Journal of Gerald “Charts” Whitcomb
— entry filed late, revised once, because apparently I am capable of shame

She crossed the threshold tonight.

I will not strike that sentence this time. Everyone else noticed it too, which relieves me of the burden of pretending otherwise.

Selene Armitage is now Keeper of the Bathymetric Ledger.

There. Official. Accurate. Unfortunately satisfying.

The admission process was deliberately slow. I know this because I helped design systems that can be slow while wearing the mask of neutrality. I recused myself from voting, as required, and then sat through a series of discussions in which everyone worked very hard not to look directly at the obvious.

No one objected outright. That would have required naming the thing. Instead there were hypotheticals. Optics. Precedent. Someone used the phrase institutional contamination and then immediately acted as if it had not been said. Another suggested additional safeguards for the Ledger, spoken gently, as if the Ledger had only recently become vulnerable.

One member asked whether the timing was emotionally optimal.

Another asked whether this might complicate existing internal relationships.

Several people glanced at me, then away again, having completed the ritual.

Selene answered everything calmly. No defensiveness. No persuasion. She did not argue her worth. She did not perform gratitude. She waited. That waiting was read by some as composure and by others as audacity.

I said nothing. This was taken as professionalism. I allowed the misunderstanding.

The vote passed. Narrow enough to bruise egos. Decisive enough to prevent revisiting.

The initiation was not recorded. This is correct procedure, though someone did attempt to open a minutes template out of reflex before being reminded, gently but firmly, that this was not that sort of gathering.

It occurred after dusk. In the Lecture Hall. There was water involved, though the method is disputed and the explanation deeply unhelpful. An older text was read aloud and then closed early, possibly because the final passage references a harbor that no longer exists.

At some point Selene was asked to formally renounce prior institutional affiliations. This was meant to be symbolic. It became awkward.

She was offered a prepared statement. She glanced at it, folded it once, and said, “I resign from the GLRC, effective whenever they realize I am no longer answering their emails.”

There was a pause. Then someone nodded solemnly, as if this had been the intended wording all along.

A seal was produced. No one could remember exactly what it was for. It was used anyway.

Someone held a lantern upside down, it sputtered out. This may have been symbolic. It may also have been nerves. No one corrected them for some time, which tells you everything you need to know about the Order’s relationship with certainty.

She was asked to step forward, then step back, then kneeled as if to be knighted, She complied without comment. The lights went dim and the Presiding Keeper of the Order whispered to her a secret question, she paused her face devoid of emotion then nodded slowly.

When she rose, her title was spoken once. No applause. A silence long enough for someone to wonder if they had missed a cue. They had not.

The appointment was immediate. Keeper of the Bathymetric Ledger. The title fit her as if it had been waiting patiently for years.

The overlap was intentional. They did not consult me, which I interpret as a courtesy. I remain Senior Keeper of Hydrographic Records. She holds the Ledger. Two roles, one map, and a room full of people quietly congratulating themselves on how maturely they are handling it.

Our first exchange was professional. Entirely so. Marginal notes only. Three corrections. One disagreement left unresolved.

I am aware that this prompted at least two eye-rolls from opposite sides of the room. The Order is tolerant of many things. Transparent restraint between people who are clearly failing at it is not one of them.

The fellowship hour followed.

Glazers from Kwik Trip, still in the box, set down with the particular reverence reserved for regional staples. Coffee, also Kwik Trip, poured too hot and then nursed resentfully. Home made bread appeared on a cutting board without attribution, which meant someone had been assigned to bring it and then became inexplicably proud of completing the assignment. There was also something resembling a cherry cobbler, that no one claimed, which, in this building, is less a mystery than a tactic.

Elenor Price asked whether this counted as a celebration or merely a transition and resolved the question by refilling their cup. Someone else asked if Selene needed directions to the Ledger room.

Selene answered before I could. Correctly. Casually. With the ease of someone who has walked those corridors enough times to stop counting steps.

That drew a brief, synchronized reaction. Not outrage. Not shock. More like the communal expression people wear when they are tired of being asked to pretend.

A comment was made about keeping things strictly professional now. It landed the way those comments always do, as a joke that contains an instruction. Selene smiled. I did not respond. This was noted and, I suspect, appreciated.

What I feel, if I allow myself to be precise, is anticipation dressed up as restraint.

The resistance has not vanished. It has retreated into process, where it will reappear later as sudden rigor applied in the name of fairness. Selene knows this. I know she knows this. The Order knows this and appears prepared to enjoy it.

It will not slow her.

The Ledger is where it belongs now. That matters more than anything else.

And yet.

Tomorrow, she will be in the stacks. Not as a visitor. Not as a question. As Keeper.

I find that I am looking forward to the inconvenience of seeing her every day and pretending this is normal.

I will close this entry here.

Tomorrow I will update the shelves.