The Hidden Library Read online

  “That said, I have come to an agreement with the White Queen. We are to put our differences aside to ensure that the White and Diamond regions will be jointly protected by our three armies.”

  I’m stunned. “She is willing to protect my people and their lands, to acknowledge my continued sovereignty?”

  Somebody calls out, “Your Majesty, you are needed.”

  The White King sighs quietly, his eyes falling briefly shut. When they open once more, I press End Record on the tablet below me.

  “Promise me you did not give too much to ensure the White Queen’s cooperation on my behalf.”

  He does not answer me, but he does not need to. I see the truth in his eyes, and it’s a brutal punch to my gut.

  Wonderland, as beautiful as it is, continues to demand too much of the two of us.

  Horns blare in the distance, their sounds so bitterly familiar to my ears. “When?”

  “I don’t know,” he murmurs. “Perhaps soon, if the White Queen has her way. She feels it will be a thumb in the other Courts’ faces, and will turn the tides in our favors. It is a good plan when you give time to consider it. While our alliance has been tentative over the last number of years, it is still the only one the people can hold onto during this time of unrest. A strengthened White Court can only benefit the land in general. This way, half of the Courts will be unified. Any further cemented alliances between us will be discussed upon a later date.”

  I am loath to agree, but he is right. It is sound logic. The people of Wonderland would rally behind a strongly unified pair of Courts, especially as the others are splintered or struck completely asunder. Mine is, as it was the day I left, under his oversight, and if his cooperation with his counterpart assures their safety, I cannot allow my personal feelings to otherwise derail such matters. “Please inform the White Queen she has my gratitude.”

  Bleak resignation shines from his pale eyes when he tells me he will.

  Wonderland asks much of its monarchs. Sometimes too much, and yet . . . we still give until we have nothing left, and even then, we give some more.

  “I must go now. I’m to check in with you every month, correct?”

  Helplessness claws at my insides. There is so much I wish to say, and yet know I cannot. “Yes.”

  “Then I will talk to you in two fortnight’s time.” He pauses, then says my name softly.

  I wait.

  But after a quick shake of the head, he crosses an arm over his chest, so that his hand touches his heart. I mimic the action, and the sentimentality burns strongly within the confines of my heart.

  Nightrider Quigley, the King’s second-in-command, calls out once more before the screen goes black.

  The urge to pluck strands of hair out is nearly overwhelming. I am different now, though. I have left behind the woman who gave into such madness. I sit for long minutes, fighting this urge, listening to the whirls and beeps of machines I can’t pinpoint. No matter how much we might have wished differently, Jace and I are on different roads now. Our shared journey abruptly ended. I am in love with another man, and not reluctantly so. And yet, it makes me want to wreak the most terrible of havocs with my vorpal blade when I consider how unfair it is that Jace has not been afforded the same opportunities as myself.

  He deserves to fall in love again, to find somebody who will steady him in the crazy world he inhabits. Even though our shared dreams of a life together died, Jace deserves to still have everything we hoped for: companionship, family, happiness. Wonderland will not afford him such a luxury, though. His crown and duty come before his personal wants and needs.

  Somehow, whether I wanted it or not, I escaped the same fate.

  The door behind me opens and shuts. I’m too numb to even turn to look. But there’s no need, not when I already know who it is.

  Finn sits down in a nearby chair and scoots it closer to where I rest. “How did the status check go?”

  “I thought you were in a meeting?”

  “According to his business partner, Holmes is delayed shortly. I have my suspicion he’s still asleep. While we wait, I thought I’d come in and check on you.”

  His gesture is unbearably sweet in light of the latest news. My fingers tighten in the soft fabric of my dress as I tell him, my voice deceptively light, “The Cheshire-Cat was recovered. He has officially resumed his duties at the White King’s encampment.”

  “That’s great.”

  “The Caterpillar’s head was also liberated.”

  I like this about Finn—he does not pressure, even though I know his curiosity must be white hot. And why wouldn’t it? While I am certain he is confident in the strength and certainty of my feelings toward him, he is only human.

  I tell my partner, “Your modern technology is amazing. To think I can see and speak to people in Wonderland whilst sitting in New York City, nearly a hundred and forty years in the future, and to hear firsthand of how badly the war is going. War here, war there. There is too much warfare in all worlds.”

  His touch is gentle. “I’m so sorry, Alice.”

  Much of me wants to compartmentalize before turning inward. When we stand up, I nearly allow this to happen. After all, it’s easier, less messy to hold it all in and assume responsibility for such confusing, bitter feelings. But when we reach the door and he puts his hand on the knob, I finish the tale. “The White King will officially join into a political union with the White Queen that will solidify their Court’s influence and stability during the war.”

  Finn’s hand falls away from the door as he turns to face me. He’s shocked but is trying to hide it best he can from me. “You mean like . . . marriage?”

  I shake my head. “No. Or at least . . . not yet. But such a political union is not as common as you would think it to be. Remember, Kings and Queens of Wonderland may rule jointly over their lands, but it does not mean they are romantically or even socially attached. Many despise one another. Many strike at the other politically. Official unions guaranteeing cooperation can be powerful weapons in Wonderlandian governments.” I lick my lips. “It was honestly the only way to ensure her cooperation with defending the Diamonds’ lands, as well as moving forward as a cohesive unit. His soldiers, and mine, are spread too thin to assure the safety of the refugees pouring in from all over Wonderland and fight against the other Courts at the same time. Plus, the people will find relief in this, to know that there is at least one Court in the land that they can trust upon. In this regard, both monarchs in the White Court will champion the Diamonds lands and peoples. Refugees are pouring in at alarming rates.”

