The archive wing had been shut for nearly three weeks. The residual crisis had forced its conversion into emergency storage, the long tables stacked with crates, the reading desks pushed against the walls, the older volumes locked behind temporary barriers.
By late morning the last of those barriers had been cleared. The wing stood empty again, ready for its proper use.
Aiden arrived with Elizabeth and two keepers. The air still carried the faint dry scent of packing cloth and unsettled dust.
They worked without hurry. The keepers brought the study tables back one by one from the corridor, and Aiden and Elizabeth guided each into its former place along the central aisle.
The tables were solid oak, heavy enough that the four of them moved together, hands set under the edges, steps measured so the legs would not scrape the stone.
Elizabeth tested the surface of the first table with her palm. "The grain held," she said. "No warping from the humidity shift."
