Sasha at least has the decency to call Saturday afternoon to say that her “appointment” ran late and she’s spending the night in her own flat, which is closer, but Tim’s a bit more upset about it than he really has any right to be. Martin and Jon seem to understand, though, or at least not to blame him, and he falls asleep tucked between them on the sofa. He wakes up Sunday morning a bit stiff and sore, but feeling safe and comforted for the first time in a while, and for the first time actually stays where he is rather than getting up immediately. Sunday night, when she still doesn’t come back, the three of them pile into Tim’s bed.
It makes him feel a little better come Monday morning, although he still doesn’t completely relax until Sasha stumbles in with her coffee and a box of pastries as a peace offering. He’s happier to see her safe than to see the box of doughnuts, but he’s not going to complain about those, either.
They spend the first few minutes of the day sharing Sasha’s doughnuts and telling her about the house they toured on Saturday. She’s politely enthusiastic, but in her eyes there’s a hint of don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask that makes something sink in Tim’s stomach. She’s not interested in sharing a house with the others, no matter how much space of her own she could have. She’s vague about what she was doing on Saturday, and Tim decides that pressing her isn’t going to be a good idea. As a result, at least in his opinion, Monday is a bit tense, especially compared to how things have been in the last two months. He’s a little bit anxious and agitated when she insists on going home after work again, so Martin makes grilled cheese sandwiches because they’re a childish comfort food of Tim’s. They end up sitting around the kitchen table going over their finances, and Tim forgets his worries about Sasha in favor of being horrified at how much of Martin’s paycheck is going to his mother’s care home bills, but the overall end result is that Tim makes an appointment for them to see a banker on Thursday.
Sasha is enthusiastic for them, even if she’s not planning to be a part of things, so the mood on Tuesday morning is high. Martin goes on the warpath against the cobwebs cluttering up the corners of the Archive shelves while Tim pours on the charm to try and wheedle records out of people who shouldn’t give them out and Sasha coaxes secrets out of the Internet. Jon shuts himself up in his office, presumably to do whatever digital recordings he can; the statements might not be genuine encounters, but since Elias doesn’t know they know what’s what, they have to keep up appearances, at least for now.
All that changes when Sasha’s desk phone rings.
“Archives, Sasha James speaking,” she says, her voice crisp and professional. A look crosses over her face that Tim can’t identify, but her voice never changes. “Of course. I’ll be right up.” She hangs up and looks over at Tim. “That was Manal at Reception. Someone’s here to make a statement.”
“And we can’t send them to Research because…?” Tim prompts.
“Don’t know why it doesn’t work that way, honestly, but one of you better let Jon know someone’s coming. I’m on escort duty.” Sasha closes her laptop and heads for the steps, coming back briefly to retrieve her shoes.
Tim sighs and goes over to Jon’s office, since Martin is still back in the stacks, so to speak. They’ve all grown comfortable enough with one another, especially in the last two months, that Tim doesn’t bother knocking; anyway, digital statements are easy to edit, or even re-record, if the sound quality isn’t the best. He just pushes open the door and sticks his head in. “Hey, boss, just a—” he begins, then stops. Dread rushes through him.
The office is empty.
“Jon?” Tim calls, just to confirm Jon isn’t ducking under his desk for some reason. He already knows it’s useless, though. The pile of statements next to his desk are neatly arranged and closed, his laptop is shut, and most importantly, his mug of tea isn’t sitting on the end of the desk.
Tim uses a string of words that his nonno wasn’t supposed to use in front of the children and ducks out of the office, trying not to panic. He knows it’s ridiculous. Nothing’s stalking them at the moment, there’s no imminent danger. There’s no reason to worry. Jon’s probably fine. He’s probably getting a cup of tea from the break room.
Except that they have a tea station in the Archives now, so he doesn’t need to go that far. And Tim’s noticed that Jon never seems to finish his tea unless Martin makes it, which he probably wouldn’t have spotted if not for the fact that he’s kind of the same way. And Jon’s usually good about telling them when he’s ducking out.
“Martin!” Tim calls, pulling the door shut and trying to keep the hysterical edge out of his voice. “Have you seen Jon?”
