“Eight,” Mara said.
The word went nowhere. It struck the booth’s dust and lay there with the dead moths.
Dorian stopped speaking into his phone. “Eight what?”
“Payroll days.”
Celeste’s bare hand rested on the doorframe. Her rings caught the weak red light from the transfer console. “You applied under a false identity.”
“No.” Mara kept her eyes on Celeste. “I applied under my identity.”
“You omitted a material fact.”
“Which one?”
A muscle moved once in Celeste’s cheek. “Don’t make this theatrical.”
“I’m in a hidden booth listening to a dead man identify me as his daughter. Theatrical was already booked.”
Iris gave a dry sound that might have been a laugh if it had contained any air. She was still holding the reel canister against her ribs. Dust marked the shoulder of her coat. “If we’re handing out awards, Celeste, your entrance was clean. Dorian’s needs another pass.”
Dorian lowered the phone. “This is not a rehearsal room.”
“It is now,” Nico said from the corridor.
Mara had not heard him arrive. He stood beyond Celeste in a black production coat, his hair still powdered with the gray from Stage Four. His gaze moved across the booth, taking in the reel, the console, Mara, and Rowan. He had the particular stillness of a man who knew a camera might be watching from any corner.
Celeste did not turn. “You were told to remain on set.”
“I was told the vault system had been compromised. That is a broader invitation.”
Dorian’s phone began vibrating again. He glanced at the screen, swore softly, and answered. “Pike.” He listened. “No, don’t shut down the whole lot. Isolate payroll and production accounting. If the cameras go dark, we lose the insurance position.”
Mara watched his thumb move over the phone. He was already building a version of the next hour in which she had never worked at Morrowglass. The studio would keep filming. People would be paid. Her days would vanish between columns.
Celeste stepped into the booth.
“Give me your badge,” she said.
Mara’s hand went to the plastic card clipped beneath her sweater. The motion was small. Rowan noticed it. His attention shifted from the reel to her wrist, then back again.
“On what grounds?” Mara asked.
“Identity fraud. Unauthorized access. Interference with a protected archive.”
“The access code was used before I started.”
“Your code was used.”
“Then your system is badly designed.”
Dorian covered the mouthpiece of his phone. “She’s not in a position to negotiate technical findings.”
“I’m not negotiating. I’m asking for the allegation in writing.”
Celeste’s gaze settled on the badge. “You have a talent for mistaking delay for leverage.”
“It has been useful.”
“For eight days.”
“For eight paid days.”
Mara unclipped the badge. Its cord had caught on a thread in her sweater. She worked it free without looking down. The card showed her photograph, the name MARA ROOK, and the gray strip identifying her as Vault and Continuity, Temporary. The word temporary had begun to irritate her on the second morning. Now it looked like a verdict.
She held the badge out.
Rowan took one step forward.
Celeste’s eyes moved to him. “Mr. Saye.”
He did not reach for the card. “If you suspend her, don’t remove her from the vault.”
“Was that advice?”
“It was a warning.”
Dorian laughed into his phone, though no one on the other end could have heard the exchange. “We have a former stunt coordinator offering archive counsel. Put it on the liability sheet.”
Rowan ignored him. His voice stayed level. “The reel is nitrate. The canister’s seal is compromised. If it warms, you’ll have a chemical fire in a room full of untracked stock.”
Iris looked down at the reel. A faint amber stain had spread beneath the lid’s rim, thin as tea.
Mara saw it at the same time.
“Put it on the metal tray,” she said.
Iris moved immediately. She laid the canister on the shallow tray beside the console, then opened the booth’s vent panel. A draught entered with the smell of salt and hot wiring.
Celeste watched Mara. “You see? You cannot stop directing the room.”
“I’m trying to keep your evidence from decomposing.”
“Evidence of what?”
Mara looked at the reel. The label was blank except for the number eight, written in Alden’s narrow hand. She wanted to ask Iris whether she had seen the number before. She wanted to ask Rowan what he had heard on the audio transfer before Celeste arrived. She wanted, with a sharpness that made her teeth hurt, to hear the recording again.
Instead she said, “That depends on who gets to edit it.”
Celeste extended her hand. “The badge.”
Mara placed it in her palm.
