.
"Stay awake."
"I'll try."
"You will succeed."
"Your faith moves me."
He resumed the lecture.
I lasted nine minutes.
Progress.
---
The Central Library smelled better than most temples.
Old paper.
Leather.
Dust.
Lamp oil.
And the peculiar dry scent produced by generations of people convinced that writing something down made it less dangerous.
The fourth gallery was nearly empty.
Balthazar had been correct.
Rows of enormous books occupied shelves beneath a sign:
LEGACY CROSS-INDEXES — PRE-REFORM COLLECTIONS
A librarian looked up when I entered.
"Research authorization?"
"Public gallery."
She looked disappointed.
"First year?"
"Unfortunately."
"Do not remove volumes from the gallery."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
That was true.
Removing them would be cumbersome.
I found the seventeenth catalog.
The volume weighed enough to discourage casual scholarship.
Marduk would have liked it.
I opened the first page.
Nothing made sense.
Excellent.
Old abbreviations.
Department marks no longer used.
Handwritten corrections.
References crossed through, replaced, amended, transferred.
It took twenty minutes to understand the columns.
Another fifteen to locate XVII–C.
Then:
42.
My finger stopped.
The entry contained no title.
Only:
COLLECTION C-17 / ITEM 42
ORIGIN: PRIVATE DONATION
SUBJECT: TRAVEL RECORD / ARCANE GEOGRAPHY
STATUS: TRANSFERRED
No author.
No donor.
No destination.
A later hand had drawn a small triangle beside the line.
I searched the legend.
Triangle.
Restricted relocation. See supplementary register.
Of course.
I looked around.
Supplementary register.
Different shelf.
Found it.
The book was thinner.
Item 42 appeared three pages in.
C-17 / 42
Then one sentence:
REMOVED FROM PUBLIC INDEX BY FOUNDER'S AUTHORITY.
My pulse changed.
Abraham.
Possibly.
Founder could refer to an earlier office designation, but Nexus had only one living founder who currently irritated me.
Below:
TRANSFER: L.R.–4
Lower Repository?
Probably.
Not proof.
I wrote only the characters.
Nothing else.
Next code.
III–A / 118 / RED
That one led to an old alchemical catalog.
Entry 118 existed.
Unlike the first, it had a name.
Meridian Restoration Preparations — Comparative Formulae, Vol. III
Status:
WITHDRAWN — TERMINOLOGY OBSOLETE / DUPLICATE COLLECTION
My eyes narrowed.
Elisabeth's decoded formula.
The Elixir of the Second Pulse.
Marduk had placed this reference beside it.
Not ingredients.
Reference literature.
So the easy code wasn't the answer.
It was a bibliography.
That bastard.
Even dead, he assigned homework.
I copied the entry.
The third code took longer.
IX–F / 7 / TRANS
There was no IX–F.
At least not in the catalog I had.
I checked twice.
Then a third time because paranoia is merely thoroughness with poor public relations.
Nothing.
A shadow crossed the table.
I looked up.
The librarian.
"Closing this gallery in twenty minutes."
"Of course."
She glanced at my notes.
"Old catalog work?"
"An unfortunate hobby."
"Try the Revision Concordance."
I blinked.
"Where?"
She pointed two shelves away.
I smiled.
"You may have just saved my afternoon."
"Please don't make it my problem."
Remarkable woman.
The Revision Concordance translated obsolete shelf systems into modern ones.
IX–F had not disappeared.
It had been divided.
Half went to Translation Studies.
Half to—
Subterranean Holdings.
My pen stopped.
There was no public shelf mapping.
Only:
ACCESS REQUIRES INTERNAL PERMISSION.
And beside entry seven:
RECORD WITHDRAWN.
Three codes.
Three results.
One removed by founder authority.
One alchemical reference.
One withdrawn into inaccessible holdings.
Not random.
Not proof of what Marduk had removed.
But enough.
Elisabeth had been right.
The book was talking to Nexus.
Just in a language the modern catalog pretended not to speak.
I closed the volume.
Chapter Fifty could wait until tomorrow.
My curiosity could not.
A frequent disagreement.
---
I did not attempt to enter the Lower Archives.
That is an important distinction.
I merely went looking for the floor that contained them.
Entirely different offense.
The public map showed four basement staircases.
