Page 9 of Liminal

Winthrop strides over and clasps forearms with the newest patron, slapping his back so loudly that it feels like my Arcanaeum shakes with the force of each one. This close, I realise just how tall they both are, and I float a little higher to compensate.

“One more strike, for either of you, and you’re out,” I say, each word wrapped in ice.

“Aww, don’t be like that.” Lambert gives me his best puppy dog eyes.

I roll mine in response. “You’re on your ninth strike this month.”

And every night, like clockwork, the Arcanaeum resets his card, giving him unlimited infractions. The building likes him, even if I don’t quite understand why.

“Mr Ackland”—I have to fight not to spit the name—“needs to be set up in the filing system. You can do whatever you like with himafterhe’s been inducted, so long as you do itquietly.”

I swear his eyes sparkle. They’re an odd shade that flickers between blue and green, like a tempest caught in glass. Not that I’ve noticed.

“You got it, boss.”

I narrowly avoid the latest hug attempt and glide forward, heading for the Rotunda and my desk, as Lambert begins to give his friend a tour. Given how loud he is, you’d think he was trying to address a crowd, rather than just one person.

“So this is the botany hall,” he begins, voice projecting far enough to make other patrons glance up in annoyance.

“Botanical,” I correct absently.

“It’s got all the alchemy books. They haven’t modernised, though, so you have to ask the Librarian to locate whichever book you want to read.”

“Mr Winthrop, you are theonlyperson who does that. Everyone else uses the index card system.” A system I’ve explained to him no less than ten times.

He ignores me. “The Librarian likes this hall when it rains. She lets the skylights open just a crack, then the whole place smells of nature and shit.”

“Profanity,” I remind him, wishing I could grind my teeth together. How dare he have come to know my habits so well.

How dare he notice me.

“Sorry, boss.”

My fingers itch, ready to give him a second—and final—strike, but I hesitate for the dozenth time. Not out of fondness but apprehension.

The Arcanaeum has never removed my strikes before. Lambert is the only exception. On every other patron, the strikes have stuck for life. For that reason alone, I’ve not yet banished him.

I’m not certain it would take, and I don’t know how to feel about that.

Tearing my gaze away from them, I try not to smile at the way they both fall silent as they enter the Rotunda. It’s a far cry from what it was back when I was alive. Gone are the boring rooms named for the cardinal directions, and most of the Gothic interior, though I’ve kept nods to it with the details in the skylights and the archways. Currently, this part of the Arcanaeum is radiant with bursts of colourful art nouveau. The slate roof is gone, replaced with more stained glass. Before that, it held a fresco of angels inspired by Michelangelo, and before that…

Magic…it’s been so long that I don’t even remember.

“Is every room a different style?” Northcliff asks, exasperation bleeding into his tone.

Yes, I think back,and I change them regularly.

Death can be terribly dull, and when a long time passes between new books arriving, I have little else to do. I like to think some of my improvements—like the stained glass—have made the building more welcoming. In fact, I feel the urge to start changing the decor now, just to disorient him.

Cutting off that thought before it can take root, I glide through my round desk and begin waving open the drawers and pulling free paperwork. I can’t actually touch anything, but I’ve perfected interacting with inanimate objects through manipulation magic to the degree that most patrons don’t even notice. It took years of practising to develop the fine control necessary to move a pen without holding it. Decades longer to do so without incantations. Now I do so with a flourish, filling out the index tab before I turn the paperwork around so he can read it.

“Sign and agree to follow the rules of the Arcanaeum,” I say, mentally congratulating myself for keeping my voice even. “You may take a seat over there.”

He doesn’t move. Simply stands there, poring over the paperwork, like my desk is his personal space.

He’s too close for comfort. I turn, ready to busy myself with something, only for his cough to draw me back.

“I don’t see which rule I broke earlier,” he says, meeting my gaze levelly.