[ At exactly midnight, a piece of paper slides under the door. When unfolded, it's not the standard single sheet—the map, done in Ellie's hand, sprawls over several pages. There's a stylized compass rose in one corner, but it's otherwise unlabeled: a wide room leading on to smaller rooms, twisting corridors and stairways. Rooms upon rooms, passageways upon passageways.
There is a path. Not drawn by Ellie—the line less disciplined, the pen driven deeper into the paper. It reaches into the heart of the map, running ragged as a scar, turning and turning again.
It's the library, of course. When—if—Tess follows the map, it'll take her deep into the stacks and past the most-used study rooms. She'll descend stairs, turn sharp corners, walk the occasional long dusty hallway. At the end of it, half an hour later if she's quick, she'll find a room like any other.
Inside are shelves filled with books: William's favorite authors, his old childhood loves, romance novels and philosophy primers as well. History books—every volume of Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire—and western dime novels. A tiny bit of poetry. A few things with titles that interested him or brought Tess to mind. Library books, all of them, but then they haven't been removed from the library.
Beyond the usual table and chairs, the room's furnished with one of William's relentlessly tasteful bedroom lamps and cushions swiped from various common rooms. On the table is a whiskey bottle holding an arrangement of flowers from the greenhouse, and a note in William's scrawl—its illegibility one of the constants between this and that other barge:
Happy birthday.
I didn't have time to install a lock but I bet you could. ]
[It's just like being at home, in some ways: in a world with no streets or sensible directions, a map is the only way to communicate where things are, and people leave them so their loved ones can find valuables if they die. (And they do often die; how many times have she and Joel frisked a map off of a corpse?) She suspects, however, this one isn't going to lead to a cache of miscellaneous screws, manuals, and bullets. She does have to find out.
It's a long path, but it's nice to have something to do. She's not sure what to expect. The last time she went on a hunt like this, she came to in the infirmary with a Magic 8 Ball as a souvenir. It could always happen again.
She's relieved, then, to find the room William has left her, and a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth when she sees the lamp. She knows it's his work well before she sees his handwriting. She thumbs at a flower petal; it's real, of course, but they're still a novel sight. Standing there, note in one hand, she types out a message with the other:]
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🥳 birthday 🎈
There is a path. Not drawn by Ellie—the line less disciplined, the pen driven deeper into the paper. It reaches into the heart of the map, running ragged as a scar, turning and turning again.
It's the library, of course. When—if—Tess follows the map, it'll take her deep into the stacks and past the most-used study rooms. She'll descend stairs, turn sharp corners, walk the occasional long dusty hallway. At the end of it, half an hour later if she's quick, she'll find a room like any other.
Inside are shelves filled with books: William's favorite authors, his old childhood loves, romance novels and philosophy primers as well. History books—every volume of Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire—and western dime novels. A tiny bit of poetry. A few things with titles that interested him or brought Tess to mind. Library books, all of them, but then they haven't been removed from the library.
Beyond the usual table and chairs, the room's furnished with one of William's relentlessly tasteful bedroom lamps and cushions swiped from various common rooms. On the table is a whiskey bottle holding an arrangement of flowers from the greenhouse, and a note in William's scrawl—its illegibility one of the constants between this and that other barge:
Happy birthday.
I didn't have time to install a lock but I bet you could. ]
no subject
It's a long path, but it's nice to have something to do. She's not sure what to expect. The last time she went on a hunt like this, she came to in the infirmary with a Magic 8 Ball as a souvenir. It could always happen again.
She's relieved, then, to find the room William has left her, and a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth when she sees the lamp. She knows it's his work well before she sees his handwriting. She thumbs at a flower petal; it's real, of course, but they're still a novel sight. Standing there, note in one hand, she types out a message with the other:]
Surprised you remembered. Thank you.