Martin pops around the edge of a shelf, a slight frown on his face. “Isn’t he still down in the tunnels?”
“The tunnels?” Tim feels his heart begin to slow down, and he wonders if the doorknob is going to be strong enough to keep him upright when his knees buckle. “I didn’t know he went down there.”
“Yeah, about…” Martin twists his wrist and peers at the inside of it. He’s the only person Tim knows under the age of thirty who still wears a wristwatch. “Forty-five minutes ago, maybe? Did you not notice?”
“I was…probably on the phone with someone,” Tim admits, feeling embarrassed. “God. But he did let you know?”
“Not sure he would have if I hadn’t caught him,” Martin says, a hint of disapproval in his tone. “He promised he wouldn’t be long, though.”
“Well, it’s time to come up. Someone’s coming to give a statement,” Tim tells him. “You want to go fetch him? I don’t think there’s much service down there.”
Martin hesitates, then, to Tim’s surprise, shakes his head. “You go get him. I’ll…is Sasha fetching whoever’s got the statement?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I’ll stick around. Make tea. It’ll probably help. You go get Jon.” Martin catches Tim’s raised eyebrow and smiles slightly. “I know what panic looks like, Tim. You’re not going to relax until you’re sure he’s okay. Am I right?”
Tim manages a smile in reply. “You’re not wrong.”
“So go get him. I know where he is, more or less, so I’m not worrying. This time,” Martin adds. “I’ll try to keep things under control until you get Jon back.”
“You’re the best, Martin.” Tim kisses Martin on the cheek without thinking as he passes by. He realizes what he’s just done a second later and almost trips over his own feet, but then decides, at this point, he’s better off pretending that never happened and moving on with his life, so he heads over to the trapdoor without looking back and hopes Martin can’t see him blushing. Mentally, he runs through a few more of those words that would have Nonna applying a wooden spoon to his backside had he said them aloud.
At this point, they’ve all been down at least once, so Tim knows by now which room the Primes are staying in. He raps lightly on the door and calls, “Jon? It’s Tim. You in there?”
“Come in, Tim,” someone calls. Tim thinks it’s one of the Jons.
He pushes open the door and is relieved to see his—their—Jon talking to the Primes. Jon looks honestly confused as he glances down at his phone. “I swear I was watching the time,” he protests. “And I did tell Martin I was coming. I didn’t want to interrupt you.”
Tim decides not to pick that fight. “I believe you. Sorry to cut this short, but someone’s here to make a statement.”
Jon’s shoulders slump. “God,” he says under his breath. “Did they say what it was about?”
“Dunno. Front desk called. Sasha went to fetch whoever it is and I said I’d give you a heads-up. Martin said he’d stall until I brought you back.”
Jon glances at the Primes. “I don’t suppose it’s a false alarm.”
“I don’t think I took a live statement I could record on the laptop after the first six months,” Jon Prime says apologetically. “It’s probably…Christ, what was the…? I swear I only had three live statements on tape before Jane Prentiss attacked. There was Naomi Hearn, then Melanie King, then…”
“That surgeon,” Martin Prime supplies. “The one whose students all had placeholder names.”
“Oh, God, yeah, the apple.” Jon Prime shakes his head. “It’s a Stranger statement.”
Jon sighs heavily and starts to stand. “I suppose I ought to take it,” he says reluctantly. “It’s a shame…never mind.”
“No, what?” Tim insists. “If there’s anything we can do to help…”
“Unfortunately, I’m not sure I’ll be able to justify all of you sitting in on the statement. The live ones are the worst, energy-wise. And I’d hoped to—” Jon meets Tim’s eyes, then looks away, obviously embarrassed.
Tim gets it. Even sleeping between Jon and Martin last night, he’s sure his nightmares were bad. They all know the only way for it to stop is for him to make the statement, and he wants to tell both of them about Danny. But if Jon takes a live statement today, it’ll probably be another week before he can take another, and that’s assuming nobody else comes in with a real one.
“If I may make a suggestion?”
Tim and Jon both turn to look at Jon Prime, who looks up at them with a curious expression. “I’m open to any,” Jon answers.
