The archive receipt began with Barnaby’s name.
He read it twice before examining the terms beneath it.
The archivist waited on the other side of the desk. She had a narrow ink stain on one cuff and no apparent interest in congratulating an applicant for possessing the right to apply.
“Your deposit?” she asked.
“My deposit.”
He set the index beside the first bundle. The account would survive their departure from Bellwater under the archive’s stated custody rules. The local recognition order permitted him to lodge it himself. It did not require a signature from Felix, Lyra, or anyone willing to admit ownership of a brass owl.
The archivist read the index, then the access request.
Her pencil stopped.
