The Archived by Victoria Schwab Page B

can’t see Ben, either, and it never stops you from trying.”
    I close my eyes, searching for the right words. “Da is etched so clearly in my memory,
     I don’t think I could forget anything about him even if I tried. But with Ben, it’s
     only been a year and I’m already forgetting things. I keep forgetting things, and
     it terrifies me.”
    Roland nods but doesn’t answer, sympathetic but resolute. He can’t help me. He won’t . I’ve come to Ben’s shelf two dozen times in the year since he died, and Roland has
     never given in and opened it. Never let me see my brother.
    “Where is Da’s shelf, anyway?” I ask, changing the subject before the tightness in
     my chest grows worse.
    “All members of the Archive are kept in Special Collections.”
    “Where is that?”
    Roland arches an eyebrow, but nothing more.
    “Why are they kept separately?”
    He shrugs. “I don’t make the rules, Miss Bishop.”
    He gets to his feet and offers me his hand. I hesitate.
    “It’s okay, Mackenzie,” he says, taking my hand; and I feel nothing. Librarians are
     pros at walling off thoughts, blocking out touch. Mom touches me and I can’t keep
     her out, but Roland touches me and I feel blind, deaf, normal.
    We start walking.
    “Wait,” I say, turning back to Ben’s shelf. Roland waits as I pull the key from around
     my neck and slip it into the hole beneath my brother’s card. It doesn’t turn. It never
     turns.
    But I never stop trying.
I’m not supposed to be here. I can see it in their eyes.
    And yet here I am, standing before a table in a large chamber off the atrium’s second
     wing. The room is marble-floored and cold, and there are no bodies lining the walls,
     only ledgers, and the two people on the other side of the table speak a little louder,
     unafraid to wake the dead. Roland takes his seat beside them.
    “Antony Bishop,” says the man on the end. He has a beard and small, sharp eyes that
     scan a paper on the table. “You are here to name your
…
” He looks up, and the words trail off. “Mr. Bishop, you do realize there is an age
     requirement. Your granddaughter is not eligible for another”
—
he consults a folder, coughs
—
“four years.”
    “She’s up for the trial,” you say.
    “She’ll never pass,” says the woman.
    “I’m stronger than I look,” I say.
    The first man sighs, rubs his beard. “What are you doing, Antony?”
    “She is my only choice,” answers Da.
    “Nonsense. You can name Peter. Your son. And if, in time, Mackenzie is willing and
     able, she will be considered
—
”
    “My son is not fit.”
    “Maybe you don’t do him justice
—
”
    “He’s bright, but he’s got no violence in him, and he wears his lies. He’s not fit.”
    “Meredith, Allen,” says Roland, steepling his fingers. “Let’s give her a chance.”
    The bearded man, Allen, straightens. “Absolutely not.”
    My eyes flick to Da, craving a sign, a nod of encouragement, but he stares straight
     ahead.
    “I can do it,” I say. “I’m not the only choice. I’m the best.”
    Allen’s frown deepens. “I beg your pardon?”
    “Go home, little girl,” says Meredith with a dismissive wave.
    You warned me they would resist. You spent weeks teaching me how to hold my ground.
    I stand taller. “Not until I’ve had my trial.”
    Meredith makes a strangled sound of dismay, but Allen cuts in with, “You’re. Not. Eligible.”
    “Make an exception,” I say. Roland’s mouth quirks up.
    It bolsters me. “Give me a chance.”
    “You think this is a sport? A club?” snaps Meredith, and then her eyes dart to you.
     “What could you possibly be thinking, bringing a child into this
—
”
    “I think it’s a job,” I cut in, careful to keep my voice even. “And I’m ready for
     it. Maybe you think you’re protecting me, or maybe you think I’m not strong enough
—
but you’re wrong.”
    “You are an unfit candidate. And that is the end of it.”
    “It would be,