We sat in silence for several minutes. The Archive's climate control hummed softly, maintaining perfect temperature and humidity for the preservation of fabric and leather and whatever other materials went into clothes that cost more than houses. Somewhere in the distant parts of the mansion, a grandfather clock chimed the hour. Midnight. The witching hour. When pumpkins turned back into carriages and scholarship students remembered they didn't belong in fairy tales.
"I can't do this," Vivienne said suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper.
My stomach dropped so fast I was surprised it didn't crash through the floor. "Do what?"
"Any of it. The company. The expectations. The pretending I'm capable of filling shoes that were designed for someone twice my age with three times my experience." She gestured at me with trembling fingers. "You."
"I'm not asking you to do anything."
