//CLARA//
The address on Nassau Street looked nothing like I had imagined.
First, I had to find a carriage willing to take me. That took twenty minutes and three refusals. Until the fourth, an old man with a face like cracked leather, agreed only after I offered him five times the usual fare.
The ride was long and jostling, the wheels rattling over cobblestones that had not been repaired since the war. Nassau Street was narrow, and dark, the buildings leaning toward each other like they were sharing secrets.
I paid the driver and climbed out. He left before my foot touched the curb.
The archive was tucked between a pawnbroker and a saloon, its entrance so unremarkable that I walked past it twice. I stood in front of the door for a full minute, trying to convince myself that this was the right place.
A chipped and faded sign hung above: Mercantile Record Repository.
