Page 91 of The Alien in the Archive

“Well, you failed?—”

“I know,” she murmurs. She raises her hand to rest lightly on my chest, as if she could calm me through touch alone. Not today—not when she feels so nervous herself. “I can feel it all over you; just…come in. Let me show you.”

Her mind opens, spilling her entire day out to me…and I see.

The memory is vivid, as if I’m in Page’s skin. I’m sitting across from Professor Davina Ferhalda in her office, the Skoll female’s antlers gleaming, her piercing gaze fixed on Page.

“I was looking over approvals…saw that your brother was approved. Care to explain why he might pay the archive a visit?”

Page’s lie is quick, but fragile. The conversation seems friendly enough, but Davina is clearly suspicious. Page holds her ground, but I can feel the tension coiling tighter with every word.

Then, Page takes a calculated risk: she asks about me.

Thorne Valtheris.

I pull away from Page abruptly, taking a step back from her.

“Gods preserve me,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. “You shouldn’t have taken that risk; asking her about me…even knowing my name puts you in danger.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” she says, clearly frustrated. “She was digging, Thorne. She was going to find something eventually…so I had to redirect her. And besides…”

She hesitates, then presses the book she’s been clutching into my hands. Her fingers linger for a moment, brushing against mine as she looks up at me, stubborn as always.

“Apparently I wasn’t the only one who’s ever been interested in your work,” she says. “Thorne, you’re a known figure in the history of Borean dissent. Look!”

I glance down at the book, the title etched in elegant Skoll script:Voices of Dissent: Forgotten Rebels of the Borean Empire.

I shake my head. “Page…I wasn’t a rebel. I didn’t fight. I ran.”

“But you’re here, in this book,” she says. “I searched the references and your work is cited in the chapters on imperial expansion on the Nyeri’i homeworld, the creation of Skoll thralls…I had no idea, Thorne. You never told me you were writing about ethics, it’s so eloquent, brilliant?—”

“You need to stop,” I say through gritted teeth.

Page’s shoulders slump, at a loss. “What did I say?”

For a moment, I can’t answer. My grip tightens on the book, the weight of it suddenly unbearable. Her words echo in my mind—eloquent, brilliant.

I put the book down like it burns to touch, turning my back to it as I rake both hands through my hair. “It wasn’t eloquent or brilliant, Page. It was useless,” I mutter. “Words didn’t stop the Borean Empire. They didn’t save anyone. All they did was give me a reason to pretend I wasn’t part of it.”

She flinches, and guilt twists in my gut. But I can’t stop myself.

“Page,” I continue, stronger now. “You don’t understand. What I wrote didn’t change anything. It didn’t matter.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, her gaze fixed on me. “I think people’s actions matter, Thorne. Otherwise…what the hell is the point in studying history? If we only care about outcomes, we can’t see the subtleties of the past?—”

“You’re letting your feelings for me paint your historical objectivity,” I interrupt. “It’s the bond again. You need to?—”

“Fuck off, Thorne.”

I pause, staring at her. Page’s fists are clenched at her side, her shoulders tense, mouth tight.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not a child, Thorne,” she says. “You have…God, you have no respect for me, do you? I won a scholarship to Harvard when I was seventeen. I graduated early. I was on the Dean’s List, I was invited to study with Merati scholars, spent time in summer programs…I’m one of theyoungesthistorians to get a fellowship working in the Obscuary. So you need to fuck right off with that shit.”

I raise my eyebrows, her profanities grating on my already short patience. “Do I?”

“Yes, because I don’t have love blinders on, Thorne. I’m a historian, I’ve spent my entire career learning how to practice empathy while still remaining critical. Maybe I have a clearer perspective on all of this because I wasn’t there.”

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