“If Sasha is escorting your statement-giver downstairs, that means it’s only the four of you down in the Archives,” Jon Prime says. “And as he’s never met you, he has no idea what to expect you to look like.”
“Are you suggesting—what are you suggesting?” Jon narrows his eyes at his counterpart.
Martin Prime pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, closing his eyes as if he has a headache. “He’s suggesting that he go up there with Tim and take the statement for you.”
Jon Prime gestures at Martin Prime grandly. Tim and Jon exchange looks. It’s not actually a bad idea. It’ll keep Jon from sinking any deeper than he already has, at least not yet, and he still doesn’t want that much power. And as Jon Prime said, nobody other than the four of them will know Jon Prime isn’t Jon…as long as Elias doesn’t come down.
“That…could work,” Jon says cautiously. He glances at Tim. “You’ll let the others know why we’re doing this?”
Tim nods. “’Course. And if it’s fake after all, Jon Prime can eat him.”
“I don’t eat people. Only their fear.” Jon Prime kisses Martin Prime’s cheek, the same way Tim accidentally did Martin, which he tries very hard not to think about. “I’ll be back. Half an hour, tops.”
“Be careful.” Martin Prime squeezes his hand, but lets him go. Jon offers Tim a weak smile and sits back down as well.
Tim leads Jon Prime out of the room and into the corridors. As they reach the foot of the steps, Jon Prime says casually, “Care to tell me why you’re blushing, Tim?”
“No,” Tim answers promptly. “No, I would not.”
Jon Prime’s chuckle follows Tim up the steps. He pointedly ignores it.
Martin’s good at this. He and Sasha have positioned their guest—a tall, austere man in a tweed jacket with patches at the elbows and a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair—with his back to the trap door. He’s cradling a steaming cup of tea and listening to Martin explain something. Martin’s eyes drift over the man’s shoulder, not enough to be obvious, and meet Tim’s. Tim flashes an OK sign and stands aside to let Jon Prime out, then carefully closes the trapdoor behind him.
Jon Prime takes a moment to collect himself, like an actor preparing to go onstage. His head goes up, his shoulders go back, and a cold, professional veneer drops over his face. In an instant, he’s put on the persona Jon wore up until Jane Prentiss attacked, and now only trots out for special occasions, like Elias dropping by to “make sure things are going well”. Tim hasn’t seen it in weeks, and he’s never seen it on Jon Prime. It’s somehow even more impressive and intimidating, between the hair, the scars, and the fact that Jon Prime is usually so expressive. He’s looked amused, fond, exasperated, tender, panicked, and utterly besotted, but never blank and stern. There’s just the faintest hint of annoyance in his expression, and Tim finds himself bracing to apologize to the older man who’s about to have to face Jonathan “This is a complete waste of time” Sims.
“May I help you?” Jon Prime says as he strides over, every word crisp and distinct, holding himself like a respectable academic and not an eldritch horror from outside of time and space piloting a battered meat suit.
The man turns around and starts slightly at the sight of Jon Prime, but rallies and offers him a wary nod and a smile. “I certainly hope so. Are you the Head Archivist?”
“Jonathan Sims.” Jon Prime extends his hand. “And you are…?”
“Dr. Lionel Elliott. I’m a professor at Kings College, London.” Dr. Elliott accepts Jon Prime’s hand and shakes it. An odd look comes over his face. “That’s a rather nasty scar. Surprised it didn’t do more damage to your hand.”
“It’s a rather old injury at this point, and I’ve had extensive physical therapy,” Jon Prime says curtly. “I appreciate your concern, however. What may I help you with?”
“Ah.” Dr. Elliott takes a breath. “I was hoping to…make a statement. I had a…deeply unpleasant experience with a class over this last term, and…I hear this institution makes a collection of such things? I—I was hoping you could tell me…that you could help me with it.”
“I see,” Jon Prime says, as if this is news to him. “Well, we’ll certainly see what we can do. If you’ll step into my office?”
He escorts Dr. Elliott to Jon’s office. The second the door closes behind them, the other two turn to look at Tim, Sasha’s eyes curious and Martin’s worried and pleading. Tim holds up his hands to stave off Martin’s concern. In a low voice, he says, “Jon’s fine. We just thought…doing it this way might mean Jon doesn’t have to start sinking so deep. And, well, it’s one less nightmare for him.”
