The Atlas Six (The Atlas, #1)(25)

“But if this is actually the Library of Alexandria, then how—”

“The Society has changed its physical location several times throughout history,” Dalton explained. “It was originally in Alexandria, of course, but was moved soon after to Rome, and then to Prague until the Napoleonic wars, and ultimately arrived here around the Age of Exploration, alongside the rest of imperialism’s benefits.”

“That,” muttered Nico, the Cuban young man who, thankfully, was not quite tall enough to be a threat to Callum’s vainer impulses, “is the most British thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Yes, it’s very much akin to the British Museum,” confirmed Dalton dismissively, “in that every relic from every culture is rather forcibly housed under one monarchical roof. In any case,” he continued, as if that had not been a highly brow-raising statement in itself, “there have been countless attempts to house it elsewhere, as one might expect. The Americans had a very strong argument for moving it to New York until 1941, and of course we all know what happened then. Anyway, as I was saying, you’ll all be housed here,” he said, turning the corner from the gallery to a corridor lined with doors. “Your names are indicated on the placards beside the doors, and your things have been deposited there for you. Once our tour is complete, you will all meet with Atlas and then proceed to dinner. The gong is every evening at half past seven,” he added. “Your attendance each evening is expected.”

Callum noticed that Tristan and Parisa had exchanged yet another conspiratorial glance. Did they know each other before today, as the two American-trained students did? He paused for a moment to determine it, and then deduced no, they had not met any earlier than the others, though they had certainly met intimately since then.

He felt a flare-up of frustration. He never liked not being among the first to make friends.

“What exactly does a normal day look like?” Libby asked, continuing her tirade of questions. “Will there be classes, or…?”

“In a sense,” said Dalton. “Though I expect Atlas will advise you further.”

“Do you not know?” asked Reina, the very bored-looking Japanese girl with the nose ring, whose voice was much deeper than Callum expected it to be. She hadn’t spoken before then, nor given much indication of listening, though she’d been staring intently at the contents of every room they passed.

“Well, each class of candidates is slightly different,” Dalton said. “There are different specialties, making each round of initiates a different composition of skills. Thus, the research you’re assigned varies from year to year.”

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell us what all our specialties are?” prompted Parisa. She, Callum noted, was radiating a certain persuasion herself, though it seemed to be directed at Dalton. Typical; faux-intellectualism would always be appealing to any girl who’d spent too much time in France. It was about as Parisian as bobs, sartorial minimalism, and cheese.

“That,” Dalton said, “is up to you. Though I doubt it will be long before you discover them.”

“Living in the same house, taking all our meals together? I can only assume we’ll be sick to death with knowledge about ourselves in no time,” remarked Tristan at a drawl, which prompted Parisa to a smothered laugh that Callum considered supremely false.

“I’m sure you will,” replied Dalton, unfazed. “Now, if you’ll come this way, please.”

Dalton led them through a maze of stately Neoclassicism before arriving in a particularly sun-soaked room of grandeur, the walls of which were lined with books. Reina, who had been glooming disinterestedly through their procession around the house, seemed to have finally woken up a bit, eyes widening.

“This is the painted room,” Dalton said. “It is where you will meet Atlas each morning, following breakfast in the morning room. The easiest path to the reading room and archives is through those doors,” he added, gesturing with a sidelong glance to his left.

“This isn’t the library?” asked Reina, frowning upwards as she eyed the highest shelves. Nearby, a fern seemed to shiver with anticipation.

“No,” said Dalton. “The library is for letter writing. And, should you wish it, cream tea.”

Nico, who was standing beside Libby, silently made a face of revulsion.

“Yes,” Dalton agreed, plucking at a stray thread on his cuff. “Quite.”

“Aren’t there other people who live here?” asked Libby, peering through narrowed eyes down the corridor. “I thought this was a society.”

“Only the archives are housed here. Typically, Alexandrians will come and go by appointment,” Dalton explained. “Occasionally there will be smaller groups taking meetings in the reading room, in which case you will be asked not to disturb them, and vice versa.”

“Is it really such a simple matter of coming and going?” (Libby again.)

“Certainly not,” said Dalton, “though that, too, will be a matter of your discretion.”

“But how—”

“What Dalton means,” came Atlas Blakely’s buttery baritone, “is that there are a number of security measures in place.”

At his appearance, Callum and Tristan both turned to face the entrance, the six of them falling reflexively into a line.