Page 31 of Tempt

By the time they have methods of offense and defensive in place, they move on to investigation. And that’s where things go downhill, both of them facing each other on opposite ends of a long table, their palms flat on the surface.

“Tell me what you’re searching for, and I’ll tell you if I’m going to cooperate,” Wonder states.

“I’ll tell you when I’m ready, and you will cooperate,” he replies.

“In other words, you wanted badly for me to come here with you, but you haven’t a clue what exactly you need me for? I doubt that. You’re Malice.”

“And you’re an Archive diva. If I can’t figure shit out on my own, you’re my research backup. Besides, isn’t that same reasonyouneedme? For your friends’ little campaign against our rulers? You need my bookish ingenuity, in case you can’t—gasp!—find the victorious answers all by yourself.”

The prospect is a sucker punch to the ego, but fine. They’ll draw from one another, if the need arises. She’s not in a rush to assist him anyway.

Until then, they research separately, bickering over who gets priority over each section. The worst territorial cat fights circulate around the areas containing lunar folktales, the topography of the Peaks—in case there’s a line, crater, or uncharted portal of entry connecting it to the mortal realm—the history of exiles, and inexplicable astral cases or testimonials, meaning incidents in which the stars have defied logic. She and Malice toss trivia at one another, to establish who’s more deserving of each location. They fire bullet points as if these sectors are exclusive, up for auction to the highest bidder.

“Which ledgers list the most accurate data about weather patterns?” he grills.

“How can you spot a tall fable, from a plagiarized fable, from an authentic fable?” she retorts.

“Which millennium saw the most outcasts?” he volleys.

“Which type of format—illuminated manuscripts or scrolls—chronicles the most accessible spectral phenomena?” she quizzes.

When they finally come up for air, they decide to split the areas and then switch.

That’s not all. He mocks her color-coded notations, a technique she relies heavily upon lest her mind stray. It’s best to jot down the information before she loses it, eclipsed by a new concept or query.

In contrast, his method involves organized chaos. Rather than pen actual notes on actual parchment, he relies on the casket that is his brain, stocking his cache there.

They’re defensive about their systems, endorsing them with condescension and superiority. Neither of them wins the round, though neither of them calls it quits.

The following nights pass in the same cutthroat manner. They charge through the Chamber, rushing down the lanes in a race to see who can do their research faster and come out with the most promising texts for their goals. One time, they power walk down parallel aisles, casting each other glances and then increase their speed while hunting for particular books. To their astonishment, they end up in the same spot, skidding in front of the same shelf.

Their hands reach for the same volume.

When their digits nearly collide, Malice flicks his fingers back to avoid her. Then he swings his arm and gestures to the title. “Wildflowers first.”

As if he’s doing her a favor, throwing her a bone, letting her win.

It turns out, they may have been looking for the same book, but not the same chapter. Not even the same page.

On another occasion, Malice uses an inkwell to blot her color-coded notes. Later that night, she swaps the analytical texts he’d scrupulously collected, exchanging them for economy ledgers, since he finds them oh, so boring.

Apparently, they’re not above trying to sabotage one another.

It doesn’t escape Wonder that such petulance negates the trouble and risk they’ve gone through to get here. Shame washes over her, that she’s lowered herself to this level. Using this place as a tool to belittle her enemy is disrespectful to the Archives and demeaning to her purpose.

And now she knows what rivalry feels like.

***

And drat it all, she cannot find anything remotely helpful toward her classmates’ campaign for free will. Presently, Wonder slams a book shut and flops backward in her chair, positioned at the head of a study table in between the restricted stacks. Although upholstered, the rigid seat croaks with her motions. She has set up camp in the philosophy sector, away from where Malice prowls the history stacks. The heap of books on the desk mocks her, inadequacy and frustration causing her fingers to curl.

The corsage of eucalyptus, stephanotis, and peony is hers. It’s her good luck charm, and she needs it. And she’s to blame for letting him have his way, which is unacceptable. And because it’s unacceptable, the chair skids back as Wonder rises. He’s far out of range, lost in his own task.

She’ll be quick.

Hiking the tower to his room, she glances for the hundredth time over her shoulder and slips through the door. It smells of Malice—of old pages. But inconveniently, the space lacks the fragrance of a pomegranate. That’s not encouraging, since the posy is presumably subsisting with one.

Also, he’s a tidy soul. The bed is made, the space swept clear of clutter, except for his saddlebag and archery.

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