Martin exhales heavily. The worry doesn’t really disappear from his eyes, but it at least shifts its focus, Tim guesses. He can understand that. They’ve all slept in proximity to one another enough to know that Jon’s nightmares are bad and Tim’s aren’t much better. If Martin has nightmares, they’re silent, which isn’t necessarily a point in their favor.
Sasha heads back to her desk. “So this is a real one, is it?”
“Apparently. Jon Prime thinks it’s the Stranger. Not the doctor,” Tim adds quickly as all the color drains out of Martin’s face and he turns towards the office. “Whoever he came in contact with. We’re safe enough. I think.”
Martin inhales, holds the breath for a few seconds, and then lets it out in a slow hiss. “I’m going to go finish digging out those statements. Maybe we can get started on dividing up the work while…he handles that.” He stalks back into the shelves. Tim watches him go, then sighs and thumps into his seat.
A minute or two later, Martin comes back with a stack of files and drops them on his desk. Tim reaches over and snags about half of them and scans the labels. Now that he’s familiar with Gertrude’s numbering system, such as it is, he can see that all but one of the files he’s grabbed are from within the last ten years or so. The other…
“Jesus, is this from the 1800s?” Tim opens the file. It contains nothing except a letter on old, yellowed paper, scorched in places and written in very shaky handwriting that fades in and out. The date at the top is clearly legible, however: November 10, 1845. “1845. Anything important happen that year?”
Martin shrugs. “I mean…depends on what you consider important?”
“Well, what do you know happened that year?” Tim almost asks what do you consider important, but he doesn’t want to diminish anything Martin might know.
“Edgar Allen Poe published The Raven. Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning met, and she started writing her Sonnets from the Portuguese. The Yarmouth suspension bridge collapsed and killed eighty people, mostly children. First year of the Great Famine in Ireland. And I think it was the year the rubber band was invented, or at least patented, but you’d have to ask Jon about that.”
“He’d know.” Tim carefully picks up the first page. “Let’s see what our spooky correspondent has to say.”
He’s quickly absorbed in the story. Despite the faded and patchy ink, it’s surprisingly easy to read, once he gets into it, and the woman’s tale grips him in a way he can’t explain. Absently, he picks up a pen and slides over a notebook to begin jotting down notes to follow up on, inasmuch as he can follow up on something almost older than the Institute itself. It’s a challenge, and Tim likes a challenge.
“Christ,” he says on a sigh, setting down the last page of the letter at last. “That’s a weird one. Gonna be fun to follow up on. Whatcha got there, Marto?”
“Ah, it’s a statement regarding a—deep-dive, somewhere in Canada. Looks like a lot.” Martin angles the page towards Tim. “And look who’s involved.”
“Simon Fairchild,” Tim reads. “Didn’t…they mention him being related to one of the entities?”
“The Vast. I never thought about the deep sea being part of that, but…makes sense.” Martin checks the list he made. “Few names to follow up on. What about you? What’ve you got?”
“Cannibalism on the Oregon Trail. I thought it might’ve been the Stranger at first, but now it’s pretty obviously the Flesh.” Tim looks over at Sasha, who’s typing away on her computer. “Might need you to get on some of this, Sash.”
“One of these days I will get used to the two of you discussing these…things like you’re talking about what you watched on television over the weekend,” Sasha says without looking up. “Today is not that day.”
Martin winces. “Sorry.”
Sasha waves him off and holds out a hand. “Give me the names. Both of you. I can at least get started on that while you two dissect more statements.”
Tim rips off the top page of his notebook. Martin hesitates. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. Everything else I had for today is done.”
Martin shrugs and hands her his notes, then grabs the next file and flips it open.
They’re both about halfway through their second files when the door to Jon’s office opens. Tim looks up and for a minute is genuinely startled to see the scars dotting Jon’s face and hands, until his brain catches up with the fact that it’s Jon Prime. His eyes scan the group for a moment as he emerges behind their guest. “Sasha, can you escort Dr. Elliott out of the Archives, please?”
