Page 27 of Tempt

She fantasizes about digging a forest trench, dropping his opinions inside it, stuffing the remaining crevices with dynamite, and lighting a match.

For once, she regards him as just Malice. Just Malice, an insufferable yet indispensable knave. Just him.

Hustling into the belly of the Archives, neither of them utters a syllable about when or where to turn. Their footsteps brush the floor, and the deeper they go, the more this atmosphere glows. The inlaid bookshelves contain scrolls about the genealogies of constellations, with plaques mounted beneath each container. She takes advanced note of this section, should it be of use later.

Excitement lurches up her chest, eclipsing fear. She’s never had access to this degree before, never had the opportunity to sleep and awaken in the depths of her happy place.

Wonder changes her mind about being reduced to a squatter. She has often joked about wanting to live here, and that’s about to become a reality, however unlawful.

She cannot wait to get started. So long as they stay alive, everything will be fine. It’s time for her to exercise the positivity that annoys Sorrow and exhausts Anger.

As the passages expand into aisled halls, branches and galleries multiply, as do study arbors, fireplaces crafted purely for ambience, communal tables and desks topped with candles, and velvet chairs large enough to rest in.

They segue into another corridor, toward another wing. Indeed, the leftover guardians must have been reduced to a handful. In any case, Wonder has trained herself, attuning herself to their schedule, in addition to their kinetics.

Which is why she cuffs Malice’s arm at the same time he does hers—as the drum of boots pounds into the corridor from the acquisitions quarter.

They jerk their arms back, then spring into opposite niches, pressing themselves against the walls while glancing sideways at each other across the divide. Nearing footsteps match the beat of Wonder’s pulse. Malice stares as though he’s got X-ray vision, spotting the anarchy beneath her bodice.

An undulation of lantern light flickers across the ground, signaling an approaching shadow. The warden pauses, audibly ten feet from them. Such guardians are retired Guides, merciless to vandals and trespassers. They have the weapons to enforce punishment: longbows, crossbows, and other sharp options. The clank of steel suggests this warden carries a sword that’s curved like a saber.

Wonder waits, and Malice waits, and the keeper waits.

Her companion leers and jerks forward, about to fling himself in front of the keeper for no probable reason other than enjoyment. Wonder makes a rapid, cutting motion, slicing her flat palm across her throat, ordering Malice to a standstill.

Miffed, he obeys but sticks his tongue out at her.

Those boots strike away, the pace reluctant but disappearing all the same, making for the encyclopedias and almanacs in the reference section. Wonder’s ears perk, assessing whether the guardian is biding time, keen to trap them. She and Malice lock eyes for an eternity until he hops loudly from his hiding spot, his emergence ricocheting down the halls.

Wonder holds her breath. But no one returns.

Then she suppresses a growl. For someone who’d been determined to get here, he’s not acting like he wants to succeed. But when has Malice ever behaved consistently?

They keep going, migrating from the north to south. Beneath the lanterns reside infinite levels, categories, and collections, a Magnum Opus of texts holding galaxies of pages. They should ascend to the dorms. Instead, they detour without voicing it, skittering down, down, down a stairwell. Perhaps it’s a bookish siren call.

Wonder tiptoes while the fiend beside her slides along the banister. At the bottom, they reach another pentagonal threshold, beyond which an endless vista of stacks awaits, filled with magic and mysteries.

This is it. This is where she’ll begin her search for answers.

The Hollow Chamber.

Malice flashes his teeth, anticipation and triumph brightening his face. And something else enhances his complexion: hope. It’s an ephemeral transformation, a rare but infectious one as they swap a moment of worship.

One might call it a kinship.

It doesn’t last, trepidation dripping into Wonder’s mind. She has her own quest, but what is his? What does he need her for? What does he want from this place? Why is this so important to him?

How far is he willing to go in order to get it?

And will she have to stop him?

7

In the Peaks, some treasures have discernible aromas, whereas they wouldn’t in the mortal realm. The instant Wonder crosses into the Hollow Chamber, the mythical scents of ink and sepia—which bring to mind the envelopes that Malice had insisted on packing—swaddle her like an old blanket. As if she’s never left, she basks in their reassuring embrace.

Rather than reaching high, the subterranean hall digs deep, its levels corkscrewing into the earth like a drill, cramped with curving grids of aisles. The nooks and stacks contain all manner of texts and relics: documents, pamphlets, essays, scriptures, lexicons, portfolios, periodicals, manuals, folios, and tomes.

Overhead, at the crown of the funnel, is a sphere. It floats, a globe of miniature stars and rosemary rays, a source of illumination for patrons.

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