Chapter 7 In the Archive
In the Archive
The archive was the most organized version of chaos that it was possible for one witch and one show-off to function within.
Like the rest of the museum, it was not exactly roomy and quite dim thanks to one singular window, but the low light was necessary to protect the huge volume of books and old documents that lived inside.
Three of the four walls were lined with towering library shelves, packed with either research books or conspicuous cardboard boxes that required further inspection to identify the contents.
Those that had been catalogued and shelved by Sage were well organized—alphabetized or dated at the very least. Those that had been catalogued by Casimir…
Well, they’d been re-catalogued by Sage anyway, so that was irrelevant.
A rolling brass ladder ran on wheels between the shelves, and in the centre of the room were two oak desks positioned opposite each other, with matching brown leather chairs; matching green banker lamps; and matching scattered notebooks, opened envelopes and miscellaneous papers.
It was a fairly safe bet to assume that there’d be at least two mugs half full of forgotten coffee at any given time and a plate of stray biscuit crumbs left behind.
That very particular warm and sweet scent of aging paper and old glue mixed with the leather of book bindings and the occasionally overpowering addition of Casimir’s cologne was the finishing touch that made it feel like home.
On that particular evening, with some sort of woody, sea-salty combination in the air that Sage didn’t entirely loathe, Casimir lolled almost fully horizontal in his desk chair, his head tipped backwards to stare at the ceiling as he spun in lazy circles behind the desk.
“What shall we have for Friday tea? It’s been a long week; we should celebrate accordingly,” he said, pondering mid-spin.
“I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re having,” Sage answered without glancing up from the journal entry she was currently putting together.
Her findings from the hedgehog, currently asleep on her scarf, had been fascinating.
The spell was beginning to wear off, and he was slipping back peacefully into his ceramic form with a well-earned snooze.
“I’m having fish and chips, and Mal will have the same. Except cat-sized.”
Cas gawped. “Don’t tell me the bloody cat is getting my dinner?”
Sage felt half a biscuit hit her forearm and turned to see him grinning at her across the desks. “When I last checked, you lived in your own house and were a grown man who’s supposed to fend for himself.”
“Says the woman cursed with the nurturing, attentive, live-in chef. Honestly, what does a man have to do to earn his own helpful haunt? Maybe a ghost butler? I’m well aware you’re sworn to a dramatic, lifelong abstinence from magic, but if you were ever tempted to fall from the moral high ground for a truly noble cause, I’d appreciate a spell that could decide for me what to eat for lunch and dinner every day.
It’s truly the most tedious…” He rubbed his hands together impatiently.
“Anyway, are you ready to go? Laurel and Robin will be wondering where we are.”
“Ah, yes, we have plenty of time for pub visits at a moment like this, don’t we?
You’ve still got last week’s accounts to finish, for starters, and—crumbs—was the piece for the Literary Supplement due today?
Did you send it?” Sage shot to her feet and stumbled over to the wall calendar pinned to the back of the door.
“I swear, Cas, if you embarrass us in front of the board, I’ll… ”
“Keep that pretty hair of yours on, Specs.”
Sage’s foolish nickname was not simply founded in her terrible eyesight.
It was in fact the result of her lurking (as Cas liked to recall) in their shared kitchen of university halls.
In all fairness, “lurking” probably was the appropriate word.
Maybe even “skulking.” Or “scuttling.” Having failed spectacularly at socially integrating herself during freshers’ week, she had waited for the flat to be empty of all other students before nervously tiptoeing out to the kitchen for a drink of water, not even bothering to turn the light on.
A nineteen-year-old Casimir had then jumped many feet in the air when he stumbled in after one too many only to discover a moonlight-pale, fiery-haired and extremely awkward gremlin in Sage’s library-card-print pyjamas, haunting the sink like some kind of night-dwelling ghost. Almost like a phantom… His very own spectre.
All things considered, “Specs” was actually a very kind nickname.
It could have been a lot worse. To this day, people still assumed it was simply a juvenile reference to her glasses, but she didn’t like to correct them.
