Chapter 160 The Songbook Archive

Nix picked the lock on the sub-basement door in only four seconds, humming softly as the tumblers fell. Beyond it a spiral stair descended into the dark, each step breathing out the smell of old paper.

"Four seconds for a lock built by a choir," she whispered, "I’m insulted by how little they tried."

"Try insulted later," he whispered back, "the stairs keep going."

The archive opened beneath them like the inside of a bell, ringed with wire-thin balconies stacked high. Guards walked the balconies in pairs, each pair humming a note that the next pair answered back.

"Everything in this city is secretly a bell," he muttered.

"Ask me about the bakery’s bread oven, it has opinions about Sundays."

’A choir that sings in a chamber shaped like a bell... they built the instrument first and the hymn second.’

"Stay on the beam and don’t look down," he told her, stepping onto the wire-thin walkway.

"I’m looking at your back," she whispered, "it’s the only thing down here that isn’t swaying."

Every thirty seconds the guards sang one low syllable, passing it around the ring like a baton. Riven counted the pulses against his heartbeat, hunting the gap where the song forgot to breathe in.

"How long is the gap between the verses?" she asked.

"Half a breath, less if they’re nervous, and these men are very polite."

Nix crouched beside him on the rail of the balcony, a pick already glinting between her fingers. She tilted her head toward a door set into the wall, almost hidden behind a heavy drape.

"That door is mine," she murmured, "I can feel it wanting to be opened."

"Wait for the Missing Beat, not a heartbeat before it."

The guards’ note swelled, then slipped into silence, the Missing Beat opening like a held breath. Riven tapped her shoulder twice, sending Nix through the door without a single whisper of sound.

"Go," he breathed.

Inside the vault a lectern held a book as wide as a table, its pages thick as hide. Hundreds of tiny names crawled down every page in columns, each one written in a different careful hand.

"This is the songbook," Nix said softly, "every page is a verse."

"A verse of what?" Riven asked, leaning over the lectern.

"Of whoever they plan to sing into existence, one name at a time."

Nix ran a finger down the first column, her lips moving silently as she counted them. The figures at the page bottom stacked into a sum that made her forget to breathe.

"One thousand names to sing a hero," she read, "and six hundred already taken."

Six hundred names stood inked in full across the pages, their letters shining like fresh paint. Cael’s sat near the bottom, half finished, its last letters trailing away into a pale smear.

"Cael’s is half written," he said, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

"He hasn’t signed it yet, so the Choir can’t finish the line."

’Half a name is half a chance... I need him to keep dragging his feet.’

Near the top of the page one slot sat empty, ringed with a crown drawn in careful ink. A thin line ran from the slot to the margin, labeled with a single word in script: keystone.

"A thousand names and one crown," he said, "the crown holds the rest in place."

"Whoever sits under it never falls," Nix murmured, "the whole song would have to fall first."

The song outside rose half a step, footsteps scraping toward the vault door in perfect unison. Nix snapped the book shut and shoved Riven into a cramped supply closet beside the lectern.

"In, in, in—" she hissed, dragging him by the belt.

The closet smelled of lamp oil and mice, barely wide enough for two people standing shoulder to shoulder. Nix pulled the door shut, plunging them into a dark that pressed against their faces like wet cloth.

"Your elbow is in my ribs," he whispered, "and the ribs object."

"Your ribs are in my elbow’s way, it’s a territorial dispute."

Her breath warmed his collarbone in short quick puffs as the guards’ feet shuffled past the door. In the dark her fingers found his sleeve, gripping it as though the floor might tilt away.

"I check every night whether you’re still there," she whispered.

"Still where?" he asked, puzzled, keeping his voice below the dust.

"Through the wall, I listen to you breathe until I’m sure you’re real."

"That’s creepy... and also kind of nice, in a haunted house sort of way," Riven said.

"I know it’s creepy, I’m telling you so you understand why I panic when you vanish."

"Nix, I’m not going anywhere that I can’t climb back from."

"Promise me, and make it a petty promise, I trust those more."

"I’ll stay out of spite," he said softly, "it’s a decent anchor for a man of my character."

She laughed once against his shoulder, a silent shaking breath, then bit the cloth to stifle it. He felt the quick press of her teeth through his shirt and nearly laughed out loud himself.

"Don’t make me laugh," she whispered, "I’m trying to be a respectable thief."

The guards passed at last, the song swinging away down the ring like a tide ebbing. Nix eased the door open one finger-width and checked the empty vault with a single eye.

"Clear," she breathed, "grab the page before the next verse starts."

"I’m grabbing the page, you grab the door before it notices us."

The archive-warden stood in the open doorway, a thin man in a robe stitched with sheet music. He struck a tuning fork against his palm, the vault door beginning to grind shut behind them.

"Archive hours ended at midnight," he sang in a gentle tenor, "all late visitors become part of the collection."

"We are only here for the shelving," Riven said, holding up the page like a permit.

"I sing to the shelves each evening, they have never once complained."

"They’re asleep, that isn’t the same as consent."

The door ground inward with the slow patience of a mouth, shrinking the gap between its edges. Nix looked at the floor beneath the warden’s feet, then at Riven, then winked with real glee.

"Collection is my favorite word," she said, "it has so many exits."

She pressed her palm to the floor, opening a door exactly where he stood, a square of nothing. The warden fell with a short startled hum, his robe fluttering like a dropped flag over the pit.

"Oh dear, I seem to be—" the warden said.

Far below, the song-pit swallowed him with a dull clang that rang out through the whole sleeping archive. Riven and Nix climbed over the lip of the vault, the stolen page folded flat between his fingers.

"Do you think he’ll file a complaint?" she asked, brushing dust from her knees.

"He’ll file it in the pit, with the other late visitors."

He unfolded the stolen page under the corridor lamp, tracing the crown with one steady finger. The ink was violet, the exact shade stitched into every sash the Student Council ever wore.

"Violet," she said slowly, "that is Ysabel’s color, the exact violet of her council sash."

’The Choir reserved the crown for her before she knew a song existed... somebody is writing her ending in advance.’