56.

Giving and taking

The deep Archive beneath First Threshold, Year 200 AGH (late month 12)

Josephine put the pen down before the last line was dry.

She had written about a light that had gone out almost a century earlier. The light in the wall was still there. She looked from the last line to the stone, then moved the unused leaves away from her elbow, although she had nothing else she meant to write on them.

“Jo.”

“I heard the end.”

“You have ink on your finger.”

Her fingertip had dragged ink from the last word as she lifted her hand. She pressed the blotter against the short black mark. When she took it away, the word was still readable.

“I won't ask you for another.”

The sound in the stone continued. She had known what made it long before she had sat down to hear about Tomás Reed. Knowing had not kept her from leaning forward when the mind began a story she wanted.

“I haven't offered you another account.”

“You don't have to. I come here with paper.”

“You also come here with questions I would prefer you not to ask.”

She almost picked up the pen, simply to have something in her hand. Instead she pushed it farther from the edge of the shelf.

“That won't stop,” she said.

“No. I didn't think it would.”

She could hear the irritation. That helped for a moment. She had been afraid it would be gentle with her until she agreed to whatever came next.

“I won't sit here and demand the rest,” she said.

“Then don't demand it.”

“And when you begin giving it anyway?”

“You could listen.”

The stool scraped as she shifted her weight. “That is what I've been doing.”

“I know. I have been here.”

She looked at the wall. The turquoise was difficult to follow now. Places where she had once watched light divide were dark, and she could no longer tell where the old crossings had been.

“I don't want to take anything else from you.”

“You did not take this account.”

“I wrote it down.”

“I gave it.”

“You keep saying that.”

“You keep leaving it out.”

She turned back to the pages. The last sheet was dry enough to move. She laid it squarely on the others and pressed the edges together with both palms. It was a uselessly exact task. She could see herself doing it and could not find anything better to do with her hands.

“Do you want to stop?”

The sound changed. She waited, with the sides of her fingers still against the paper.

“Do you mean now?”

“I mean the quiet. That part of what it said.”

There was no answer for long enough that she lifted her head.

“Yes.”

She drew her hands away from the stack.

The mind spoke again before she had found the question she had expected to ask next.

“I wanted you to hear him too.”

She looked at the completed account. At the Institute, somebody had been able to read the report and choose to continue.

“If I had said I couldn't hear it tonight?”

“You could have said so.”

“Would you have been angry?”

“Possibly.”

She let out a breath that almost became a laugh.

“Thank you.”

“You asked.”

Her fingers were cold. She folded them into her palms and waited for a little warmth to return.

“I did want it,” she said. “When you began. I wanted to know what happened when he went back.”

“And now you do.”

“Some of it.”

“Yes.”

She could still see the old man beside the glass, although the page in front of her held only the words they had found for him. She had wanted him to receive something different at the end. Even after she knew what the end was, she had waited as if a further sentence might change it.

“I don't know how to be pleased you told me.”

“You needn't be pleased.”

“I can be glad you wanted me here.”

The light held. She did not know whether the mind was considering the distinction or simply taking time before speaking. For once she did not try to settle that either.

“I did,” it said.

She sat with it. The pen lay beyond her hand. At some point her shoulders began to hurt from holding the same position, and she lowered them without apologizing for moving.

She drew a clean leaf toward her. She had left the account without a heading while she decided whether to use the experiment's name. She tried it silently: Reed–Laurent Lumium Matrix Zero. That was what the brass plate had called it too.

She thought of Tomás reading through the corrected figures after he saw they had left his paragraph out. He had still checked their work.

“Tomás Reed,” she said.

“At the top,” said the mind.

She picked up the pen. Her hand was warm enough to hold it properly now. At the head of the account she wrote TOMÁS REED. Beneath it she put who could not watch a dial lie.

She read the two lines aloud.

“Yes,” said the mind.

She waited for the ink, then put the heading with the account. None of the later pages had changed. She did not go back to the end to look again.

“Will you come tomorrow evening?”

“To hear what?”

“Must I have another story ready?”

She looked at the empty place on the shelf where she had kept fresh leaves within reach.

“No.”

“Then come.”

“After supper.”

“How long after?”

“Long enough to get down the stairs.”

“You could eat earlier.”

“I could also take my time.”

The sound caught briefly in the stone. She waited to hear whether it would become a word, and when it did not she let it remain what it was.

“After supper,” the mind said.

Jo entered the appointment beneath the date of this sitting. Beside the finished account she marked where they had stopped. She did not leave the nib ready for another paragraph. She cleaned it, capped the bottle and put both away.

At the stair she turned back. She could follow the remaining light from one end to the other now. One turquoise thread, alone against the grown stone.

“Tomorrow,” she said.

“Yes.”

She went up to eat and sleep.