Early Spring, Rain Returning by Evening

I found myself speaking aloud to the Archive today.

Not intentionally.

I was restoring several damaged specimen labels in the lower preservation wing when I managed to drop one of the brass indexing stamps beneath a storage cabinet. After a brief and entirely unsuccessful attempt to retrieve it with dignity, I muttered something rather uncharitable about the Archive making my work unnecessarily difficult.

The strange part came afterwards.

For several seconds, the pipes inside the nearby wall knocked softly in uneven reply.

Not loudly.

Not violently.

Almost conversational.

I stood there listening rather longer than I care to admit before quietly informing the Archive that I had been joking. It declined to comment further, and eventually the pipes fell silent.

Old buildings make noise constantly. I know that. Water pressure changes, expanding metal, warmth travelling through ancient systems hidden behind older stone—perfectly reasonable explanations exist for all manner of peculiar sounds. Even so, I decided the remainder of my work could just as easily be completed upstairs.

The lower preservation halls feel different lately. Not physically colder, exactly, but somehow more distant. Sound behaves oddly there now. Footsteps echo longer than they should, and the smallest movement occasionally seems to answer itself from somewhere farther down the corridor a heartbeat later. It is probably nothing more than the peculiar acoustics of old stone.

Probably.

I have noticed that I avoid the deepest foundation levels more often than I once did. That realisation unsettles me far more than the corridors themselves. For centuries I walked every part of the Archive without hesitation. Now there are doors I pass just a little more quickly than before, and I dislike admitting that even here, where no one else will ever read it.

Clio stayed beside me for most of the afternoon. Usually she wanders ahead, investigating corners I have yet to reach, but today she kept pace at my side. Whenever I stopped, she stopped too, always watching the darker end of the corridor before continuing.

Near the eastern catalogue halls she came to a complete halt and fixed her attention on one of the sealed preservation doors.

So I stopped as well.

Nothing happened.

No sound.

No movement.

After a minute or two we simply turned around and left together. I have learned that there is no shame in trusting Clio's judgement. It has an irritating habit of proving me right.

Muninn appeared only briefly today. I saw him circling high above the outer garden towers while storm clouds gathered beyond the conservatory glass. He never remained anywhere for long, settling only for a moment before taking flight again. Restlessness is unlike him.

I hope tomorrow finds him in a more sociable mood.

The rain returned shortly after dusk.

Heavy rain again.

The Archive always feels older during storms. The walls darken, the air fills with the scent of wet stone, cedar oil, and seawater, and somewhere beneath the weather I can hear water moving through the foundations. Not flooding, but flowing—slowly, steadily, with a purpose I cannot quite name.

I spent most of the evening organising unfinished sketches from the restoration studio in an effort to keep myself occupied. Most were entirely ordinary: preservation studies, structural diagrams, and botanical sketches from the conservatory gardens.

Mixed among them, however, were three drawings I do not remember making.

Each depicted the same doorway.

Tall.

Submerged.

Covered in spiralling carvings worn smooth by water.

With every page the viewpoint shifted slightly closer, as though whoever had drawn them had been walking towards it.

I should remember drawing something like that.

I do not.

Clio became noticeably restless as soon as I uncovered the pages. She paced the study for nearly an hour before finally settling beneath my desk beside the warm furnace pipes. Even then, she continued watching the doorway rather than the sketches themselves.

I decided not to ask what she thought she had seen.

The rain has grown heavier now. Every few minutes the conservatory glass trembles beneath the wind while the Archive settles around us with the familiar creaks and sighs of old timber and older stone.

Ordinarily, I find those sounds comforting.

Tonight they seem content to remind me they are still there.

For the first time since I began keeping these entries, I find myself rather reluctant to go to sleep.

— M