Jon surfaced slowly from sleep, somewhat disorientated. It was darker than he was used to—even with his curtains drawn, there was usually some ambient light getting in—and the bed didn’t feel right. The blankets didn’t quite smell right, either. Not unpleasant, in fact rather comforting, but just…not right. He shifted to turn over and heard a sharp creak that made him freeze for a moment.
Suddenly, he remembered. He was in the Archives. He’d been badly affected by Jane Prentiss’ statement, heaven only knew why, and needed to lie down for a few. It had still been a bit before the usual end of the day, so Martin had ushered him into the storage room and assured him—oh, God, Martin.
Jon fumbled for his phone and held the screen close to his face. It was late—not just past closing time, but well and truly into the night. A snatch for his glasses confirmed that it was half-eleven, and a quick scan of the room revealed no Martin. Which meant he had probably tried to find somewhere else to sleep so as not to disturb Jon.
Guilt gnawed at him. He’d been staying later and later, but he didn’t usually sleep when he did, or if he did he usually passed out at his desk. Since he’d given Martin the cot and let him start staying in the Archives, Jon hadn’t touched it. And yet, here he was, lying down on it late enough that Martin was either trying to sleep somewhere else…or not sleeping at all.
Or worse. Panic replaced guilt as it occurred to Jon that something could have happened, that Martin wasn’t in here because the worms had got him and Jon had slept through it. He’d like to think he wouldn’t have, but he’d been so worn out…
He all but fell out of the cot, scrambled to his feet, and slid into his shoes before moving as quickly and quietly as he could out the door.
The Archives were dark and silent…or nearly silent. Jon was about to call out for Martin when he froze, straining to hear a sound. It was a voice—a gentle, warm, plaintive voice, singing something about the souls of the dead and remembering the fallen, the notes seeming to wrap around the shelves like a caress.
Jon knew that voice. He’d heard it before, nights he’d stayed late tucked in a corner of the library finishing his research and later on nights when he’d sneaked back in to listen for it. Tim, who’d heard it too, had always sworn the library was haunted by the ghost of a fisherman; Jon wasn’t sure how much he believed that, but he’d come to think of the voice as the Library Ghost anyway. For some reason, it always made him feel…safe. Comforted. He’d tried slipping up to the library a couple of times since becoming the Head Archivist, in the hopes that the voice would ease the knot of tension and stress he carried almost constantly these days, but there’d been nothing. It was like the ghost was gone.
And yet, here it was. In the Archives. Singing a song Jon didn’t know but felt soothed by.
He stood where he was until the last note faded away, then moved cautiously into the Archives proper. Somehow, he’d never noticed just how dark it got. It was strange that he wasn’t as jumpy or twitchy as usual, but that was the effect the Library Ghost had always had on him. It meant more than comfort—it meant security, safety. If the ghost was singing in the Archives, it must mean everything was okay. For now, anyway. Jon clicked on his torch and went looking.
It didn’t take him long to find Martin. He was sitting up against the little cluster of desks where the assistants sat, his back pressed against it and his knees drawn up to his chest, facing the dark, ominous rows of shelving. His eyes were closed, and even with the light of the torch, Jon could see the tracks of tears streaking down his cheeks. Something twisted in Jon’s chest. He didn’t know if Martin was upset or scared or if the ghost didn’t give him the same feelings of safety it did Jon, but whatever it was, he was faced with a deep and abiding urge to fix it, to make things better. Which, honestly, scared him worse than almost anything he’d dealt with in his life.
His instinct was to be brusque and snappy about it, but he stopped himself. Instead, he simply came closer and said quietly, “Martin?”
If he was honest, he’d expected Martin to jump, to hit his head, and to stammer. He was not prepared for the quiet, subdued, “Hey, Jon.”
Jon angled the torch away from them, but pointed at the ground—he didn’t want to look at the shelves—and slid awkwardly to the floor next to Martin. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” Martin scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand quickly. “Sorry if I woke you up, I—”
“No, no, you’re fine,” Jon assured him quickly. “I was simply…done sleeping, I suppose. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take your cot.”
“It’s your cot,” Martin pointed out.
“Technically I think it’s Archives property. I was just using it. Anyway, I told you to sleep on it, and here I was lying down on it well into the night.”
“It’s fine. Not like I was sleeping anyway.” Martin glanced at him sideways, then looked away. “Feeling better?”
Jon considered the question from all angles. “Somewhat. Although that’s possibly less to do with the…er, nap…and more to do with the ghost.”
This time the sideways glance lasted longer. “The what?”
