Early Spring, Cold Morning Sunlight

Clio brought me a fish today.

Not unusual in itself.

She disappears for hours into parts of the Archive that I stopped trying to map properly long ago and returns carrying things she has decided belong to me. Keys. Feathers. Fragments of cloth. Once, an entire silver spoon blackened by age and seawater.

Today it was a fish.

Fresh. Still cold from the ocean.

I found her waiting outside the conservatory doors shortly after sunrise with it placed neatly beside her paws, wearing the unmistakable expression of someone expecting to be thanked. I did, of course. She accepted my gratitude with complete dignity before walking away, which I suspect was the outcome she had intended all along.

Its silver scales still carried traces of seawater beneath the morning light, and the scent of salt lingered faintly across the stone where she had left it. The strange part is that the Archive stands impossibly high above the sea cliffs. There should be no sensible way for her to reach the shoreline and return before dawn.

For a moment I considered following her when she disappeared towards the lower halls. Instead, I remained in the conservatory, cleaning the fountain basin while pale sunlight drifted through the glass overhead in long, quiet bands. Some mysteries seem perfectly content to remain mysteries, and Clio has never shown much interest in explaining herself.

The Archive always feels different during the first days of spring. Not warmer exactly, but more awake. Water moves more freely through the pipes beneath the walls, condensation gathers across the lower stone corridors before sunrise, and the old timber swells gently within the shelving halls until the entire building carries the scent of wet earth, cedar oil, salt, and rain-soaked paper. Living things change with the seasons. I sometimes think the Archive does as well.

Today almost felt ordinary, and I found myself unexpectedly grateful for that.

I spent most of the afternoon restoring several damaged catalogue drawers in the northern study while Muninn observed from the upper ladder shelves. Every so often he tapped sharply against the wood whenever I reached for the wrong tool or returned something to the wrong compartment. I chose to interpret this as helpful guidance rather than criticism, although I suspect he would disagree with that distinction.

I have noticed that I speak to both of them more often these days. Not because I expect answers, but because conversation feels more natural than silence. I even caught myself apologising to Clio after startling her while moving preservation crates near the northern alcoves. The apology was entirely unnecessary. She forgave me before I had finished speaking and then settled nearby to supervise the rest of my work with the quiet seriousness she reserves for tasks she considers important.

The catalogue drawers came from a private collection acquired through an estate auction in Prague. They are beautifully made despite the damage, with hand-carved cedar runners, brass corner fittings, and tiny faded labels written in four different languages inside the compartments. Most contained entirely ordinary archival materials.

Mostly.

One drawer held nothing except black sand and a small shell carved into the shape of an eye.

I closed the compartment again.

Some things are perfectly capable of waiting until tomorrow.

Tonight the conservatory windows remain open, and cool air drifts softly through the study while the last traces of rainwater slide from the upper glass overhead. For the first time in weeks, I can hear the ocean clearly beyond the cliffs below the Archive. The waves are steady, distant, and calm, and there has been no movement from the lower lifts tonight. No chains. No humming between the shelves. Only quiet.

I think we all needed that.

Clio is asleep beside my chair with one paw stretched towards the warmth of the furnace. Muninn remains hidden somewhere within the beams above the study lamps, convinced—as always—that I have no idea where he is.

The fish is still wrapped carefully in cloth beside the sink.

I could not bring myself to throw it away.

It was a gift.

— M