Crane and Bolton excuse themselves, but Lattimer stays behind, eyeing me closely.
“Let’s visit your new office,” he says.
“My office?”
“Unless you’d prefer to work at your usual desk.” He smiles to show he’s joking. I wouldn’t have guessed him capable.
I follow him through a warren of hallways and offices. “It’s not much,” he warns. “But it’s private, which is key. For now, we’d like you to keep the nature of your assignment to yourself. The fewer people who know the truth, the better chance we have of finding the Free Walkers.”
“What am I supposed to tell everyone?” My dad, for example, is going to want to know why I’m not showing up for my regular assignment.
“Explain that, considering what you went through during the anomaly, we felt it best you take on a more administrative role for the time being.”
“Like a suspension?”
“Hardly. You’re reporting directly to me. If anything, people will view it as a promotion.” He continues down the corridor, and it’s clear the subject is closed. “You’ll have a working terminal, so you can access the digital archives. The Archivists will be happy to provide you with any other information you might need; we’ve upgraded your security clearance. Here we are.”
He opens the door of what looks like a supply closet. The floor is bare concrete, and there are no windows. In the center of the room are two desks facing each other, each with a computer and plenty of space to look over maps. Whiteboards line the walls. A file cabinet stands on one side of the room; a large supply cabinet, like a wardrobe, has been placed on the opposite wall.
“Two desks, sir?”
“We promised you security,” he says, ushering me inside. “It’s only logical that your partner would share the space.”
“My partner?” The drawer glides open smoothly. It’s stocked with the same supplies as my old desk—number-three pencils, pale green stenographer’s notebooks, silver binder clips in every size. Black fountain pens, because I like the sound and speed and precision of the nib more than ballpoints.
They went through my old desk and prepared this one especially for me. They knew I would accept.
Suddenly the upgrade to my own office feels less flattering and more . . . intimidating. I wonder if they’ve been checking other aspects of my life, too.
“It’s for your own protection,” Lattimer says. “I’ll make the introductions tomorrow. For now, you have reading to do—the relevant files have been downloaded to your computer; all the hard-copy reports you’ll need are in the bottom drawer.”
“Thank you,” I say, a little stunned.
“Take the rest of the day to catch up on your reading. I’ll alert your First Chair of your new position; they should be able to arrange a suitable replacement quickly enough.”
The fact they consider me replaceable is less than reassuring. But I’ve never failed an assignment in my life, and I’m not starting now.
People, maybe. But not assignments.
• • •
I read until one of Lattimer’s assistants drops off my coat and bag, which I’d left at my old desk. It’s easy to lose track of time in this small, windowless room. I’ve barely made a dent in the reading, so I pack up and head home, mind whirling. By the time I pull into the driveway of our ramshackle Queen Anne, I have the beginnings of a plan: something that will fulfill my agreement with the Consort and protect Del, Eliot, and me.
The Consort believes Monty was working with the Free Walkers, and he’s not setting them straight. I don’t know why he’s keeping our secret—he doesn’t do anything unless it serves his purpose—but maybe guilt has finally gotten the better of him. Still, it doesn’t mean we’re safe. The Consort will dig until they find the truth, or something like it.
A local Free Walker group would fit the bill. According to the files I read today, Free Walker activity increased in this area over the past few years. They must have left a trail, buried in these reports. All I have to do is find it and send the Consort after them instead of us.
My parents’ minivan isn’t in the driveway, so I fix myself a pot of tea and sit down at the kitchen table to continue reading.
A short while later, Del pads into the room, still wearing her pajamas. “What are you doing?”
“Work,” I say. “Did you spend all day in bed?”
“I went out.”
“Where? Walking?” She’s not supposed to Walk by herself, but I wouldn’t put it past her. Del is not one to follow the rules, even now.
She stares at the ground. “Amelia’s.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea? Does she—” Does she blame you? I almost ask. “Does she want company right now?”
“I’m not company,” Del says shortly.
“Did Eliot go with you?”
She shakes her head, and I wonder how many texts she’s ignored, how many calls have gone to voice mail.
“What’s this?” She jerks her head at the table, which is now completely covered with reports, maps, and my own notes.
“Research.”
“A cleaving?” she asks, the edge in her voice honed to a blade.
“No, actually.” Del’s aversion to cleaving is going to be a problem if word gets out. Bringing her onto my team might be the only way to cover for her. “A special project for the Consort.”