Three terminated at service rooms.
One ended at B1 — STORAGE / STAFF ONLY.
No B2.
No B3.
Yet L.R.–4 strongly implied a numbered repository structure.
Unless the four referred to a section.
Or a room.
Or a shelf.
Or an archivist with an unfortunate name.
Speculation.
I walked the western corridor beneath Central Library.
Students thinned as evening approached.
A faculty member passed.
Two porters.
A cleaner pushing a cart.
I stopped at a junction.
Left: student laboratories.
Right: library service wing.
Straight: chapel annex.
I took right.
The corridor narrowed.
Stone became older.
Not darker.
Older.
New walls had smooth mortar.
Here, the blocks carried small scars from decades of repair.
A staircase descended.
A sign:
STAFF STORAGE
I went down one flight.
Door.
Locked.
No attempt.
That would have changed the nature of my visit.
I examined the wall.
Ventilation continued downward.
So did a narrow pipe.
The building possessed more depth.
Interesting.
"Looking for your room?"
Eulalie's voice came from behind me.
I closed my eyes.
Of all the people in Nexus.
I turned.
She stood halfway down the staircase.
Gray coat.
Books against one hip.
A sealed letter tucked beneath the uppermost volume.
Saint-Patrick's emblem visible on the wax.
Her order.
Her problem.
None of my business unless she chose otherwise.
Growth.
"Terribly lost," I said.
"Yes."
She descended another step.
"This is beneath the library."
"So I've gathered."
"West House is in the opposite direction."
"Architecture has betrayed me."
Eulalie looked at the locked door.
Then at my hand.
I was still holding the old catalog notes.
Damn.
"Raymond."
"Yes?"
"What are you doing?"
The easy lie presented itself.
Looking for alchemical storage.
Professor Ambre sent me.
Balthazar mentioned a study room.
Wrong stairs.
All plausible.
I chose one.
"Balthazar told me there were older alchemical storage rooms below the—"
"Stop."
One word.
Not loud.
I stopped.
She descended the final step.
"You're lying."
"An aggressive accusation."
"You lied badly."
"Now you're simply being cruel."
"You studied the restricted staircase on the map two days ago."
There it was.
Chapter Forty-Six.
Her eyes had been on my thumb.
I had underestimated what she remembered.
Another expensive habit.
"You asked Professor Veyr about lower archives."
I frowned.
"You heard that?"
"You weren't whispering."
Fair.
"And now," she continued, "you are standing under the library holding old catalog numbers."
She looked at the paper.
"Should I continue?"
I smiled.
She did not.
"Fine."
I folded the sheet.
"I'm researching an old catalog."
"That is not why you're here."
"No."
"What is?"
Chessmaster arranged the conversation.
Eulalie values autonomy.
Dislikes being controlled.
Order pressuring curriculum.
Will likely object to unauthorized archive inquiry.
Best response: partial truth with boundaries.
Offer no source identity.
Ask confidentiality before disclosure.
No.
I shut it down.
Not because the analysis was wrong.
Because I had spent weeks claiming people were not pieces and continued entering every conversation with their leverage already measured.
Eulalie waited.
I started again.
"My mentor left me a book before he died."
Her expression changed.
Only slightly.
"Marduk?"
I went still.
She raised an eyebrow.
"You've mentioned him."
Had I?
Probably.
Xavier certainly had.
Good.
"Yes."
"What book?"
"Devil's Deceptions."
The title did nothing to her.
Perfect.
"It is incomplete."
"Damaged?"
"No."
I looked at the locked door.
"Deliberately incomplete."
"How do you know?"
"Pages missing from sequences. Codes embedded in unrelated entries. References that make no sense until compared with older systems."
"And they lead here."
"Some do."
She studied me.
"Why not ask the library?"
"I am asking the library."
"Normally."
"Ah."
She waited.
I sighed.
"The ordinary catalog claims some references no longer exist. The old catalog says they were transferred. One by founder authority."
"Abraham."
"Possibly."
"And Abraham knows about the book?"
"Yes."
"Have you asked him?"
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
"Abraham has mastered the rare art of answering a question while leaving it hungry."
That almost earned a smile.
Almost.
"So you're investigating behind his back."
"I prefer independently of his enthusiasm."
"Raymond."
"Yes."
"Why tell me this?"
