through stacks with the help of an archivist.
Assuming the archivist on duty will speak to you.
âThought you wanted to help,â Lockport says, folding his arms.
âI do,â I say. âBut isnât there something a little more hands-on?â
He shrugs. âThe fifth years are starting their cleavings soon. You want to make sure the training looms are strung and tightened?â
Handling the strings of the multiverse, the threads that make up the fabric of reality, is a delicate business. You can accidentally unravel a world, destabilize entire branches, trap yourself on the wrong side and never make it home. In the worst-case scenario, you could damage the Key World.
To prepare, unlicensed Walkers like Del and Eliot work on looms, learning how to separate and manipulate the individual filaments. They start with yarn and gradually swap it out for finer, more delicate threads. Someone has to do the prep work and the swapping, but it wasnât going to be me. My reputation might have taken a hit, but my pride was still intact.
I pluck the paper from Lockportâs fingers and leave without another word.
â¢Â    â¢Â    â¢
The Archives smell like the very best kind of libraryâleather and old paper and pleasant dust. The stacks take up three floors, but like any library, thereâs a central areaâbig wooden tables with paperweights and magnifying glasses, computers to access the more recent records, card catalogs and massive ledgers to find the older ones. And the archivistsâ desks.
Proportionately, there arenât a lot of archivists. We have approximately one hundred and fifty Cleavers working at any one time, but thereâs usually only three archivists, plus an apprentice on duty. Itâs not a surprise that the room looks deserted when I arrive. My shoulders relax, my pulse slows, and I tell myself that the weird feeling in the pit of my stomach is relief, not disappointment.
The list of frequencies Lockport gave me is absurdly long, and none of them is new enough to be computerized. For an instant I wonder if this is paybackâif people hold me responsible for Monty, for my failure to see him or stop him until it was nearly too late.
They wouldnât be wrong, either.
Regardless, I have to do this the old-fashioned way. I head to the card catalog and start flipping through the rectangles of paper, looking for the coordinates of each frequency and jotting them down.
Itâs nearly an hour before Iâm done looking up call numbers. As I close the drawer, a gentle voice says, âCan I help you find something?â
I spin around, heart in my throat, palms damp. But itâs only the Senior Archivist, a woman named Green, her Boston accent still pronounced. Her hair is carefully set and frosted, her face soft like rising bread dough.
It takes a minute for my voice to come back. âThanks, but I can find them,â I say. âWhere is everyone?â
She gestures to my paper. âWe have lists of our own, Iâm afraid. Addison, isnât it?â
I nod.
âWe havenât seen you in a while.â
âNo, maâam.â I flush. âWeâve been busy.â
âIt seems so.â She peers at the list of call numbers. âWouldnât that go faster with some help? We can askââ
âNo, thank you,â I say quickly. âItâs no trouble.â
âIf youâre sure,â she says, with a small frown. She looks grandmotherly, or what I assume grandmothers should look like. I barely remember mine, which is for the best. Rose Armstrong was a Free Walker, and if she hadnât abandoned her family seventeen years ago, sheâd be in an oubliette along with her husband right now.
âAbsolutely sure.â
Surety, Iâve discovered, is the only way to survive.
I take my list and a map carrier back into the cramped stacks. Each aisle is flanked by
BWWM Club, Shifter Club, Lionel Law