“Oh, no need, it’s a straight shot, after all.” Dr. Elliot balls something up in his hand. “Thank you for your time. Do let me know what you find.”
“Of course,” Jon Prime assures him, a bit stiffly.
They all watch Dr. Elliott stride up the stairs. Tim mentally counts off the number of steps to the main floor of the Institute, and once he’s sure Dr. Elliott is out, he turns to Jon Prime. “Was it real?”
“Oh, yes, it’s exactly the statement I thought it was,” Jon Prime says, a bit absently. “There won’t be much follow-up you can do, honestly. The names of all the students were basically the official placeholder names in several countries. They’re definitely creatures of the Stranger, anyway. You can speak to Elena Bower in the Kings College administration office if you’d like to confirm that the class actually happened, just for the form of things, but beyond that, a dead end.”
“Good, maybe Jon’ll let us focus on these,” Tim grunts, looking down at the paper in front of him. I also started to notice, on some of the pages, a faint scorching around the edges, though it would be some time before my own attempts to burn it proved how resilient it really was. “I know how much he loves anything involving Leitners.”
“You’ve got one, too?” Martin looks up from what he’s reading. “I’m assuming this is a Leitner in this one. Haven’t finished yet, but it’s definitely a book, and he—he mentions a library sticker that’s mostly missing.”
“Nobody’s said anything about a library sticker in this one, but it’s a creepy book full of eerily detailed stories of dead people, so I’m assuming,” Tim drawls.
Jon Prime peers over Tim’s shoulder. “Yes and no. Leitner really didn’t have…he was simply a librarian, of sorts. A—a collector. Not every book involving one of the Powers passed through his hands. I don’t believe that particular book was one of them.”
Tim looks up at Jon Prime. “The End?”
“I believe so, yes…Martin, which one do you have?”
“Um, Tales of a Field Hospital. I thought it was the End at first, but the things he talks about these soldiers dying of…it reads more like the Corruption to me.”
Jon Prime looks pleased, like he’s just received an answer from a prize student. “John Amherst. I remember that one. I think it was the third time I’d come across the name at that point.”
“It’s a new one by me,” Martin says, then pauses. “Wait, no—that nursing home we’ve been looking into, Ivy Meadows. Wasn’t John Amherst the man who took it over?”
“Mmm-hmm,” Sasha says, still absorbed in her computer. “Can’t find much about him, though, which probably should have been my first clue. The harder these people are to pin down, the closer they are to the entities, seems like.”
“You’re not wrong about that,” Jon Prime tells her. “The entities protect their own, and the longer-lived ones are quite good at covering their traces, for the most part.”
Tim snorts. “I would be, too, if I knew the Ring-Maker was going to scrutinize every possible reference someone else made to me and try and track me down.”
Martin points his pen at Tim, his face almost comically stern. “If you start calling this place Barad-dûr, I will dump you in a volcano myself.”
“You even got the accent right,” Tim says, unaccountably pleased.
“Nerds. You are both nerds,” Sasha announces, as if this is a great revelation and not the culmination of several years’ worth of observation.
Jon Prime shakes his head as if in exasperation, but he’s dropped the Head Archivist mask and he looks amused. “Right, well, that ought to keep me going for a bit. I’ll head back and send out—”
“’Scuse us.”
The voice startles Tim, and he looks up sharply to see two men standing in the Archives. He has no idea where they came from, or how they got into the Archives without any of them noticing, since they’re both big men. They’re dressed like typical delivery men, but there’s something about them that makes Tim’s blood run cold. One of them is carrying a clipboard. The other is carrying a package.
“Looking for the Archivist,” says the one holding the package. He has a Cockney accent, but it sounds a bit fake, like someone who’s watched Mary Poppins six hundred times and thinks Dick Van Dyke is actually British.
“I’m sorry, are you two meant—” Martin begins, standing up, which Tim thinks is rather brave of him. He stands, too, instinctively wanting to protect Martin and Sasha but not quite sure how he’s going to, especially since Martin seems to be trying to protect him.
“Won’t take up your time,” says the man with the clipboard.
“Just got a delivery,” adds the man with the package.
“Right, but you shouldn’t—” Martin tries.
“Package for Jonathan Sims.”
“Says right here.”
