In an Absent Dream - Seanan McGuire Page 0,42

the moments Moon had never wanted. No words on a page could hold her interest the way the wide world could, and even if Lundy stayed forever—and more and more, it felt like Lundy was going to stay forever—she would never really understand fair value, not all the way down into the marrow of her bones. One of them needed to find a profession that let her bring home material things, food and clothes and maybe, someday, a place to live that wasn’t shared with the Archivist.

Moon spoke to Vincent halfway through the year, asking whether he’d ever considered the virtues of an apprentice, someone to sweep the floors and trim the piecrusts. To her surprise, he took her on. To his surprise, she proved to be a quick study and an efficient worker, those clever hands pinching pies closed and learning the intricacies of folding dough. Inside of a month, the pies Lundy had bargained for were supplemented with other rewards, little things to give fair value for Moon’s labor, with the understanding that, if she continued as she was, one day she’d be able to feed her entire small, strange family through her efforts alone.

Everyone should have a perfect year. The two girls fell in and out of minor debts, with the Market and with each other; they laughed when they found feathers curving along the lines of their hips or tangled in their hair, they scowled when their lips hardened, and always, they worked and they played and they gave fair value as best they could, until there were more debtless days than otherwise, until it seemed like things would be good forever.

Until the day Lundy rose and started for the door, intending to go to the stream and wash her face before she started making plans for breakfast, and the Archivist called, “Wait.”

Lundy turned obediently to face her. It was the two of them alone: Moon had left them at dawn, off to help Vincent prepare for the day. “Yes?”

“Do you know what today is?”

Lundy frowned thoughtfully. “It isn’t my birthday,” she said. “It isn’t Moon’s finding-day, either, and if you have a birthday, you’ve never told me what it is.”

“It’s been a year and a day since you came back to us,” said the Archivist. Then, with deep sorrow, she said, “It’s been a year since you bought Moon’s debt.”

Fear uncurled in Lundy’s stomach. Feathers were only funny when they were something to be set aside. “Already?”

“Already, and she still loves you.” The Archivist looked at her sadly. “You know what that means.”

Lundy wanted to argue, wanted to say it wasn’t fair, that she wasn’t ready, that she had offered fair value each and every day since her return, and she should have earned herself free. But that wasn’t the bargain, and a bargain was like a rule, wasn’t it? Rules existed to be obeyed, to protect people from a world where no one knew what to do or how to do it.

“What happens now?” she asked.

“It will be easier if you undress,” said the Archivist.

Lundy did, removing each article of clothing and setting it aside, until she stood naked in the middle of the room. She looked at the Archivist.

“Will it hurt?”

“No,” said the Archivist, and held out her arm, as a falconer might hold out their glove. Lundy felt a sudden burning need to go to it, to follow this rule as she had followed all the rules before—because there had never been a specific rule against going through an impossible door into a world that wasn’t, had there? She had always been a good girl, even when it hurt her. Now, being a good girl meant going to that hand.

So she did. Flight came naturally, and when she landed, she grasped the Archivist’s wrist with as much delicacy as her talons allowed. The Archivist stroked her beak and sighed.

“You can carry messages; you can catch fish,” she said. “You can buy your way back. If someone asks if you’d like them to keep your credit, tell them yes however you can and collect it all at once, to shed feathers and find feet, not be caught in the in-between. Do you understand?”

Lundy screeched agreement. The Archivist walked to the door, opened it, and held out her arm. The sun was warm, oh, the sun was warm on Lundy’s feathers. She shrieked, once, and she was gone, wings beating at the air, all the sky below her.

“Try to remember you want to come