By morning, Sam was prepared to concede that the note signified both the fact that someone had access to the university archive, and that they wanted him to know it.
He hadn’t yet decided which was worse.
At breakfast, Leon was in remarkably poor singing voice.
Whether this was intentional, Sam was not prepared to say.
It was entirely possible that Leon simply sounded like that, though he preferred not to consider it.
Iris was perched across from him, paintbrush poised in one hand and a half-finished sketch in the other.
“You are both impossible,” she said.
Leon stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of an apparently improvised aria.
“I am art,” he said loftily.
“You are noise,” said Iris.
“That’s unfair!” said Leon.
“That’s_
“I’ve seen your art.”
Leon gasped dramatically.
Sam looked over at the sketch in Iris’s hands.
It was a picture of a rose garden, rendered in perfect, exact lines.
Iris had been able to capture the beauty of one of the most exquisite places in the world, down to the single curl of the ivy at the base of the trellis, and Sam had the strong impression that it was a talent he’d never possessed himself.
“That,” he said, gesturing at the picture, “was almost a compliment.”
Iris glanced at him.
“It was a compliment.”
“It was suspicious,” said Leon, gesturing at the sketch.
“Why do you get to be talented at painting?”
“Why do you get to be talented at singing?” countered Iris.
Leon paused.
He appeared to be considering this.
“Because the universe loves me,” he said at last.
“That explains nothing.”
“That explains everything,” said Leon.
Edward arrived shortly afterward, coat already in hand.
He paused as he entered the room, regarding the front window with an inscrutable expression before looking out toward the side entrance and, finally, back at the front.
Sam noted this with interest, as did Edward when he realized Sam was watching him.
“You’re leaving early,” said Sam.
Edward turned.
“Am I?”
“Yes,” said Sam.
“Then perhaps I have somewhere to be,” said Edward.
Leon frowned.
“You always have somewhere to be.”
“Then perhaps today I have somewhere else.” said Edward.
Iris set her brush down.
“That was evasive.”
Edward’s expression did not change.
“I hope not.”
Sam watched him.
His father had looked out of two different windows before breakfast.
Now he was looking out of a third, though his manner suggested he was measuring the distance rather than watching the events unfolding on the street.
He picked up his briefcase as he departed.
“Don’t take King’s Road today,” he said to Sam.
Sam looked at him.
“Why?”
“Roadworks.”
“There aren’t any roadworks.”
“There might be.”
“On which street?”
Edward paused, just barely.
“Near the university.”
Sam met his eyes.
“All right.”
Leon was frowning.
“That was suspicious.”
Edward said nothing; he simply left the room.
Iris watched the door for a moment before turning to Sam.
“Your father is lying to you.”
“I suspect he is,” said Sam.
“Are you going to ask him about it?” asked Iris.
“I’ll ask him later,” said Sam.
Leon frowned.
“That means no.”
Sam was on his feet as he spoke.
“That means after I know what to ask.”
Iris smiled faintly.
“That is exactly the sort of statement that makes you terrifying.”
Sam paused as he reached for his coat.
“It was not meant to be.”
“That’s worse,” said Iris.
He took the underground to the university, not because Edward had asked him to, but because Edward had told him not to.
The trains were their usual cheerful mix of office workers, students, and tourists with maps.
Sam stood at the edge of the car, watching the reflections that passed by in the glass.
A man in a dark coat stood in the opposite car.
Not the same man as yesterday, very likely.
Sam noted the face, or what he thought was the face.
He did not reach any conclusions.
It was not a good idea to leap to conclusions when it came to matters of this sort.
His mobile phone vibrated in his hand.
A message from Claire.
“Come to the café before class.
Ollie is already being a menace.”
Sam read it twice, then replied.
“Is he always?”
Claire’s reply was instantaneous.
“Yes, this is why we need coffee.”
Sam tucked the phone away with a smile.
The café was predictably busy, though Ollie was louder than usual.
Claire, who was already at their usual table, looked as if she’d seen one argument already and was preparing for a second.
Ethan was sprawled across one of the chairs with two coffees in front of him, while Mehjabeen sat next to Claire, poring over a notebook.
Ollie looked up at him.
“There he is.”
“You’re late,” said Claire.
“I’m early,” said Sam.
“You were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.”
“I was on my way.”
“That’s not the same thing,” said Claire.
“It is if you stop asking questions,” said Ollie, chuckling into his coffee.
Mehjabeen looked up at Sam.
“You look distracted.”
Sam sat down.
“Do I?”
“Yes,” said Mehjabeen.
“That’s unfortunate.”
Claire slid a folded piece of paper across the table to Sam.
“Your archive email,” she said.
Sam looked up sharply.
“You opened it?”
“No,” said Claire.
“Then how do you have it?” asked Sam.
“I copied it,” said Ollie.
“I wanted to make sure it wasn’t fake.”You copied my email address?”I wrote it down,” said Mehjabeen.
“That’s still bizarre,” said Ollie.
“Thank you,” said Mehjabeen.
Ethan leaned back in his chair.
“What’s M-07?”
Sam looked up at him.
“You know it too?”
“I noticed it on the printout,” said Ethan.
Claire gestured at the paper in Sam’s hands.
“It’s in the header.”
Sam looked again.
He hadn’t noticed it before, but at the bottom corner of the page, almost imperceptibly small beneath the main text, there was a line of numbers.
M-07.
“It means something,” said Mehjabeen.
“It might,” said Sam.
“How much something?” asked Ollie.
“Enough,” said Mehjabeen.
Claire opened her notebook.
“I tried to trace it in the catalogue this morning.”
“Why?” asked Sam.