“Oh, come on, you must have heard it just now,” Jon said, gesturing towards the shelves. “The singing. It’s…actually, you worked in the library before you came down here, you must have heard it there after hours. A clear, pure voice singing sea shanties and that sort of thing. Tim claims it’s a fisherman of some kind, but I seriously doubt that. What would the ghost of a fisherman be doing in the Institute library?” He pondered for a moment. “Unless it came in attached to one of the books. Rare, I suppose, but it could happen. Perhaps a book the person was particularly fond of in life, or one that had some sort of significance to him. Not a Leitner, certainly, as I’m fairly sure those are destroyed as soon as they’re found, but…” He trailed off, realizing he’d been rambling, and cleared his throat to stop himself from apologizing. “Anyway, I don’t think Tim has ever actually seen this ‘ghost,’ let alone spoken to it, so it could be of anyone. But surely you must know it. It—I haven’t heard it up there since I took the Head Archivist position, but just now, when I came out to make sure you were all right…” He gestured vaguely with the hand not holding the torch.
Martin was quiet for a few breaths. Finally, he said, “How often did you…hear it?”
“Quite often. I—when I was first working for the Institute, I’d get caught up in my research and forget the time, so I’d often have to hurry out. Later I went back on purpose to listen,” Jon admitted, feeling his cheeks heat up. “It’s…comforting, somehow. A bit odd to say, maybe, given the topics of some of the songs, but there’s something about that voice that always makes me feel safe.” He paused, but when Martin didn’t respond, he found himself continuing. “I was worrying about you, actually. When I first—you weren’t back there and I saw how late it was and, well, at first I was upset with myself for taking your bed, and then I started worrying that something had happened to you and I’d slept through it. But I came out and I heard my—the ghost singing, and I-I knew, somehow, that it meant everything was all right. Not the least because it was here instead of in the library, so—well, I suppose that’s proof it’s not tied to one of the books.” He glanced sideways at Martin and tried for a teasing Tim-style smile. “Maybe it followed you.”
Martin let out a soft laugh that…didn’t sound particularly amused, but wasn’t particularly bitter either. “It didn’t follow me, Jon. It is me. I mean—” He sighed. “There was never a ghost in the library. That was me. I usually got stuck shelving the books at the end of the day, so I was always the last one to leave, and…I didn’t mind, really, because I had some time on my own without people…dogging my steps or criticizing everything I did or finding a thousand unreasonable tasks for me to do on top of what I was already doing. But I’d sing shanties while I worked.”
Jon turned fully to face Martin, astonished. Martin wasn’t looking at him, was staring straight ahead into the darkness, and Jon couldn’t have said if he was lost in thought or avoiding Jon’s eye. “That was you? I—I had no idea you sang.”
“Yeah, well…” Martin shrugged one shoulder. “Not exactly something useful to what we do, is it? And I-I don’t do it so often these days.”
“Not everything needs to have a purpose, Martin.” Jon almost pressed his shoulder to Martin’s, but stopped himself just in time. “So what was that you were singing a moment ago? I don’t think I know that one.”
“Um, it’s called ‘Bones in the Ocean.’ Not really a proper shanty, per se, it was written by a band a couple years ago, but it sort of fits.” Martin paused. “I don’t know why I was singing it just now.”
“There could be any number of reasons,” Jon said. “Perhaps it was just stuck in your head.”
“Yeah, but…” Martin shook his head. “Never mind.”
They sat in silence for a while. Jon was surprised at how…comfortable it felt. It wasn’t just that he knew Martin was the “ghost” (he wondered what Tim would have to say when he found out)—it was also that, well, it was Martin. They’d spent a decent amount of time together since Martin had moved into the Archives, and they’d built up something of a working relationship. Jon might even venture to call them friends, the line between boss and underling being significantly blurred down here. Martin had come to mean comfort in a lot of ways, and this just seemed like a natural continuation of that.
When he thought about it that way, Martin being the ghost made perfect sense.
Jon wondered if they were good enough friends that Martin would give him an honest answer if he asked what was bothering him. He’d been…off in the last month or so, ever since Melanie King’s visit, and Jon wondered if there was a connection. Before he could speak up, though, Martin broke the silence. “Did you have a favorite song? That the, ah, ‘ghost’ sang?”
Jon couldn’t help but smile at the slightly teasing note in Martin’s voice. “Now that you mention it, yes. There’s one…I-I’m afraid I don’t know what it’s called, but it’s got a chorus in another language. The verses are something about…someone waiting for a lover to return?”
“Oh, ‘The Boatman,’ sure.” Martin took a deep breath and began to sing.
It was in fact the song Jon was thinking of, and the voice captivated him just like it always did. Somehow, knowing that it was Martin singing made it…better. Jon couldn’t explain it. Nor could he explain why he found himself closing his eyes and leaning against Martin’s shoulder.
Nor why Martin let him.