They toss the words back and forth, not exactly finishing each other’s sentences but definitely sounding as though they’re one person divided in two. It’s a bit dizzying and a lot disconcerting and Tim is unaccountably scared.
“I am the Archivist,” Jon Prime says. His voice is low and dangerous as he steps forward and physically puts himself between the two delivery men and the three assistants. It shouldn’t be intimidating, considering he’s literally the smallest person in the room, but he radiates an aura of power and subtle menace. For the first time, Tim truly understands what the Primes have been talking about…and what their Jon is afraid of becoming.
“Sign here,” the man with the clipboard says, thrusting it towards him.
“For the package,” the man with the package clarifies.
“Something else upstairs for you.”
“Lady at the desk signed for it.”
“You don’t need my signature,” Jon Prime says, and holds out his hand for the package.
“Sure we do.”
“That’s protocol.”
“Really,” Jon Prime says, sarcasm dripping from his tongue. “You thrive on anonymity and you won’t respect the desires of others to remain that way?” Static crackles in the air, and Tim finds himself taking a half-step closer to Martin, who reaches out and presses a hand flat against his back as if in comfort or support. “I Know who you are. I Know who you work for. I See you.”
The static rises in pitch, almost as bad as when Jon Prime tried to look into the Eye back in Tim’s living room. Tim winces and shrinks against Martin, grabbing for him without conscious thought. Martin grabs him back, evidently gritting his teeth against the pain. The two delivery men look upset, uncomfortable—scared. Tim almost sympathizes with them.
“What’re you doing?” asks one.
“Stop it,” the other orders, or tries to.
“Leave the package and go,” Jon Prime orders, and his voice has an almost hollow echo to it. “And leave them alone.”
The one with the package practically throws it at him. Jon Prime lets it fall to the ground at his feet and stares at the two men as they practically stumble over one another trying to get to the steps.
After a moment, the static vanishes as abruptly as it began, and Jon Prime’s shoulders slump as he takes a deep, shuddering breath. Tim realizes he’s clutching Martin like a drowning man, but he’s not particularly inclined to let go.
“You know, those statements won’t sustain you for long if you immediately expend all the energy you obtain from them,” Sasha observes. Tim blinks at her in astonishment. He has no clue how she can be so…calm after that, but there’s an intensity to her gaze and a brightness to her face that he doesn’t think was there before. “Who was that?”
“Breekon and Hope,” Jon Prime says softly. He bends down to pick up the package.
Martin eases up his death grip on Tim’s shirt, but doesn’t let go completely. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice wavering.
Tim’s not sure who he’s actually addressing, but Jon Prime answers. “I’m fine. I only scared them a bit. Put the fear of the Eye in them, I suppose, not that that’s entirely difficult.” He turns around and studies Tim and Martin, and his face softens. “Are you all right?”
“I-I think so.” Martin sounds uncertain. “Tim, are you…?”
“I don’t know,” Tim lies. He does know. He’s definitely not all right. He’s shaken to his core and he’s not sure if it’s from Jon Prime’s display of power or from the presence of the two delivery men or from Sasha being so into it or some combination of the three.
Martin tries to help Tim sit down, but Tim clings to him. He doesn’t really have it in himself to be embarrassed by it, either. Martin, thank God, doesn’t force the issue, just shifts his arms to comfort him a little better, even though Martin probably needs the comfort, too.
Jon Prime reaches out like he wants to put his hand on Tim’s shoulder, but stops just before he makes contact and draws back. Quietly, he says, “I’ll send your Jon up. I—I am sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
“It’s fine,” Tim says, and means it. He’s not afraid of Jon Prime, not really. What he can do, possibly, but not of him.
Jon Prime does touch his shoulder lightly, then Martin’s, before disappearing in the direction of the trapdoor. Tim closes his eyes and tries to focus on Martin murmuring soothing nonsense at him in the hopes that it will actually soothe him.
“Tim? Tim! Oh, God.” It’s Jon’s voice and suddenly Jon is there, awkwardly hugging Tim from behind. “Jon Prime told me—a-are you all right?”
