Archive12: Humidity

It is a hot mid-May day in Revery. Stormflies buzz in anticipation. The sun, having given up on penetrating the heavy cloud over the city, has settled for baking its inhabitants alive.

A balled-up piece of paper hits Keeley on her sweaty forehead.


From across the room, Thursday meets her eyes and grins.


The note passes in a quick volley between them, until a hand plucks it out of mid-air.

It’s Lesley. Or, as Keeley likes to call her, Staff Mum.

She sinks down further into her chair. She is so grounded.


Even the archives, usually cool, dark and aggressively de-humidified with five separate machines, have fallen prey to the heavy, sticky heat.

The damp leaches the last bit of glue on the tape holding a flyer to the wall, and it flutters to the floor.


Bartholomew, shirtsleeves rolled up and hair clinging to his scalp, straightens up from where he’s bent over the fifth de-humidifier. It’s still sputtering weakly, despite his best efforts.

He picks up the flyer, sneers at it. He balls it up, and chucks it into the wastepaper basket.

The de-humidifier coughs and dies.

He needs a drink.


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