3.

A date at the top

The deep Archive, Requiem City — month 1, AGH 200

Josephine finished the hill account, blotted the last line and turned to a fresh leaf.

She wrote 5.

“No,” the mind said.

The numeral was still wet.

“You said four.”

“That was the hill.”

“And this would be after the hill.”

“A supper.”

She waited for it to continue.

“There were two cooks,” it said, “and both had borrowed extremely handsome covered dishes.”

“In five?”

“One thirty-three.”

Jo lifted the nib away from the page.

The mind went on. “The cooks were both very good—”

“Wait.”

“At their work.”

“I said wait.”

It stopped.

She looked from the date she had just written to the final leaf of the hill account. She had Grethe back home. She had the acorn in the ground. She had not expected to stay in that yard forever, but a hundred and twenty-nine years was a considerable distance to go for supper.

“A person reading this will think they've lost half the book.”

“Have you lost that much?”

“A person who isn't me.”

The light gathered nearer the center of the wall. She had begun to recognize the attention it gave a distinction it found unnecessary.

“The kitchens weren't there in five,” it said.

“Then we could get to them eventually.”

“We already have.”

Jo set the pen across the bottle's rim.

“You want me to finish the child on the hill and begin supper in a place that won't exist for more than a century.”

“Yes.”

It sounded pleased to have explained itself.

She took a spare leaf and laid it sideways on the book. From one edge to the other she drew a line. Near the beginning she marked 4. Much farther along she wrote 133.

“Here,” she said, touching the first mark. “Orbag. Autumn. Now here.” She moved her finger. “Where?”

“Requiem City. The South evening-kitchen court.”

Jo wrote it beneath the second mark.

“A kitchen court.”

“A place to buy supper, Jo.”

“I know what one is.”

“Then you will not have to explain all the years before you let anyone eat.”

She looked at the two marks. There was nothing between them except the line she had drawn.

“I'd have to put the date where they couldn't miss it.”

“Put it at the top.”

She glanced at the five.

The mind said nothing.

“And you have to give it to me before the cooks and their dishes.”

“I did give it to you.”

“After the dishes.”

“First, next time.”

“When you have a date.”

“And when I don't, you will say so.” The light shifted. “I would prefer a little room for the cooks.”

Jo picked up the pen. “Requiem City,” she said, trying it. “The South evening-kitchen court. One thirty-three.”

“There you are.”

She could hear where she was. She could still hear the child's afternoon behind it.

The five took two strokes to cross out. She set the spare date line beside the finished hill pages, and beneath the spoiled heading wrote 133 large enough to annoy herself.

“The dishes,” she said.

The mind began again.