Page 162 of Cherish

“Absolutely,” I tell the Curator, even as Macy shakes her head and mouthsno waydirectly behind her.

“Twenty-four hours?” she repeats.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and shoot a quick text off to Lorelei.

ME:Do we have more than 24 hours?

Three dots appear, and I hold my breath. Please, please, please let Mekhi have more than a day left.

LORELEI:Best guess? Yes. Barely.

I sigh and shoot off a quick “on it” reply before I shove my phone back in my pocket and meet the Curator’s gaze again. I smile as confidently as I can. “Twenty-four hours.”

“You watch the televisions every minute of those twenty-four hours,” she tells me. Then stops to record something else before turning back to me. “Every minute. And you record it in these books using only those pens.”

She points to aMoulin Rouge!coffee mug jammed with pens sitting on her desk. “Onlythosepens,” she reiterates.

“Absolutely,” I tell her, even as I reach for one to check it out.

To my surprise, it doesn’t look nearly as special as I expected from the only type of pen that can record history. In fact, it looks a lot like a regular Paper Mate Flair. Still, I have to ask. “Are they imbued with magic or…?”

“Yes.” But she doesn’t elaborate. “Plus, I just like them. I like what they feel like when they write, and I like what they look like on the page. So only those pens. Okay?”

“Okay,” I agree.

“When in doubt—” She pauses to record something else. “Write it down. I can sort through what you’ve done when I come back. I’ve charmed the TVs to light up as a guide, although there is obvious discretion in the recorder, as some of the most momentous events in human history seemed inconsequential at the time. If you’ve recorded something you shouldn’t have, I’ll deal with it. But if you leave something out…”

“There’s nothing you can do to record it later,” Macy finishes for her.

“Exactly.” She flicks a hand at one of the small TVs, and an even smaller vision of Mekhi appears, Lorelei perched on the edge of his bed and holding one of his hands. My heart squeezes tight to see our friend looking so ill and helpless, but at least he appears to be resting.

“Now…” She stands and hands the pen over to me with a flourish. “No time like the present to get started. In the meantime, you two grab your friend more journals. She’ll need them. You all will.”

“Lucky us,” Macy mutters as she glares at me in a very definite what-the-fuck kind of way. At least that’s what I think her look said. I’m too focused on grabbing a pen and sitting in one of the new chairs that magically appeared, each facing a section of TVs. Heather grabs the third chair in our trio and begins to feverishly write.

“Each chair is connected to its own desk, so they move together. This button stops the desk from spinning, which I assume you won’t need if there are seven of you,” she says, but I don’t have time to see what she is pointing at now.

I’m too busy recording a fire in a small French museum to pay much attention.

A couple of minutes later, the Curator breezes out the door with a wave and a “see you in twenty-four hours.”

I don’t answer. I can’t. I’ve got a battle being waged in Ukraine, a bank robbery happening in Prague, and top music awards being handed out in Italy. There’s no time for me to do anything but write.

Still, the second the door closes behind her, Macy—who has also been recording—whirls on me with a gripe. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Twenty-four hours and we’ll know exactly where the tree is,” I rush out. “Trust me. Dealing with gods sucks, and she seems lonely. She could have dragged it out for weeks—and Mekhi has hours.”

“Does he even have twenty-four—” She breaks off and starts scribbling furiously in the journal.

I’m scribbling, too. A scientist in Dakar just published their findings in a microbiology journal, and a lesser-known Norwegian royal just died.

It’s several minutes—a lot is freaking happening right now—before I remember to say, “We can watch him. He’s fine.” I point tohisTV. “We’ve got this. Besides, how hard can it be to write stuff down?”

Macy doesn’t answer. And when I glance over at her, it’s because she’s writing too frantically to do anything but snort.

86

Write-or-Flight

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