The east archive smelled like old paper and the particular mineral quiet of a room where things had been kept carefully for a very long time.
Zane was not there when I arrived. He had arranged it this way — I understood this without being told, the same way I understood most things Zane did: with thought, with the specific consideration of a man who knew when his presence would change the quality of something and removed himself accordingly.
Maren was in the chair beside the reading table.
She had her walking stick. She had her composure. She did not have a folder.
She had a single sheaf of papers, handwritten, placed face-down on the table in the way of something that is being offered and has not yet been accepted.
I sat across from her.
She looked at me for a moment.
Then she turn
