Of course, within bounds, generous donors might set conditions as they pleased.
“You’ve got an idea,” said Audrey.
“I was just thinking—if we did this, we needn’t just demand access for readers from Innsmouth. We could make it open to Hall students as well.”
“Entrance to the library whenever we asked?” A smile spread on her face. “That’d be a sweet thing. Big donation, though.”
I gave the boxes a significant look.
“This is no great portion of the water’s treasure,” agreed Ngalthr. “There is much we cannot do, but where gold is concerned you need only ask for what is required.”
I thought about it: a hole forced through Miskatonic’s bulwarks. A place on their campus where they could not bar the wrong kind of people. Such an incursion might grow, if cultivated over time. Perhaps we might endow a professorship as well.
I started to smile.
Audrey eyed the boxes thoughtfully, but her own smile faded. “I almost died, but I took the risk willingly when I started studying. And Sally … I don’t know if she thought about it, but she would have risked her life to get at this stuff. But the other people on campus, in town, that Barlow’s ritual could have hurt—I hate to say it, but the more people who can read those books, the more easily a few idiots could ruin things for everyone.”
I wanted to deny it. It was a truism that magic wasn’t for power, that there were easier ways to hurt and kill. But whatever magic was for, Barlow’s people had misused it, and easily. As had the Yith, in their own way, and Ephraim, and probably his “wolf,” too.
“We could keep some of the books restricted,” I said reluctantly. “Caleb and I can figure out which ones really are dangerous—and you can warn us if we aren’t being imaginative enough.” It wouldn’t stop Barlow’s people from making up their own mistakes—but it wouldn’t help their kind along, either.
Even letting outsiders at the foundational works was a risk, I supposed. But then again, those were the works that taught us what not to do, and how to go on safely. And more, they were a cautious window between us and men of the air—a risk that might help them see us as people rather than monsters or faceless traitors. Safety beyond gold, if it worked. I hoped it would be worth it.
*
The night before our return to San Francisco, Neko and I made dinner at Trumbull’s house. Skinner had rebuked her for missing her Thursday classes, but she’d otherwise managed to pick up the semester’s threads with minimal interruption. She’d also started to examine the traces her guest had left in the mathematics building.
“… and she scribbled notes in every book in my office.”
“The Yith are known for their marginalia,” I said. “Pick up a little Enochian, and you might discover some interesting research tips. And probably rude comments about famous mathematicians, too.”
“That might be worth some study.” Her lips quirked. “These saltcakes are delicious. Odd, but delicious.”
“Thank you.” I decided not to mention her guest’s opinion on the matter.
“I could help with the translation,” offered Audrey. After much discussion, we’d decided that at the least she ought to finish out the year at Hall. It would give her time to ease her friends’ concerns, and to come up with some reasonable story for her parents. And if worse came to worst, she could study with Caleb and Dawson in Innsmouth. We’d correspond, and Charlie and I would fly out as often as we could—but I wasn’t ready to leave San Francisco yet.
“That would help,” said Trumbull. She gave Audrey a searching look. “They don’t give me an official slot for a research assistant, you know.”
Audrey shrugged. “It’ll be unofficial, then. It’s not as if I’ve learned much from the things I’m supposed to be doing.”
After dinner, Charlie and Spector stepped outside to smoke—and, I presumed, to discuss their own impending returns to California and D.C. They had worn each other’s scents most mornings, of late.
“Come up to my study?” Trumbull asked me quietly.
I followed her up the familiar stairs. The room was starting to show her own character, new books and papers spread on the desk. She’d kept the floor slate, and pale chalk-marks suggested that she’d been working through a few equations.
She leaned back against the desk and rubbed her temples. “I’ve been dreaming about it. Even the memories that come when I’m awake feel a little like dreams. I’m never sure whether I can trust them.”
“Human memories are never trustworthy,” I said. “If I had to guess, these are probably no worse.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re extremely un-reassuring?”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She sighed. “Don’t be. You’re probably right; it doesn’t help to doubt them. It’s not as if I can check. I have a favor to ask.”
“You saved Audrey’s life,” I said. “Ask it.”
She hesitated. “I’ve gathered that your people live a long time.”
I nodded. “If nothing kills us.”
“Have you ever heard of a place called Fángguó?”
It took only a moment to recall. “Yes. It hasn’t been founded yet, but we’ve heard of it from the Yith and their returned captives over the millennia. It has a lot of names—‘Fángguó’ isn’t as common as ‘Cān Zhàn,’ or ‘the Protectorate’—but it all seems to be the same place. No one knows precisely when it will rise, or how quickly it will fall. It’s believed to be in China, or some colonial extension of theirs.”
She let out a breath I hadn’t noticed her holding. “Good. I thought it was in the future, but I could have misremembered, or misunderstood. They don’t use our calendar, you see. I had a friend, among the other captive minds, who came from there. Zoeng Saujing.” She wrote it out for me on the slate, and I imagined the two speaking through clacking pincers in cone-shaped bodies, bent over tablets to find a shared alphabet so that they could learn each other’s true names. “We were very close. I’ve written out a message. Would you deliver it?” She handed me an envelope.
It was a small favor. And it felt like doing my part for the Archives, as well, to carry such a message across millennia. “By the time the paper crumbles, I’ll have it memorized. And I’ll find her for you.”
“Thank you.” She paused. “‘Her’? We were in very different bodies; how could we even know?”
“Chinatown’s not far from where we live in San Francisco. Saujing sounds like a woman’s name.” Which Trumbull clearly hadn’t intended me to know for some time. “Of course, names evolve, over time. One of my great-great-great-aunts still mourns a Dunwich man by the name of Beverly.”
She shook her head. “No, you had it right. It’s not as if you won’t meet her. I hope. Will you still deliver the message?”
“Of course.” As gently as I could, I asked, “Your maid Emily…?”
She shook her head. “Not interested in any apology I can offer.”