Page 159 of Cherish

Because the threat is real, I step between them. Then give my bestie a what-the-hell-are-you-doing look.

Heather just shrugs and looks bored, which has the Curator grumbling under her breath.

Not exactly the mood I was hoping for her to be in when I’m desperately trying to put the pieces together to make a deal here.

“I know this is your private space,” I say in the most placating—and hopefully non-obvious—tone I can muster right now. “But I was hoping you could make an exception just this one time?”

The Curator’s brows go up. “Because the gargoyle queen is so special?”

“Because I have an idea that might help us both,” I answer.

She looks skeptical—and more than a little intrigued, which is exactly what I was going for. But before she can say anything else, a loud scream tears through the room behind her.

“Shit!” she mutters, just before she turns and disappears into her history-recording room.

But she leaves the door open.

I don’t know if that’s because she was in such a hurry to see what’s going on or if it’s actually an invitation to us. But there’s an old saying that it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission, and this definitely seems like one of those times.

I glance at Macy to see if she agrees with me, and she’s already leaning to the side, trying to see what’s in the room. “So we’re doing this, right?” she asks, and we’re obviously on the same wavelength here.

“Hell yes we’re doing it,” I tell her.

And then I pull the bookcase open and step inside, Macy and Heather hot on my heels. Because some things really do have to be seen to be believed.

85

All the World’s

aStageTV

“Holy shit,” Macy breathes as the bookcase slams closed behind us.

“Holy shit,” Heather and I both echo.

I haven’t spent a lot of time imagining what this room looks like—I did just learn of its existence, after all—but even if I had, I never would have dreamed that it looked like this. I think I was imagining some kind of hazy orb that lets the Curator drop into whatever moment in current human existence she wants to.

And I guess, to a certain extent, that’s exactly what this is.

But there’s no ancient magical accoutrements here, no mystical crystal ball for her to stare into that lets her see the present all over the world. Instead, there is wall after wall ofTVs.

Only they are televisions like I have never seen before.

No, these aren’t the large, rectangular screens that I’m used to—the ones that hang on the wall above the mantel and give you the clearest, most perfect HD images imaginable.

No, these are tiny, square TVs that look like they came straight out of the 1950s.

Painted gold or silver, with power and volume knobs right under the curved black-and-white screens, they are definitely relics of a not-so-distant past. And they are everywhere.

Everywhere.

Because in this room, there are no windows looking over the garden.

No modern art paintings by the masters.

No posters from the most famous concerts in history.

No, nothing in this room looks like the Curator’s normal decorating aesthetic. How could it, when she has TVs stacked next to each other and on top of each other from corner to corner and from floor to ceiling? Thousands upon thousands of televisions, all on. All in black and white. All showing someone somewhere in the world doing something.

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