“Because I was curious,” said Claire.
“That sounds dangerous,” said Ollie.
“It’s how I survive your company,” said Claire.
Ollie placed a hand over his heart in mock offence.
“You wound me.”
Claire ignored him.
“The file exists,” she said.
Sam looked up.
“And?”
“It’s not listed as requested,” said Claire.
Ethan blinked.
“So why was there an email?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” said Claire.
Mehjabeen turned a page in her notebook.
“Perhaps it wasn’t an email for the archive at all.”
Sam looked up at her.
“Then what was it for?”
She met his eyes.
“Maybe it was for you.”
There was a hushed silence around the table.
Even Ollie stopped fidgeting in his chair.
Sam frowned.
“No, the file arrived first.”
Claire looked at him.
“So?”
“So the file and the email were both delivered to the archive before I received the email,” said Sam.
Ethan leaned forward.
“How was that possible?”
Sam glanced down at the paper in his hands.
He suspected he knew how, though it was not proof of anything, really.
Just a suspicion.
A dangerous thing to have in certain circumstances.
It was nearly always best to avoid suspicion.
Professor Holloway arrived promptly at nine.
He wrote one line on the board.
What people ignore is usually what they trust
The class fell silent as he looked up at them.
“This afternoon you will work in pairs,” said Holloway.
A groan from several students.
He ignored it.
“You will conduct an inspection of one ordinary part of the university.”
Several more groans.
“Including the archive, corridor, office, or stairwell,” said Holloway.
Sam looked up as the rest of the class stirred uneasily.
Holloway continued.
“You are to identify one thing that has been present for some time but goes unnoticed.”
Claire glanced at Sam.
Ollie looked at Ethan.
Ethan blinked, evidently realizing that this was not an unusual occurrence for lectures, and Mehjabeen was already writing something down.
Holloway passed out the assignment sheets.
When Sam received his, he glanced at the bottom of the paper.
His expression changed, almost imperceptibly.
It was not enough for the others to notice, but not enough that Claire did not see it.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing,” said Sam.
“That’s a lie.”
“Yes,” said Sam.
Ollie leaned over.
“What is it?”
Sam looked down at the paper in his hands, then at Claire’s email, then up at Holloway.
Same code.
Same archive reference.
Same afternoon assignment.
It was not enough for him to know definitively that someone had been guiding him to the archive, but it was nearly enough.
It was enough that the others could see his expression when he looked at the assignment.
Mehjabeen frowned.
“What did you see?”
Sam met her eyes.
“Nothing.”
She did not believe him.
Neither did Claire, which was probably why he trusted them.
It was nearly two o’clock when the five of them arrived at the university archive.
The clerk behind the desk was clearly surprised to see them, and even more surprised when Sam asked for M-07.
“That file is not available to students,” said the clerk.
Claire handed him Holloway’s assignment sheet.
“That doesn’t explain why you’re here,” said the clerk.
“It explains enough,” said Sam.
The clerk looked up sharply at him.
Recognition, perhaps.
Dislike, certainly.
It was there in the way his expression changed when he looked at Sam’s surname.
“Valecroft,” said the clerk.
Sam frowned.
“Do you know my father?”
The clerk hesitated.
Ollie, standing next to Ethan, made a sound like here we go but was promptly elbowed by Claire.
The clerk cleared his throat.
“Your father used to visit the archive.”
Sam did not move.
“Why?”
The clerk hesitated again.
“History.”
“That’s not an answer,” said Sam.
“No, it isn’t,” said the clerk.
Sam looked at him closely.
He suspected he knew what was happening, but it was difficult to be certain.
Edward had warned him not to take King’s Road that day, and there was reason to believe there might be roadworks.
Claire had received an email that had appeared to come from nowhere, and Sam had received an assignment he suspected was not meant for him at all.
Still, it was not enough.
He looked down at Claire’s email again.
She looked at him.
“You said the file wasn’t requested.”
Claire nodded.
“It wasn’t.”
“Ollie?” asked Sam.
“I found the email first,” said Ollie.
“Where was it?”
“My inbox,” said Ollie.
“Before or after Holloway gave us the assignment?”
Ollie paused to think.
“After,” he said at last.
Sam was silent for a moment.
Mehjabeen was the one who said, “The assignment came first.”
Sam nodded.
“The archive email was a response of some sort.”
Claire frowned.
“To what?”
Sam looked up at the shelves in the archive, then down at the code on his assignment, then at the surprised expression on the clerk’s face.
Then, very slowly, he smiled.
It was not a smile of amusement so much as one of certainty.
“The hidden events aren’t separate from the university assignment,” he said at last.
Claire looked stunned.
“Ollie?”
He looked between them.
“Do I need to be worried?”
Sam folded the paper in his hands once.
Then again.
“They arranged the assignment to lead us to the archive.”
Mehjabeen spoke very quietly.
“Who did?” Sam looked up at the empty shelf.
“I don’t know,” said Sam.
It was not enough, but it was probably all he needed to know.
They were not completely safe.
For the moment, at least, the university continued on as it always had.
Students drifted past the doors outside, heading toward lunch.
Someone laughed in the corridor.
A door slammed somewhere far away.
The world continued as if nothing at all had changed.
Sam looked up at Claire, then at Ollie, then at Mehjabeen, then Ethan.
And for the first time, he understood the shape of the thread that bound them together, however tightly woven.
It had begun before the email, before the archive, before the book.
And there was someone who had been pulling at it long before he had seen it for the first time.
Sam looked back up at the M-07 shelf.
And then he quietly said, “Now I understand why they wanted me to find it.”
TO BE CONTINUED…..