text: Despite the rain methodically pounding its way through her oilskins, Sara slowed as she climbed the broad, deep steps of the Archives. Grand, fluted pillars, bases scarcely lit by the street's gaslamps, rose on either side, disappearing into fog and darkness. The bronze double doors at the top were covered in carvings, biblical and classical scenes intertwined with little rhyme or reason. She chuckled, just a little, at the image of Eve handing Adam an apple as decoration on a repository of knowledge. The tolling of the evening bell prompted Sara back into movement. The bronze doors refused to budge, and she drew a shaky breath, praying that her grandmother's journal was right. After a quick glance around to make sure she was still alone, Sara placed a hand on the sculpted apple and released a flare of forbidden magic. Silently, the left door swung inwards, and she slipped inside the moment the gap was wide enough. The door shut again with the slightest click the instant she was through. Gas chandeliers hung from the arched ceiling, lighting a long, cavernous vault. The pillars continued inside, leading the eye to the single desk at the end where a man sat writing, seemingly undaunted as he was dwarfed by the space around him. She scurried across the marble floor, wincing with every echoing, squeaking step. It seemed to take far too long to traverse the foyer, and she paused for breath before the desk. Without looking up, fountain pen still darting across a book, the man said, "The Archive is closed for the night." Sara shivered at the tone of utter dismissal, but said the words her grandmother had written. "I'm not here for collections fit for the light of day." At that, his pen paused. "Name?" "Sara." "Your *full* name." She licked her lips. "Sara Williamson." He looked at her at last, and she had to force herself to meet his gaze. She'd thought the stories of the Archivist were exaggerations, but standing before him, the weight of his centuries--millennia--bearing down upon her, she suddenly understood the tales. But then, the keepers of the supernatural were always *other*, and there were few places left as magical as the Archives. She found herself staring at the floor, wondering why she'd ever thought to lie, when he repeated, tonelessly. "Your name. Please." "Sara..." it was hard to force out after years of hiding. It was harder to ignore him. "Sara Leódrúne." She braced herself a reaction to the family title, declaring their status as witches. Instead, he only nodded. "And the reason for your visit?" Perhaps it mattered not at all to a creature who'd been around longer than the first of her kin. "To study the dark arts." Her magic began to roil, responding to her growing excitement. Surely, it couldn't be this easy? Surely, there was some trick? His nodded, and pulled out a small, leather-bound tome from a drawer, turning it towards her. He opened it to the first page, blank and whiter than any paper she'd ever seen, and handed her the pen. "Sign in, please." Sara gulped at the feel of the pen, skittering across her magic like shower of falling sand, light but omnipresent. It took far too much effort to finish her signature, and she swayed as the sensation redoubled. He took the book from her unresisting fingers and tucked it into a pocket. "Follow me," he said, and she scurried to catch up. Beyond the entryway, the Archives seemed like any other library, with rows upon rows of shelves. But as he led her deeper, all traces of organization began to steadily disappear. Soon, shelves were covered with texts on every topic imaginable, in no order that she could determine. Penny-dreadfuls in a foreign tongue next to Aristotle, cookbooks beside tattered scrolls, They moved on. Questions came to mind, but Sara could never find the courage to ask them. The silence felt sacred amid the empty aisles, and so she followed the Archivist without a word. He brought her a section of blank wall, identical to those on either side, and stepped through it. Sara saw the telltale signs of a illusion rippling around his form, and copied him. For a brief moment, she felt the wards of the Archive, ancient and terrible, twitch, paying just the slightest attention to her. But the flow of sand around her responded, whispering that she belonged. The wards settled, so quickly she almost believed she'd imagined the sense of impending doom, and Sara could breath again as an invisible weight vanished off of her. But all thought of ancient defenses was driven from her mind, and Sara gasped upon seeing the shelves beyond the illusory wall. *Thee Darck Artes: Maladys and Miserys* caught her attention first, but on the way to grab it, she spied *Mala Gesta*, which she noticed was beside an actual, unburned copy *Weal, Waye, and Witchery*. Frozen by the plenitude of choices, the Archivist had to shake her by the shoulder to get her attention again. "I'm glad to see you so enthusiastic about our collection, but your book must come first." "My book?" But then she was scrambling after him again to keep up. She stumbled the first time they passed someone, a man in robes generations out of style, reading *Exemplary Excruciation* as he stood among the shelves. She was unable to hold back the questions any longer when they passed a group of three witches, whispering passionately among themselves while gesturing towards yet more illegal books. "How many people are in here? How many practitioners of the dark arts are there?" The Archivist swept past them, and said, "Most of you find your way here, at some point in your lives. We're building quite the collection." "I'm surprised more people haven't noticed the witches and wizards coming and going." But it would be splendid to finally *talk* to others about the art, something Sara had dearly missed since her grandmother passed on. The Archivist ignored her, running a finger along the packed shelves, murmuring to himself in some tongue that sounded vaguely like ancient Egyptian. At last, he said, "Here. Here will do." He pulled the guest log out of his pocket and tucked it in between a pair of much larger volumes. The feeling of sand falling over her magic vanished, and its muffling daze was immediately replaced by dread. Sara's gaze darted to the small book, and she found herself frozen when she saw the title, pressed in gold leaf along the spine. *Sara Leódrúne*. She floundered for words as the Archivist began to walk away. "What- what is this?" She stammered, reaching for the book and discovering she was unable to touch it. He looked at her in confusion. "Your book, of course. You wished for access to the dark arts." Even as she tried and failed to pass the protections on the book, she felt chains wrapping around her magic. A light bond, scarcely there at the moment, but she could feel the strength waiting to constrict, to choke, if she tried to leave. "Welcome to the Archives, Miss Leódrúne," the Archivist said, and for the first time, she heard genuine emotion in his voice, the slightest hint of warmth that sent shivers down her spine. "We hope you'll be a fine addition to the collection.