Celeste closed her fingers around the card. “You are suspended pending review. Your payroll record will be preserved.”
Dorian turned from his call. “No. It will be frozen.”
Celeste did not look at him. “Preserved.”
“Frozen,” Dorian repeated. “There’s a legal distinction, and I paid for both of them.”
Mara’s stomach tightened once. She set her hand flat against the console to steady it. The screen showed a string of archive activity, each line tagged with a time and user code. The last entry remained open.
ROOK.M—TRANSFER AUTHORIZED.
The cursor blinked after it, patient as a metronome.
“Who is conducting the review?” she asked.
“Counsel.”
“Whose?”
Celeste’s mouth curved without warmth. “You have met him.”
“Dorian’s.”
“And mine.”
“That sounds expensive.”
“It is.” Celeste leaned nearer. Her perfume could not quite cover the smell of old film. “You should understand what is being offered. If you leave quietly, I can make certain your mother is not dragged into this.”
The booth seemed to narrow around the sentence.
Mara kept her face still. June had always said that the first person to mention your family was the person who had run out of facts.
“Do you know where my mother is?”
“I know where she has been.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“No,” Celeste said. “It wasn’t.”
Rowan’s head turned toward her. Mara felt the movement without looking at him.
Celeste slipped the badge into the pocket of her suit. “You will come to my office at nine. Bring whatever documents you believe support your claim.”
“I have no claim.”
“Then you have nothing to lose.”
The door opened behind Celeste. A pair of security officers waited in the corridor, young men in Morrowglass jackets, their hands resting near their belts with the blank obedience of people who had not yet learned what their work meant.
“Mr. Saye will escort you,” Celeste said.
Mara looked at Rowan. “Is that part of your contract?”
“Not this part.”
“Then you can decline.”
He glanced at Celeste. “Can I?”
Celeste smiled at him now. “You can do whatever you like. I’ll simply revise my understanding of your usefulness.”
Rowan’s jaw shifted. He moved to the door.
Mara took the reel from the tray before either officer could touch it. The canister was warm through her gloves. Iris reached for it, but Mara shook her head.
“Cold vault,” Mara said. “Not the main lift.”
Iris’s eyes narrowed. “You’re suspended.”
“I’m aware.”
“You’re also carrying a piece of history that wants to become soup.”
“Then walk faster.”
Iris opened the side passage. The three of them went through while Celeste and Dorian remained in the booth with the dead man’s voice, the hot console, and the unclosed line of Mara’s access record.
The passage behind the vaults was narrow enough that Rowan had to turn sideways to let her pass. His sleeve brushed the reel canister. He put out one hand, not touching her, only blocking the corner where a pipe descended from the ceiling.
“Duck,” he said.
Mara did.
The pipe was lower than it looked. Its underside was wet with condensation. Rowan’s palm caught the metal where her head would have struck, and he held it there until she was through. Then he followed, stooping beneath it without comment.
She noticed the small scar across his knuckles. A white line, old and clean. She noticed because he had put his hand between her and the pipe before he had put one between her and Celeste.
That distinction lodged in her mind and refused to leave.
The cold vault door had already begun to close. Iris shoved her shoulder into the gap. Rowan caught the handle and pulled. The door stopped with a groan.
“Bad hinge,” he said.
“It was inspected yesterday,” Mara replied.
“Then it was inspected by a liar.”
They carried the reel inside. The cold struck through Mara’s coat, tightening her fingers around the canister. Racks rose on either side, crowded with metal cases and paper tags. The light overhead flickered twice.
Iris took the reel from her. “You’re done.”
“Until nine.”
“Until they decide you’re a scene they can cut.” Iris placed the canister on the cooling shelf and checked the seal with a magnifying lens. “Don’t go to Celeste’s office alone.”
Mara looked at Rowan.
Iris followed her gaze. “I said don’t go alone. I didn’t say take the man who keeps checking whether you’re about to run.”
“I’m not checking,” Rowan said.
“You’re a badly hidden subtitle.”
Iris shut the vault door. “Both of you out. I have a reel to save and a supervisor to disappoint.”
The corridor beyond was empty except for a handcart stacked with costume trunks. Somewhere on the lot, a bell rang for the next setup. The sound traveled through the walls in a dull, ceremonial pulse.
