Page 50 of The Alien in the Archive

“Like…what if someone already had Elixir in their blood?” I ask. “Could that change the way a ceremony works?”

Her silver-blue brows knit together as she considers the question. “Possibly. Elixir amplifies abilities; it’s why it’s so coveted. If someone already had it in their veins, it could make the bond stronger…or more volatile. But I’ve never heard of it being used that way.”

“Interesting,” I murmur, filing that information away. I look up at her, smiling again. “Thanks for this, Thalara. You’ve been really wonderful today.”

She smiles gently. “Take your time with it. And Page…if you ever want to talk, about anything, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks,” I say again, genuinely touched.

I tap a couple more titles that look promising, and soon enough I’m picking them all up at the holds desk. By the time I leave the Turitella, the sky over Mythara is awash in shades of gold and violet. The books in my bag feel impossibly heavy, their contents a secret I’m not ready to share with anyone—not even Thorne.

But one thing is clear.

I won’t let him waste away in the Obscuary. Not when there’s a chance to save him.

Not when I’m starting to believe there’s something more to his hunger for me.

19

THORNE

The silence between us is unbearable.

Not the absence of her voice—no, she’s still talking, asking questions, debating theories, and teasing me with the occasional jab. But this…it’s so much worse than actual silence.

It’s the silence in my mind, the absence of her presence brushing against my thoughts.

Page is keeping me out.

I’ve told her to do this repeatedly, urged her to shield herself from me, to block me out for her own sake. I’ve complained that her thoughts were too loud, that they were a distraction. She was always so open, so unguarded, and I thought I wanted her to stop.

I should be relieved.

But I’m not.

The distance feels wrong. Unnatural. Especially since that kiss…

I thought things would change after that. I thought she would keep pressing as she always does, questioning, pushing boundaries, digging for more. But instead, she’s heldme at arm’s length. She’s withdrawn—not from our work, but fromme.

We continue to meet, our routine unchanged on the surface. She practices her telekinesis, asks about Borean history with relentless curiosity, never hesitates to argue when she disagrees. But the connection we once shared, that invisible thread linking us—it’s quiet.

It’s still there, but aching with the absence of her.

Maybe she’s pulling away, as she should have a long time ago. Maybe she’s met someone. All I know is that I know nothing…and I hate it.

Today, she seems to be feeding off of my energy, because she’s irate as we get to work for the day. Page is more tense than usual, her frustration simmering just below the surface. She’s testy from the beginning of our conversation—a debate over the nuances of Borean script. She’s learning fast, but her insistence that she can form the characters in shorthand is getting frustrating.

Her brow furrows as she flips through her notebook, her pen scribbling furiously as she jots down my corrections. “It’s not shorthand,” she snaps. “It’s efficient.”

“It’s incorrect,” I counter. I glance at her notes and point to a character she’s mangled into something almost unrecognizable. “That curve at the end completely changes the meaning. You’re not writing ‘honor,’ Page, you’re writing ‘burden’.”

Her hand tightens around the pen, but she doesn’t look up. “Maybe burden fits better, considering how obnoxiously complicated this language is.”

“You’re the one who wanted to learn it,” I point out. “If it’s too much, we can always move on to something simpler. Perhaps Merati nursery rhymes.”

Her head snaps up, eyes narrowing. She’s looking for a fight—I can see it, feel it simmering beneath the surface.

“Nursery rhymes?” she repeats.

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