Even though Lattimer said this was secret, I don’t feel right keeping it from Del. It’s not as if she’s talking to anyone.
She shrugs and pokes her head into the fridge, looking for food.
“It’s about Monty,” I say. She goes rigid. “They want me to find the Free Walkers he was working with during the anomaly.”
“Can’t find what doesn’t exist,” she says.
“But they do.” I tap the papers in front of me. “According to this, there are cells of Free Walkers all over the world. They’re like . . . termites . . . or something, eating away at the Consort.”
“And you’re the exterminator.” She flings the words like an accusation.
I flush. I’m doing what I was raised to do. What every Walker is called to do. Protect the Key World. “I’m just locating them,” I say. “Enforcement will handle the rest.”
“Handle,” she says, fingers curving into air quotes. “I’m sure.”
“What should I do, Del? The Consort asked me to help because they think Monty was in cahoots with the cell in this area. Should I tell them we lied? Tell them about Simon? Let them interview Amelia?”
“No!” She jerks back as if I’ve slapped her. “We promised.”
“This is the best way I know to cover our trail. And if it helps the Key World . . .”
“It helps the Consort,” she says. “Quit mixing them up. Was it Lattimer who asked you?”
“It was the whole Consort,” I reply. She’s curious. I can use this. We need to find her something else to focus on, like I told Eliot. She needs to think about something other than Simon. The Consort hasn’t reinstated Del yet. If I can convince Lattimer that Del’s insights into Monty are vital, he might let her help. She can work through her grief and impress the Consort at the same time, helping her case. Everybody wins. Everything is fixed.
“What did they offer you?” she asks.
“Excuse me?”
“Lattimer always offers something. What did he promise you?”
I’m reluctant to say it. Like tossing a coin into a fountain, I’m worried speaking my wish out loud will keep it from coming true. But superstition is a weakness, and I refuse to fall prey. Work brings what you want, not wishing.
“First Chair.”
Even Del—jaded, weary, practically catatonic Del—is surprised by that. Her eyebrows arch, her lips purse.
“I can pick my own team next year if I do this. I can bring you in. Guarantee we work with Eliot.”
She softens at that, and I press harder. “Monty told you things he didn’t share with anyone else. If we work together, we can find out who he worked with.”
“We know who he worked with,” she says. “Rose. And Simon’s dad.”
“They weren’t the only Free Walkers working this area. They had a whole network back then, and the Consort didn’t catch everyone. There are still Free Walkers out there. We could find them.”
Something flickers in the hazel of her eyes, a flash of gold-green that makes me nervous and gives me hope all at once. But it vanishes, a trick of the light, and she slumps against the counter.
“I could really use your help,” I say, one last attempt. Six months ago I would have laughed at the idea, but now it’s true, and no one is more surprised than I am. Del could be an amazing Walker, if she wanted.
The trouble is, I can’t make her want it. Hearts are not as easy to control as the multiverse, and Del’s heart has gone out of her, to a place I can’t reach. The knowledge is as bitter as the cold tea before me.
“They’re using you,” she says softly. “They don’t trust you. This is how they keep an eye on you. On both of us.”
“That’s not true,” I protest, even though I wondered the same thing only hours ago.
She smiles, weary and sympathetic.
Pity from someone who’s hit rock bottom is disconcerting. Like you’re about to tip over the edge, and you don’t even realize it.
The sound of my parents pulling into the driveway is unmistakable, since the van’s muffler is nearly shot. It’s not like we’re poor—CCM pays us, and pays us well—but my parents can’t be bothered with things like routine car maintenance or repainting the house. They keep their interactions with Originals to a minimum. Their focus is entirely on the multiverse, and each other, and us, in precisely that order.
By the time the back door opens, Del has vanished upstairs, the sound of her footsteps on the treads the only sign she was ever here.
Mom and Dad, arms laden with grocery bags, don’t notice the array of files littering the table. I scoop them into my tote bag before they can take a closer look.
Word of my special project will get out, and soon. But the Consort’s cover story won’t hold up to my parents’ scrutiny, and I can’t bear for my new assignment to be the topic of conversation at family dinner. Too many questions I can’t answer, too many ghosts stirred up. Keeping secrets has always been Del’s department, but I’m starting to see the appeal.
For a little while, secrets let you think you’re in control.