Chapter 16: The Architecture of Erasure

The key was a physical thing, which already made it unusual. Brass alloy, cut to a standard that hadn't been used in civic architecture since the mid-twenties, with a serial number filed off so cleanly that the metal had been reground and polished afterward. Whoever had done it knew that a ghost impression under the right light could bring a number back. They'd made sure there was no ghost.

Solenne had pressed it into my hand in the stairwell on my way out, stepping through the fire door on the landing below as if she'd been waiting there, which she had been. She didn't say anything. The key said enough.

I held it in my palm for the length of three city blocks, walking, before I put it away.