The archive was quiet. Now addressed as Mr Ivanovich, the beggar could hear each of his footsteps echo across the polished marble floor. The crisp tapping of his shoes softened as he crossed onto the carpet. Then he turned around on the corner, straight into the washroom.

  It was a well-lit space, bathed in faint golden light. He hurried into one of the stalls, shut the door behind him, and finally sat down—feeling, for the first time that day, the faintest sense of relief. He hadn’t had a moment to himself since morning, and the elixir Pavlov had given him was now in full effect. He had been holding it in the entire time.

  He lingered there, gathering himself, his mind drifting through possible plans for the rest of the day. It was too early to return to his lodging, yet too late to waste the afternoon idling. Perhaps he could finally look into that “arcane sorting spell” he’d been meaning to study. Or maybe he’d do what came more naturally—wander outside and collapse in some forgotten alley, like he often had in the past. That, truthfully, sounded far more tempting given how drained he now felt.

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  Still, he chose to remain in the archive—not out of any real intent to revise, but because of what Prefect Grisomond had said. That brief remark about Halgricstead… it perplexed him. It was the first time someone had spoken of those events in a way that diverged from the official version—even if what Grisomond said was far from being true.

  But he refused to let his thoughts dwell on the morning—on the interview, on the examiners and their attitude.

  A flush and the stall door creaked opened.

  He walked towards the mirror, not to touch up his appearance, which, after these years, he reckon there was none—nor had he ever cared much.