Good question.
Because she'd caught me.
Because lying would become expensive.
Because I needed someone who would say no.
Because she had kept her own sponsor problems away from my hands and I had respected that.
The honest answer arrived last.
"Because I was about to lie to you again."
She blinked.
"And?"
"And I decided not to."
"That is a remarkably low standard for trust."
"I've had an unusual upbringing."
Silence.
The corridor hummed faintly with pipes behind the walls.
Eulalie looked at the door.
Then back at me.
"What do you intend to do?"
"Tonight?"
"Yes."
"Leave."
Suspicion.
"I haven't tried the lock."
"You were considering it."
"I consider many sins. It saves time."
"Raymond."
"I am leaving."
"Why?"
"Because I have enough information."
That was true.
The lower structure existed.
The code mapped here somehow.
Balthazar could help with indexes without crossing his line.
The real investigation belonged tomorrow.
Chapter Fifty, if life were polite enough to arrange itself in chapters.
Eulalie stepped aside.
I started up the stairs.
She didn't follow.
I stopped one step above her.
"You're not coming?"
"You haven't asked me what I'm going to do."
I turned.
Annoying woman.
"All right. What are you going to do?"
"Nothing."
That surprised me.
"Nothing?"
"You told me your mentor left you an incomplete book. You are checking catalog references. That is not a crime."
"Your faith in technical distinctions moves me."
She ignored that.
"But."
Of course.
"If this becomes dangerous to students, patients or staff because you need a distraction, access, medical cover, or someone disposable…"
Her eyes hardened.
"…I stop you."
Not report.
Stop.
Interesting.
"You assume I'd use someone."
"You assume you wouldn't?"
Fair.
I considered the condition.
"No innocent person used as bait."
"Not enough."
"No patient records."
"Good."
"No use of your order, name or position without permission."
That surprised her.
Good.
"And," she said, "if you discover something that could immediately endanger people at Nexus, you don't hide it just because it is useful."
Ah.
That one cost more.
Information was leverage.
Information released too early was wasted leverage.
Marduk had taught me that.
Reddington had built an empire on it.
I looked at her.
"What qualifies as immediate danger?"
"We decide when it happens."
"Together?"
"Yes."
Terrible contract.
Ambiguous.
Shared interpretation.
Exactly the sort of arrangement I normally avoided.
I held out my hand.
Eulalie stared at it.
"This isn't a business deal."
"Everything involving conditions is a business deal."
"No."
"Then a theological arrangement."
"Worse."
But she took my hand.
Brief.
Professional.
Done.
"If you lie to me about something that affects the agreement," she said, "the agreement ends."
"Reasonable."
"If you manipulate the wording—"
"I would never."
She stared.
"Fine. I frequently would."
"Raymond."
"I understand."
She released my hand.
Then looked at my notes.
"What does the second code mean?"
"Alchemical reference."
"The formula Elisabeth found?"
I stared.
"How do you know about that?"
"She asked whether I knew the old term for vital restoration."
Oh.
Elisabeth had built her own route.
Good.
"You know it?"
"No."
Eulalie adjusted her books.
"But Saint-Patrick has old medical texts."
There it was.
A possible resource.
I did not ask.
She noticed that too.
Something in her expression softened.
Not trust.
Perhaps recognition.
"Tomorrow," she said, "I'll check what I can access legally."
I smiled.
"You volunteered."
"Yes."
"I'm making historical progress."
"Don't ruin it."
She went upstairs.
I followed.
At the junction she turned toward the chapel annex.
I stopped.
"Eulalie."
She looked back.
"The letter."
Her body went still.
Wrong.
I raised a hand.
"Your business."
Her expression remained guarded.
Then relaxed by a fraction.
"Yes."
She walked away.
I did not ask whether it came from Sister Bismelda.
I did not ask what her order wanted.
I did not offer a solution.
It was astonishing how exhausting personal growth could be.
---
Balthazar was awake when I returned.
Of course.
The socks had moved.
I considered this evidence of psychological instability.
He sat at the desk with an alchemical text open.
Without looking up, he said:
"Did you find the catalog?"
"Yes."
"Did you enter anything restricted?"
"No."
He looked up.
"Really?"
"I am wounded by your tone."
"Raymond."
"No."
He studied me.
Then nodded.
"What did the codes give you?"
