The Royal Archives website looked as polished as the Round Tower it lived in — formal, immaculate, and faintly intimidating. I scrolled through the access page twice before I started drafting my email. Keep it vague, I told myself. “Research into Victorian editorial practices.” That sounded safe enough. I hit send and waited.
The reply came the next morning. Polite, precise, and about as welcoming as a locked gate: access is granted at the discretion of the Keeper on behalf of His Majesty; a detailed proposal required; two academic references; security clearance; several weeks to process; approval not guaranteed; photography prohibited.
I read it twice, then leaned back in my chair. A detailed proposal. References. Security checks. Weeks of waiting. And even then, no guarantee. If I told them what I was really after, they'd shut the door before I reached the moat.
I opened Ashcombe's journal again, thumbing through the pages I'd marked. The fragments stared back at me: “Heard Esher say, lightly: ‘We shape memory.’” “Twelve leaves covering twenty-four days after the accession — 20 June to 13 July 1837.” “The days are ordinary, which is why they matter.”
I closed the journal and stared at the ceiling. The Royal Archives were the only place the originals could be — but getting in would take time I didn't have. Mercer was waiting. Thursday was coming. And if he guessed what I was chasing, the game would change.
For now, I needed another way forward. If I couldn't reach the pages, I'd start with the world they came from.