The archives were, in some ways, a labyrinth disguised as a library and box storage. It was a cold, dungeon-like space made of stone and dark wood without any windows. The ceilings were surprisingly high for a basement—over ten feet, at least—and the bookcases stretched all the way to the top, so ladders were needed to reach more than half the shelves. The design meant the shelves were really walls, with arches and tunnels cut through, and they led to more than the occasional dead end.
Calder Nogrenn—the records keeper, head of the archives, and my immediate supervisor—manned the circular desk in the center of the room, straight down the tunnel from the main doors. The main purpose of the archives—according to Calder—was to maintain and add to the complete history of trollkind.
It was not a place made for customer relations, which explained Calder’s personality. The intricately carved, beautiful circular desk he sat at made less sense since nobody ever really saw it but him.
I wasn’t sure how he’d react to my return. I’d never really been able to tell if he liked me or merely tolerated me for efficiency’s sake. The last time I had seen him, Pan and I had stopped unannounced at his apartment, and he had grudgingly told us what little he knew about the Älvolk.
He didn’t look up when the door closed behind me—he was hunched over his desk, his nose buried in a scroll, the sleeve of his caftan stained with ink. My footsteps echoed off the stone floor, and he remained head down, focused on his work.
But he did finally look at me when I cleared my throat and said, “Hello.”
“So, the rumors are true.” His gray eyes rested heavily on me, and his olive skin was a weathered map of wrinkles and time. “You’ve returned.”
“Does that mean you’re not holding a grudge?” I asked.
“A grudge?” He scoffed. “I hardly care what you do. My work continues on, whether you are here or not.”
“What can I do to help you with your work today?” I asked.
“Ragnall Jerrick and the Information Styrelse decided to go through many of our tomes from the early twentieth century. They’ve returned a large portion of them, but they still need to be properly shelved.” With his thumb, he pointed behind him to a cart overflowing with thick, dusty books, and beside it was another three crates of books. It had to weigh over fifty pounds.
But I was strong. I could handle it, even if it wasn’t going to be fun or pleasant. So I smiled and nodded.
“I’ll get right on it, sir.” I went around to the back of the desk and dropped off my bag before going back to gather the books.
I could’ve used the cart—it would’ve been easier that way—but it wasn’t hard for me to carry anything under a hundred pounds, and the book cart’s wheels were all squeaky and squawky. It was the kind of thing that would drive Calder insane, even over his radio blasting out Bach.
So I carried the stack of books through the maze of shelves, with tiny plaques and Calder’s vague directions to guide me through. The only thing the books had in common was that they were published in the same two decades, but the subject matters were so varied that they had me going to every corner of the archives.
I’d only been working there since the beginning of June—minus my week off—so I wasn’t exactly an expert on how things worked, but I had never seen such a large haul of books needing to be reshelved. In fact, it was usually only one or two books, if any.
That’s what made the archives different from the library. The books, records, and folders here weren’t supposed to be checked out or removed, generally speaking. They were intended to remain here to serve as a resource, but a safeguarded one.
So I had to wonder why the Information Styrelse had suddenly requested dozens of books, and how unusual an occurrence it was. Calder probably knew, but I doubted he would tell me.
I made note of the titles, but most of them were so generic— Common Surnames of Trylle Kingdom 1901–1925—or random—Country Food Recipes of the Kanin. And another specifically devoted to a nearly extinct yellow flower called Sorgblomma trollius funus. It didn’t sound like there was anything of serious value to glean from them, so I really had no idea what the Information Styrelse wanted them for.
Sylvi’s warning about not squandering my opportunities had struck a chord with me, and I couldn’t waste a chance to learn something useful. When I came across any title that sounded even remotely related to Áibmoráigi, the Älvolk, or Jem-Kruk, I took a few minutes to skim it before putting it away.