“Getting there,” Tim mumbles. He frees one hand and grips the nearest one of Jon’s—it’s cold as ice, he’s got terrible circulation—and tucks his chin onto Martin’s shoulder.
The three of them stand like that for a few minutes, until Tim stops shaking and he feels his breathing even out. He takes a deep breath and slowly eases his grip on Martin and on Jon’s hand; obviously understanding, the other two let go of him, but they don’t go far.
“Better?” Martin asks gently.
Tim nods. “Thank you,” he says, his voice a bit hoarse, as he looks from Martin to Jon. He catches Sasha’s eye, from where she still sits behind her computer; she gives him a slightly guilty look, and he tries to smile to let her know he doesn’t judge her. He’s not sure he pulls it off.
Jon takes a half-step back and bunches the cuffs of his cardigan up in his hands—it may be July, but the climate control system in the Archives maintains a steady temperature to preserve the more delicate documents and it’s usually kind of chilly down here, so they’re definitely used to wearing sweaters or jackets year-round by now. “What happened? All Jon Prime said was that ‘the delivery came’ and he thought you might—” He breaks off, his eyes flicking back and forth between Martin and Tim, with a side trip to Sasha.
“Right after Dr. Elliott left, a couple of delivery men showed up,” Sasha tells him. She pushes something on the edge of her desk towards Jon, and it takes Tim a second to realize it’s the package the men threw at Jon Prime. “They delivered that, and also something upstairs that I think they had either Rosie or Manal sign for, probably Rosie. It’s addressed to you, anyway. Jon Prime stared them down and drew a bit on the Eye’s power to tell them to go away. I mean, they were a bit creepy, but they didn’t seem that bad. He said they were Breekon and Hope.”
“Bree—? Oh, God, the table,” Jon says softly, his eyes going wide. “It must have been the table. They said—oh, God.”
Sasha holds up a finger and pushes away from her desk. Tim watches her go, then turns to Jon with a little bit of trepidation. “What’s in that one?”
Jon opens the box gingerly, as if it might contain a bomb. What he pulls out, however, is an old lighter. It’s gold, or at least Tim thinks it’s gold for a second before he realizes it’s probably actually brass, and there’s a design on the front that looks like it might be a spiderweb. Jon holds it gingerly, like it might be going to attack him, which makes sense; the Web probably terrifies him as much as the Stranger scares Tim, and for a similar reason.
Martin’s face goes almost paper-white beneath his freckles. “That’s the—Martin Prime gave me that same lighter to set the fire when Jane Prentiss got in. Christ.”
Jon’s fingers curl lightly around the lighter, and he takes a deep breath, then slips it into his pocket just as Sasha returns with two folders. She waves the one in her left hand in Jon’s direction. “Leanne Denikin’s file, containing crime scene reports for both Joshua Drury and Henry Winchester.” She waves the right one. “Amy Patel’s statement, complete with description of the table. Do you want to run these up to Artifact Storage or do you want me to?”
“I—I probably ought to. It might carry more…emphasis coming from me, and after all, the table was addressed to me. In theory.” Jon takes the folders and frowns at the spines. “What’s this?”
“Oh, um, actually, I did that,” Martin says. “I’m starting to, anyway. I—I found all these colored labels in one of the filing cabinets last year, and, well, we weren’t using them so I just left them, but after—after everything, I just, well, I thought it might help us a bit if we could look at the files we’ve already done and know right away if they’re real or not and what they deal with, so I’ve been sort of trying to color-code them. There are only ten different colors, but I’m just combining for the higher numbers.”
Jon actually smiles, for the first time since coming up from the tunnels. “That’s brilliant. Would you write out what your system is so we all know to start using it? I’ll—I’ll be right back.” His smile fades a little bit as he looks at Tim. “Are you all right now?”
“As all right as I will be, I guess.” Tim summons up a smile. “Thanks, boss.”
Jon pats his arm, a little awkwardly, then turns and heads for the steps. They all watch him go for a minute, then Sasha turns to Martin. “Right, explain this system of yours.”
