Maren Goldweaver's Arc

Chapter 3 of 42

Delia led them down a marble hall lined with numbered doors. She spoke without turning her head. She said the sealed wing was two floors up, that Maren would need to wait in a side office while she pulled a shelf number. Miller walked at Maren's shoulder. His jaw was set. Maren counted the doors and matched them to the codes she had memorized from six months of transfer logs. A bell rang three times from the ceiling. Delia stopped. Clerks poured out of the numbered doors with folders pressed to their chests. A voice on a speaker said lockdown drill, all visitors to the front steps, all staff to assigned stations. Delia's mouth tightened. "Out," she said. "Now. I can't move you during a drill." A uniformed guard rounded the corner behind them, waving people toward the entrance. Maren's stomach dropped. If she left, the informant at Miller's forge would talk before she got another chance. Her sister's file would close by the end of the week. Miller read her face. He stepped past her without a word and drove his fist into the guard's jaw. The guard hit the wall. Delia shouted his name. Miller grabbed Delia's arm and pulled her toward the noise, blocking her view of Maren. "Go," he said over his shoulder. "Two floors. I'll hold her." Maren ran. She took a service door and climbed a narrow stair. On the second landing she stopped, breathing hard. Three corridors branched off. She did not know which one held the sealed wing. The transfer logs had never mapped the inside. A tail flicked around the far corner. Spotted, thin, tipped in cream. She followed it. The tail belonged to a leopard cub no bigger than a lap dog, wings folded soft against its spotted back. It padded down the corridor without looking at her. It stopped at a heavy door, sniffed the seam, and slipped through a gap where the wood had warped. Maren pushed the door open. Shelves. Floor to ceiling, packed with sealed folders, each spine stamped with a code she knew by heart. The sealed wing. The cub sat on a low shelf and watched her with green eyes. "Sorry," she whispered. "Not now." She ran her finger along the spines. G. Goldweaver. She found her sister's file three shelves down, the red closure tag already clipped to the top edge. She pulled it free and shoved it inside her shirt. Boots pounded on the stair below. A man's voice, not Miller's, shouted a name she did not recognize. Then Delia's voice, closer, sharp and clear. "She's up here. Second floor. The sealed wing door is open." Maren pressed her back to the shelves. The file was against her ribs. The cub stretched, yawned, and walked toward the door as if to greet whoever came through it.