Mara walked toward the administration wing. Rowan matched her pace.
“You don’t have to escort me,” she said.
“I know.”
“Then why are you?”
“Because two security officers were told to escort you, and they’d take you straight to the front gate.”
“That may be the intention.”
“Not if you want your days.”
She stopped at the junction beneath the painted sign for PAYROLL, HUMAN RESOURCES, EMPLOYEE SERVICES. The letters had been gold once. Salt had eaten the edges.
Rowan stopped too. “You need a copy of your time record.”
“I know.”
“The system may already be locked.”
“I know that as well.”
He looked at her hands. “You can still get it.”
Mara studied his face. “You sound certain.”
“No. I sound like I’ve broken into worse systems.”
“Comforting.”
He reached for the access panel beside the payroll door. His fingers moved over the casing, testing the screws, the seam, the slight give beneath the plastic. “They use a magnetic latch with a mechanical fallback. Old lot, old money. If the server is isolated, the latch won’t know whether it’s supposed to open.”
“Are you explaining this to me?”
“I’m explaining it to the door.”
He took a steel pick from the inside of his belt. Mara had not seen him carry it. He worked the tool into the seam and levered once. The panel clicked. He caught the small metal plate before it fell, then bridged two contacts with the pick.
The lock released.
Mara stared at the open door.
Rowan replaced the plate. “Don’t look impressed. It’s a door.”
“You put your hand on a live contact.”
“I used a tool.”
“You put your hand near a live contact.”
“That’s different.”
“It isn’t.”
He met her eyes. For a moment neither of them moved. His attention dropped to the reel-burn mark on her glove, then returned to her face.
“Go,” he said.
Inside, the payroll office smelled of toner and dust. Three terminals sat dark behind a counter. Mara crossed to the nearest one and pressed the power button. Nothing happened.
Rowan came in behind her and shut the door without latching it. “Try the manual station.”
“You know where it is?”
“I know where people hide the things they don’t want audited.”
He moved a filing cabinet six inches to the left. Behind it was a narrow desk with a paper ledger, a time clock, and a terminal older than Mara was. He pulled the ledger free and set it before her.
The pages were ruled by hand. Names. Dates. Signatures.
Mara found Rook, Mara beneath the current week. The first eight days had been initialed by a payroll clerk named E. Venn. The ninth box was blank.
At the bottom of the page, in fresh black ink, someone had written: EMPLOYMENT STATUS—UNDER REVIEW.
The ink had not dried.
Rowan saw it over her shoulder. He did not ask what it meant. He took a pencil from the desk, placed it beside the ledger, and drew a single line through the new notation.
Mara looked at him. “That won’t hold up.”
“It will hold up longer than nothing.”
He turned the ledger toward her. “Initial the ninth day.”
“I haven’t completed it.”
“You’ve been on the lot since six.”
“Suspension was issued at—”
“Eight forty-three.”
She looked up. “You were watching the clock?”
“I was watching the booth.”
“Those aren’t the same thing.”
“No.”
He pushed the pencil closer. “Write the time.”
Mara picked it up. The wood was warm where his hand had been. She wrote 8:43 in the margin and signed beneath it. Her name looked too ordinary on the page. That had been the point.
A printer woke in the corner.
Both of them turned.
The machine fed out one sheet, then another. Rowan reached it first. He read the top line and his expression changed by less than an inch.
“What?” Mara asked.
He handed her the page.
MORROWGLASS STUDIOS—EMPLOYEE STATUS CHANGE.
NAME: MARA ROOK. STATUS: TERMINATED. EFFECTIVE DATE: FIRST DAY OF EMPLOYMENT.
Below that, beneath the official seal, was Celeste Vey’s electronic authorization.
Mara read it twice. The second page slid from the printer and struck the floor.
Rowan bent to pick it up.
This one was addressed to him.
He did not give it to her. He looked at the signature, then folded the page once along the crease as if it were a dangerous map.
“Rowan.”
He held the paper in his fist.
“What did she offer you?” Mara asked.
The payroll office lights went out.
Through the dark, the old terminal clicked on by itself, and a green line appeared across its screen:
IDENTITY CONFIRMATION REQUIRED.