I placed my notes on the desk.
He read.
His finger stopped at L.R.–4.
"That doesn't mean Lower Repository Four."
I sat.
"No?"
"It means Legacy Repository, Section Four."
That was both disappointing and useful.
"Where?"
"Below Central Library."
I stared at him.
"You knew?"
"I knew the abbreviation."
"Distinction accepted."
He pointed to the first entry.
"Founder authority is more interesting."
"Abraham?"
"Probably. He founded Nexus. There wasn't another founder."
Good.
One speculation reduced.
Then he reached the alchemical reference.
His eyes narrowed.
"Meridian Restoration."
"You know it?"
"My family owns Volume Two."
There.
"Volume Three?"
"Missing from our collection."
"Convenient."
"No."
He looked almost offended.
"My grandfather has complained about it for twenty years."
I laughed.
Balthazar ignored me and copied the catalog title.
"Why do you want it?"
I thought of Elisabeth.
The formula.
Marduk's code.
Raymond's damaged channels.
Eulalie's tiny mana reservoir—though the elixir would not magically repair that flaw.
Possibilities.
"Because Marduk left an alchemical formula beside the reference."
Balthazar stopped writing.
First time I had given him the name.
"Marduk."
"Yes."
Recognition?
No.
Not immediate.
Then—
"Marduk Vey?"
I said nothing.
His eyes sharpened.
So the name had history.
"How do you know that name?" I asked.
Balthazar leaned back.
"My grandfather hated him."
I smiled slowly.
"Excellent."
"That response is disturbing."
"Balthazar, hatred is often simply memory that has refused to depreciate."
"My grandfather said Marduk stole an auction lot from the Quell family before my father was born."
Even better.
"What lot?"
"I don't know."
"Where?"
"I don't know."
"When?"
"I was not alive."
"You are becoming remarkably unhelpful."
He frowned.
Then looked at the old code.
At Meridian Restoration Preparations, Vol. III.
Then at me.
"No."
"What?"
"No."
He stood.
Went to his trunk.
Opened a compartment.
Took out a small notebook.
Family handwriting.
Old entries.
He searched.
Stopped.
His expression changed.
"What?"
Balthazar turned the book toward me.
One line.
A date nearly four decades old.
An auction house in Catington.
A Quell bid.
And beside the lot number:
MERIDIAN RESTORATION PREPARATIONS — VOL. III
Below it, in different handwriting:
Lot withdrawn before sale. Acquired privately. Buyer unknown.
Then one furious note.
MARDUK.
I looked at Balthazar.
He looked at me.
Neither spoke for several seconds.
At last he said:
"Your dead mentor stole my grandfather's book."
"Allegedly."
"His name is written underneath it."
"A dangerously low evidentiary standard."
Balthazar closed his eyes.
"You are enjoying this."
"Immensely."
Then I looked back at the old auction entry.
Private sale.
Old catalog.
Withdrawn collection.
Marduk.
There it was.
The next door.
Not open.
Not free.
But visible.
I took out my notebook.
Not the Blacklist.
Not yet.
I wrote three lines.
Old Nexus catalog confirmed.
Legacy Repository, Section Four.
Quell auction record — Meridian Restoration Vol. III — withdrawn/private acquisition — Marduk named by Quell family.
Balthazar watched.
"What now?"
I closed the notebook.
"Now?"
I smiled.
"Now we stop pretending Marduk left numbers because he enjoyed arithmetic."
Outside our window, the library towers stood black against the evening sky.
Somewhere beneath them sat records removed from the public index.
Somewhere in Catington existed an auction trail forty years old.
Somewhere among Marduk's missing pages waited the reason he had wanted me here.
And, for the first time since arriving at Nexus, I was no longer the only person holding part of the map.
Eulalie had my secret.
Balthazar had the catalog.
Elisabeth had the codes.
Xavier had his own mentor and his own life.
Arkad had a war against three schoolyard extortionists.
Anata had three names she would probably remember until death.
A terrible collection of people.
Unpredictable.
Independent.
Inconvenient.
I found myself smiling.
Balthazar noticed.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"That expression never means nothing."
I looked once more at Marduk's name in the Quell notebook.
"No," I said.
"It means tomorrow is going to be expensive."
Tomorrow, we started looking for what Marduk had removed.