Page 27 of The Alien in the Archive

But for some reason, I do.

We have to turn sideways to slip through a narrow space between bookshelves, and my eyes go wide when we come out on the other side. It’s…beautiful. Skylights dot the ceiling, giving us glimpses of the starlit sky. A stained-glass window is on the other side of the room, and a circle of bookshelves coated with dust surrounds us. I can make out the tracks of tiny feet—more creatures like Ashlan, I think—and some of the books are cleaner than others, like they’ve been well-read.

At the center of the room is a low, circular table surrounded by cushions and stacks of books. A small, softly glowing lantern hangs above it, casting golden light over the worn spines and faded pages, while a plant seems to be growing in its light, ivy curling around the table and cushions.

“Thorne,” I whisper. “What is this?”

“An old reading nook,” he replies, walking forward and settling into one of the cushions with easy grace. Ashlan climbs up into his lap right away, nudging his hand untilThorne offers pets. “The librarians abandoned it decades ago. Too far from the main corridors, I suppose, especially after they added to the library.”

“Was this…” I frown. “The Obscuary—was it the first portion of the Grand Library to exist?”

He nods. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? This is where all the most dangerous books are stored…and what is a library at its core but a hallowed place for dangerous knowledge?”

I love the way he talks about books, and I blush when I see him looking at me, because he probably heard me think that. “You’ve been hoarding all the best spots, huh?” I ask.

He gives me a wry smile. “I’ve had time to find them.”

He reaches for one of the books stacked on the table—a thick, leather-bound volume with an intricate design burned into the cover. It looks ancient, even by Obscuary standards.

“I thought we could start with this,” he says, sliding the book toward me.

I trace the design on the cover with my fingers, appreciating the texture. I’ve always had a thing for paper, often running my hands over the backs of notebook pages when I get stressed out. And this…it almost looks like a letter or a word—but that can’t be. I thought I indexed every language here with my translator.

“What is it?” I ask.

“That figure you’re touching is a name, actually,” he says. “Borean script forSevran—one of our pre-imperial warlords.”

“Wow,” I breathe. I open the book and skim the pages, finding more of that beautiful, curling script. “It’s…and what’s it about?”

“It’s a chronicle,” he replies. “One of the few that survived both our own historical purges and the fall of Borealis. It details the early expeditions to Earth, including first contact between humans and the Skoll.”

My heart skips a beat. “This is exactly what I’ve been looking for,” I smile. “Can I?—”

“You won’t be able to read it.”

“Oh.” My face falls. “Of course…”

“But,” he adds, leaning forward. “I can read it to you. If you’re willing to listen.”

I meet his gaze, and for the first time, I see something almost soft in his expression. He’s offering this—not grudgingly, not because he has to, but because he wants to share it with me.

“I’d like that,” I say.

He takes the book from me, his long fingers kissing the edges of the pages as he flips to a section near the beginning. His voice is low and measured as he begins to read, the unfamiliar words rolling off his tongue like music. My translator gets muddled every time he says something in Borean…and it occurs to me he’s been speaking Skoll this time, almost certainly for my benefit.

That makes me feel something deep in my chest, burning bright.

At first, I try to follow the story, even pulling out my notebook to keep track of everything. But soon I find myself just listening…my eyelids drooping. There’s something hypnotic about the way he speaks, the way his words fill the space between us.

I don’t even realize I’ve drifted off to sleep until he stops talking; the silence is like an alarm bell.

“Page?”

I suck in a breath, righting myself. “Sorry…sorry, I’m up. Keep going.”

“You should get back to the village,” he says. “It’s late, and you’re exhausted.”

I straighten up, forcing myself to stay alert, even as the temptation to curl up on one of the cushions tugs at me.

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