Which explains the older Histories in my territory.
“A disruption happens when the noise Histories make waking up causes other Histories to wake up, and so on. Like dominoes. More and more and more, until it’s contained.”
“Or they all fall down,” I whisper.
“As soon as it started, we acted, and began blacking out rooms. Lighter sleepers first. It should have been enough. A disruption starts in one place, like a fire, so it has a core. Logic says that if you can douse the hottest part, you can tamp out the rest. But it’s not working. Every time we put out a fire, a new one flares up in a perfectly quiet place.”
“That doesn’t seem natural,” says Wes.
Roland shoots me a meaningful glance. That’s because it isn’t.
So, is the disruption a distraction from the altered Histories? Or is it something more? I wish I could ask, but following Roland’s lead, I don’t want to say too much in front of Wes.
“And the Coronado,” Roland continues, “is being hit harder than other territories at the moment. So, Mackenzie, until this minor technical difficulty is resolved and your numbers return to normal, Wesley will be assisting you in your territory.”
My mind spins. I came in here expecting to lose my job, lose my self, and instead I get a partner.
Roland holds out a folded slip of paper.
“Your list, Miss Bishop.”
I take it, but hold his gaze. What about last night? What about Ben? Questions I know better than to ask aloud. So instead I say, “Is there anything else?”
Roland considers me a moment, then draws something from his back pocket. A folded black handkerchief. I take it and frown at the weight. Something is wrapped in the fabric. When I peel back the cloth, my eyes widen.
It’s a key.
Not like the simply copper one I wear around my neck, or the thin gold ones the Librarians use, but larger, heavier, colder. A near-black thing with sharp teeth and pricks of rust. Something tugs at me. I’ve seen this key before. I’ve felt this key.
Wesley’s eyes widen. “Is that a Crew key?”
Roland nods. “It belonged to Antony Bishop.”
“Why do you have two keys?” I ask.
You look at me like you never thought I’d notice the second cord around your neck. Now you tug it up over your head and hold it out for me, the metal hanging heavy on the end. When I take the key, it is cold and strangely beautiful, with a handle at one end and sharp teeth at the other. I can’t imagine a lock in the world those teeth would fit.
“What does it do?” I ask, cradling the metal.
“It’s a Crew key,” you say. “When a History gets out, you’ve got to return them, fast. Crew can’t waste time searching for doors into the Narrows. So this turns any door into an Archive door.”
“Any door?” I ask. “Even the front door? Or the one to my room? Or the one on the shed that’s falling down
—
”
“
Any
door. You just put the key in the lock and turn. Left for the Librarians, right for Returns.”
I run a thumb over the metal. “I thought you stopped being Crew.”
“I did. Just haven’t brought myself to give it back yet.”
I hold up the key, sliding it through thin air as if there’s a door with a lock I simply can’t see. And I’m about to turn it when you catch my wrist. Your noise washes through my head, all winter trees and far-off storms.
“Careful,” you say. “Crew keys are dangerous. They’re used to rip open the seams between the Outer and the Archive, and let us through. We like to think we can control that kind of power with left turns and right turns, but these keys, they can tear holes in the world. I did it once, by accident. Nearly ate me up.”
“How?”
“Crew keys are too strong and too smart. If you hold that piece of rusted metal up, not to a door, just a bit of thin air, and give it a full turn, all the way around, it’ll make a tear right in the world, a bad kind of door, one that leads
to
nowhere.”
“If it leads nowhere,” I ask, “then what’s the harm?”
“A door that leads nowhere and a door that leads
to
nowhere are totally different things, Kenzie. A door that leads
to
nowhere is dangerous. A door to nowhere is a door into nothing,” you say, taking the key back and slipping the cord over your head. “A void.”
I look down at the Crew key, mesmerized. “Can it do anything else?”
“Sure can.”
“Like what?”
You give a tilted smile. “Make it to Crew and you’ll find out.”
I chew my lip. “Hey, Da?”
“Yes, Kenzie?”
“If Crew keys are so powerful, won’t the Archive notice it’s gone?”
You sit back and shrug. “Things get misplaced. Things get lost. Nobody’s going to miss it.”
“Da gave you his key?” I ask. I’d always wondered what happened to it.
“Do I get a Crew key, too?” asks Wes, bouncing slightly.
“You’ll have to share,” says Roland. “The Archive keeps track of these. It notices when they go missing. The only reason they won’t notice this key is gone is because—”
“It stayed lost,” I say.
Roland almost smiles. “Antony held on to it as long as he could, and then he gave it back to me. I never turned it in, so the Archive still considers the key lost.”
“Why are you giving this to me now?” I ask.
Roland rubs his eyes. “The disruption is spreading. Rapidly. As more Histories wake, and more escape, you need to be prepared.”
I look down at the key, the weight of the memory pulling at my fingers. “These keys go to and from the Archive, but Da said they did other things. If I’m going to have it and play Crew, I want to know what he meant.”
“That key is not a promotion, Miss Bishop. It’s to be used only in case of emergency, and even then, only to go to and from the Archive.”
“Where else would I go?”
“Oh, oh, like shortcuts?” asks Wes. “My aunt Joan told me about them. There are these doors, only they don’t go to the Narrows or the Archive. They’re just in the Outer. Like holes punched in space.”
Roland gives us both a withering look and sighs. “Shortcuts are used by Crew to move expediently through the Outer. Some let you skip a few blocks, others let you cross an entire city.”
Wes nods, but I frown. “Why haven’t I ever seen one? Not even with my ring off.”
“I’m sure you have and didn’t know it. Shortcuts are unnatural—holes in space. They don’t look like doors, just a wrongness in the air, so your eyes slide off. Crew learn to look for the places their eyes don’t want to go. But it takes time and practice. Neither of which you have. And it takes Crew years to memorize which doors lead where, which is only one of a dozen reasons why you do not have permission to use that key on one if you find it. Do you understand?”
I fold the kerchief over the key and nod, sliding it into my pocket. Roland is obviously nervous, and no wonder. If shortcuts barely register as more than thin air, and Da told me what happens when you use a Crew key on thin air, then the potential for ripping open a void in the Outer is pretty high.
“Stick together, no playing with the key, no looking for shortcuts.” Wes ticks off the rules on his fingers.
We both turn to go.
“Miss Bishop,” says Roland. “A word alone.”
Wesley leaves, and I linger, waiting for my punishment, my sentence. Roland is silent until the door closes on Wes.
“Miss Bishop,” he says, without looking at me, “Mr. Ayers has been made aware of the disruption. He has not been told of its suspected cause. You will keep that, and the rest of our investigation, to yourself.”
I nod. “Is that all, Roland?”
“No,” he says, his voice going low. “In opening Benjamin’s drawer, you broke Archival law, and you broke my trust. Your actions are being overlooked once and only once, but if you ever, ever do that again, you will forfeit your position, and I will remove you myself.” His gray eyes level on mine. “That is all.”