It’s at once simple and ingenious, a basic combination of numbers and colors that nevertheless paints a vivid picture. Martin even designated the zero alone for those statements that are demonstrably false. It does mean they’re going to need a lot of zeroes, but Martin’s right, it will help a lot. And it’s not like they have to publicize what those labels mean. On those rare occasions that researching students need the files, they can just say it’s an internal filing system and leave it at that. Once Martin’s explained it, Sasha offers to start putting labels on those files they’ve already researched and recorded while Martin and Tim go back to sorting through the files Martin Prime evidently gathered for them.
Jon returns with the two files under his arm, looking a bit peaked, and Martin immediately sets aside the file and gets up to make tea. Tim offers him a crooked grin, which he actually returns, then turns to Jon. “All right?”
“I don’t know.” Jon sits on the edge of Tim’s desk and sets the files down carefully, out of the way of Tim’s work. “Elias turned up while I was trying to convince Dr. Bradley I wasn’t playing around. He agreed with me that the table was dangerous, but suggested it ought to be destroyed. I—I don’t know if I made much sense when I said I wanted to be sure it could be done safely. I hope I didn’t let on that I know more than I ought to.”
Tim doesn’t want to say it, but he feels like he has to. “If he can read minds…”
“I know. I’m almost positive that’s why he came in when he did. Dr. Bradley did at least promise not to have any of his practical researchers touch the table.” Jon sighs heavily, then accepts the cup of tea from Martin with a quiet thanks and a smile. “What are you two working on?”
“Martin dug out the files Martin Prime gathered for us,” Tim informs him. He turns to Martin in surprise when Martin hands him his own cup of tea, then takes it and lets the warmth soak into his palms. “We’ve been reading through them and trying to get an idea of what we’re dealing with. Sasha started running down some of the names we came up with, but right now we’re just…skimming, I guess.”
“What have you found so far?” Jon asks, sounding both interested and cautious.
“We’ve gone through two each and just started our third,” Martin says. “One Vast, one Flesh, one End, one Corruption. And then…these two.” He gestures at the file in front of him and the one open on Tim’s desk. “I’m…actually still not completely sure about this one. She’s talking about insomnia, and it does seem…odd? But I can’t figure out which one it falls under. Not yet. I’m only just getting into it, though…what’s yours, Tim?”
“Actually, I don’t know either.” Tim frowns at the statement he’s been reading. “I think this one might be a dud. I mean—he’s blind, and he’s not…he said it was just what he felt was real. He could be wrong, right? This looks like an old soldier playing a prank. It’s going on about the devil being part of the British army, and I’m pretty sure that’s an Irish folk song, but—” He turns the page and blinks. “Hang on, this isn’t—this is a different handwriting. What the…?” He skims the second page quickly, then his eyes widen as it hits him. “Christ, I think this is more from Trevor Herbert.”
“The vampire hunter?” Martin asks, startled, setting aside his papers and coming to look over Tim’s shoulder. “I could’ve sworn he—I-I mean, I never met him or anything, but I thought they said he lay down and never woke up.”
“Maybe they only meant he should never have woken up,” Jon says, peering over Tim’s other shoulder. “Or—well, it’s dated the same day as the earlier statement, look. Maybe he just lay down later than you thought he did.”
“Maybe.” Martin sounds vaguely distressed.
Tim squeezes his hand. “It’s okay. You know we don’t expect you to know everything about what goes on at the Institute, right? I mean, there are like two hundred people working here. Even after ten years, you can’t know them all.”
Martin manages a smile in reply. Jon nods and reaches for the papers. “Here, I’ll—do you mind if I take those? Since they don’t go in this folder, after all.”
Tim hands the pages over. “I really do think the rest of this is fake, though. Probably got mis-filed. I no longer doubt Martin Prime’s statement senses, but I’m guessing that those pages there were what he sensed in this file.”
“You’re probably right. Set that one aside for now.”
Tim closes the remains of the file and grabs another. He opens it, glances at the first page, sees the words urban exploration, and can’t help the sudden, sharp intake of breath. He waves off his friends’ concern, though. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ve got this.” For now, anyway, he thinks but doesn’t say.
Maybe he doesn’t have to. They all go back to what they’re doing, but Jon stays out with the rest of them until it’s time for them to start lunch breaks. And they don’t let Tim go anywhere alone for the rest of the day.
He’s more grateful for that than he would have thought.