Even with my supernatural strength, by lunch my forearms were sore, feeling the strain more from the repetitive motions than anything else. And I was definitely craving a break. After I put away another armload of books, I headed back toward the desk, winding my way through the bookcases and thinking about how I was going to ask Calder if I could head to lunch.
As I approached, I heard Pan talking—telling Calder a cheesy joke about a ghost always going through books. I rounded the bookcase, and I spotted him leaning on the desk.
“Hey,” I said as I walked over to him. “What’s going on?”
“Hey!” He grinned when he saw me. “I knew you’d be hard at work, but I thought maybe you could use a break.” He lifted up a brown paper lunch sack. “I grabbed us a couple of strawberry gräddtårta from the bakery and fizzy pink lemonade, if you’re hungry.”
“Yeah, absolutely,” I said, then looked to Calder. “If that’s okay.”
Calder waved me off. “Yes, yes, yes. The sooner you go, the sooner you can get back to work.”
“Thanks,” I muttered.
There wasn’t a real break room for the archives, just a large supply closet where we stored all the stationery and cleaning supplies. In addition to the shelves stacked with pens and papers, there was also an old couch, a minifridge, and a tea maker.
It was dimly lit, with cold stone floors and exposed drywall, but it was nearby, and it was private. Using supplies we had on hand—a moving blanket and couch cushions tossed on the floor, a few of the tea lights we kept by the dozens for emergencies, and my cell phone in a paper cup for a speaker amplifier—we managed to set up a nice little picnic.
“So, how’s it been for you since you’ve been back?” he asked.
I shrugged. “It’s been nice sleeping in my own bed again.”
“Tell me about it!” He groaned in agreement. “Rikky’s couch was fine for a couch, but it was awful for a bed.”
“I didn’t know you were uncomfortable. You should’ve said something. I would’ve switched with you.”
“No, it wasn’t that bad, really.” He played it down with a sheepish grin. “I’m just glad to be home.”
“Me too,” I said and sipped my fizzy lemonade.
“It is strange not seeing you every day.” Pan lowered his eyes, staring down at his hands as he plucked a strawberry from the top of the creamy tart. “I’d gotten used to you being around all the time.”
And then I remembered that he had his important meeting with Sylvi yesterday—that’s what he’d been called back for—and I nearly choked on my drink because I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten to ask about something so important.
I coughed, and when he asked if I was okay, I nodded quickly and cleared my throat. “I’m so sorry, I’ve been going on and on. How did your meeting with Sylvi go?”
“Good. Good.” His thick eyebrows pinched together, and he frowned. “But … she didn’t really tell me much.”
“What do you mean?”
He leaned back and rubbed his hands on his jeans. “When Sylvi called, she made it sound like she had finally gotten the Kanin to agree to start looking into my parentage. But that’s not what’s happening. A Mästare sent an official letter that basically says that they’ll keep asking the Kanin kingdom to open a paternity case regarding me, and the Kanin acknowledged that they’d received that letter and said we can keep on writing letters, if that’s our wish.”
“And?” I pressed.
“And that’s it.” He laughed bitterly. “Sylvi assured me they were going to keep looking into it.”
“What did she say when she called?”
“The Kanin were reopening my claim, and I should talk to her before they changed their minds.”
I shook my head. “So … did they change their minds, then?”
“As far as I can tell, the Kanin have the same position they’ve always had—ignore and deny,” Pan said with a shrug. “Sylvi showed me the letter they sent, so it’s not like they told her anything different than what I saw.”
I took a bite of my food, chewing as I considered what Pan had said. “But I don’t understand. Why would she call you back here?”
“That’s what I’m saying.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I’m not complaining, exactly. Maybe when they talked to her it sounded more substantial. Or maybe she thought that I’d want to know any little thing, and I would’ve thought that I would too. So here we are.”
“I’m sorry it wasn’t something more helpful for you,” I said.
“Thanks.” He stared down at his lap and inhaled through his nose. “I keep reminding myself that I still know who I am. This doesn’t change anything.”
I put my hand on his knee. “Exactly.”