It was none of their business. “Better than ‘Four Eyes’ ” was her usual shrugging response, while the pair of them preserved the nickname’s true origins as a private, precious shared memory between only them.
“Finished it hours ago and did a good job of it, if I do say so myself. Harvard referencing and all. It’s faxed and gone,” he said, batting away her worries.
Sage startled. “Oh.”
“Oh, indeed. Still so sceptical, even after all these years. Does that mean we’re free to make our escape?”
“Well,” Sage said in consideration while returning to her desk, “what else did you manage to get done? Are we in good shape for the school visit tomorrow?”
Casimir swung one leg over the other with his feet up on his own stack of papers.
“I restocked the gift shop and reordered those plaid notebooks we’re low on, just as you asked.
Spent some time adjusting the environmental controls within each room to make sure that the climate hadn’t swung too wildly, thanks to these strange weather-related incidents that you have absolutely nothing to do with…
Packed up the last of the shipping exhibits and sketched out a potential layout change for the left cabinet of popular potion ingredients—which I’m sure you’ll absolutely hate, but I think is rather fun.
Oh, and I highlighted some anomalies in the 1912 records which struck me as a little peculiar.
Strange, potentially supernatural occurrences around an enchanted watering can—seemed right up our street. ”
Sage paused, then gave him a reluctant smile to show her approval. “Is that all?” Another biscuit landed somewhere in her hair. She batted it away and tried her best to stifle a yawn. “What time is it?”
“I haven’t a clue. I didn’t want to worry you, but the clock went haywire when you left for your tour earlier.
The hands started spinning at a million miles an hour; I think your magic knew you were running late.
Somewhere around eight, judging by the blind darkness?
” He gestured out of the small casement window to the dark draped over the dell outside.
Sage’s brows shot up. She had been poring over a new set of slides, which had been donated by a local, that seemed to indicate a wedding dress unearthed in his loft may have been hexed for heartbreak. Was it worth including in the exhibition? Perhaps more “haunted house” than “fairy tale,” but…
“Earth to Specs. I could make myself considerably more useful if you’d actually ask for help once in a while,” Cas said, trying to reason with her. “Two heads are better than one.”
“Yours only counts for a third of a head, so it doesn’t make much difference.”
Casimir gave her a disapproving sigh. “You’re working too hard, Sage.”
He only ever called her that when he was being particularly sincere, so she recognized the moment for what it was and glanced back up.
She took the opportunity to shake out her wrist, a few dollops of navy-blue fountain-pen ink splashing across the desk and staining her perpetually polka-dotted hands even more.
“We’ve done it,” Cas said. “Everything’s ready. All that’s left to do is revel in glory and success. Take a break, will you?”
She sighed back at him, removing her reading glasses and squeezing her eyes shut. “I will, I promise. But now is not the time to ease up. You know better than anyone, it’s not just the exhibition, it’s…When my magic’s this fraught, I have to be extra vigilant.”
“Of course. Very different from your usual flexibility and devil-may-care ways.”
“Cas, I have to be—”
“In control, I know. I know.” She was surprised to hear the jolt of sadness in his voice. He dropped his legs back to the floor and picked up his leather gloves from the desk. Wonderful. Now she felt guilty as well as stressed and overworked.
Reluctantly, Sage folded up her glasses and hung them over her knitted navy sweater vest. She couldn’t leave yet; there was still so much to do. “At least wait until we’ve inventoried that final delivery, will you?”
He rolled his eyes and headed out. She got up to follow him to the foyer, where he was lifting her witch’s tour hat from the coat rack to gather his belongings from underneath.
He wrapped a tartan scarf that she’d gifted him several birthdays ago around his neck, and she instinctively moved to straighten it so that the two ends were even and proper.
“I just worry about you,” he said softly. “It’s written into my job description as your friend, I believe.”
“Well, you shouldn’t,” Sage replied stubbornly. “I’ve dealt with my magic for long enough, and the coven is still none the wiser, wherever they are. But October is the month that they’re most likely to find me: Magical surveillance is heightened, supernatural intuition is voracious, as we know…”
“From endless, literally endless research,” Cas drawled.