I stay where I am, hands loose at my sides, and watch through the streaked window as you cross to the noticeboard by the stair foot. The glass blurs the posted papers into pale rectangles; from here I can see you reading, not what you're reading. That's as it should be.

"He asks good questions," Tamsin says, closing the booklet and shelving it under her desk. "Better than most of the people who come through that door with a seal in their pocket."

"He does. He also caught me assuming twice in one afternoon, which is a service I don't usually get for free." I turn from the window. "Tamsin — the entry. Whoever wrote it used my archive's practice, my roof, possibly my pen. If I find the hand, you'll hear it from me before anyone else."

She considers that, then nods once, a short motion. "Fair. And if the registrar's office asks why you were here, I'll say it was a routine accession inquiry. Because it was." A pause, and the dry note returns. "I'd keep it that way, if I were you. Routine is a shield. Curiosity isn't, in this building."

_I've thought the same thing for years and never heard a clerk say it out loud._

I drift back toward the window while Tamsin returns to her ledgers, the pen scratching steady as rain. You're still at the board, head tilted, working through the postings. The rain has thinned to a drizzle that doesn't hide much.

_I'll leave him to it. The board is public paper — anyone may read it, and whatever he finds there is his to bring back or not._

"Take your time," I say, though the glass is between us and I'm not sure it carries. I settle against the wall by the window to wait, where I can see both you and the door.