  Finn doesn’t say anything, though. He merely pulls me into his arms and holds me tight. I listen to the steady thump of his heartbeat and think, once more, how unfair it is that I have Finn and Jace has no one. Love, as wonderful as it can be, is a brutal mistress.

  IT’S COLD IN ST. PETERSBURG, colder even than New York City. Light snow dusts the muddy ground while a train whistle pierces the air. Union soldiers mingle around the small station, many drowsy as they wait to board their next train.

  The United States is in the middle of its bloodiest war. Death is in the air. Death, it seems, is everywhere I go lately. Wasn’t Alice so right when she talked about how there is too much warfare throughout all the Timelines.

  When I brought up the current state of affairs to Alice, minutes before we edited into my original Timeline, she simply scoffed. “You came to Wonderland in the midst of its civil war, did you not? This is no different.”

  It feels different, though. Missouri, while officially torn between both the South and the North, is a place of unrest. Both abolitionists and pro-slavery groups have moved into the area, pumping their propaganda to anyone who will listen. There is heat here, and cowardly people sitting on fences.

  My skin crawls in anger.

  Marianne Brandon requested to take on the role of costumer during her residence in the Society, which was fine by Brom and me. Truth be told, I worried about her being in the fi
eld. Alice jokes about Victor having a soft heart, but it’s Marianne who truly does. By serving her role in researching different Timeline clothing and eras alongside the Librarian, she’ll be able to effectively do her job for the Janeites and report back what’s going on.

  “Besides,” she informed us, “I rather like to sew nowadays.” And then she clarified, patting one of the many sewing machines littering the Institute’s wardrobe rooms, “Even more so with these beauteous inventions. It’s rather soothing, isn’t it?”

  Who was I to disagree?

  She spent all night tailoring old Civil War-era pieces we’d confiscated during various assignments to Alice’s measurements, and then a coat and pair of pants to mine. Alice and I appear just as if we belong here in St. Petersburg, even though I want nothing more than to turn around and leave.

  Before I left, Brom reminded me to take money I’d long ignored, money I’d found once upon a time and money that made me a target for a drunken father. Money I barely ever touched, viewing it more of a curse and a symbol of society’s attempts to conform me into something I wasn’t. And now, here I am, using it after swearing I never would, and the resentment in me only intensifies.

  I can only pray I don’t land in jail today. Holy hell, I do not need that, not when there’s so much waiting for me back on my desk at the Institute.

  Alice adjusts both her hat and coat before smoothing her hands down her hoop skirt. I won’t lie—she looks beautiful, but alien, too. I know we are from a similar time period, but to see her in such a tight corset and such a wide skirt is jarring.

  I need a drink already. Hell, even a whole bottle.

  “Will we go straight to Mrs. Douglas’ home?”

  A nearby horse, desperate to escape its master, rears up. There is a child close to its angry hooves, one that can’t be more than two or three. I dart forward, snatching the boy as the owner tries to get his horse under control.

  A woman runs forward, screaming the child’s name. As I pass him off to her eager arms, she nearly burns holes through me, she’s staring so hard.

  Well, hell. I’m not here ten minutes and I’ve already run into Amy Lawrence. As kids, she and Sawyer were a thing off and on for years while he and Becky tortured each other. What are the odds that I’d have to save her kid of all people?

  “Well, I’ll be.” Her eyes go wide. “Huckleberry Finn! It’s been years since we last saw you! Thank you for saving my boy.”

  Alice slips her hand through the crook of my elbow as she catches up with me. I tip my hat reluctantly. “Hello, Amy.” To the boy, I say softly, “You need to be careful of horses, okay? They’re awfully big and sometimes forget to look down at those of us who are smaller.”

  He nods solemnly, looking as if he knows he’s going to be in trouble as soon as he gets home. “You ain’t small, mister.”

  I was though, once upon a time. I remember standing next to Jim on the banks of the Mississippi, and it felt like he towered over me.

  Amy completely ignores her son, though. “Aren’t you right handsome nowadays, Huck? We girls in school used to whisper about how, once you allowed yourself to embrace civility, what a fellow you’d turn out to be. And here you are, looking well. Is this your wife?”

  Before I can answer, or, hell, stop from gritting my teeth, Alice says in that regal voice of hers, “Yes.”

  Thank God she’s wearing gloves so Amy can’t verify whether or not that’s a fact.

  Amy blinks, no doubt unnerved at how little details either of us are willing to provide. She shifts the boy to her other hip. “Tom will be thrilled to see you, no doubt. He’s at home right now—Becky’s due any day, I suspect, and he’s been a right mess, waiting to see if he finally gets a son.”

  I neglect to tell her that I had no idea Sawyer’s wife was expecting, nor do I care.

  Another familiar face appears, only to make my jaw ache from the amount of grinding that’s going on. It’s Sid, Tom’s brother. And . . . apparently Amy’s husband, as he takes the boy from her.

  I never liked Sid much, but even I find this to be a strange match. Sawyer’s former flame and his brother? I wonder how much that has stuck in his craw over the years. Pettily, I hope a whole damn lot.

  Sid offers me his hand; I reluctantly shake it. And now we’re officially forced into introductions, which Alice bears with her normal aloof grace. A story is spun of how she and I met when I moved to London for work, and after several months of travel here, we’re set to go back within the week.

  I leave no wiggle room. Sid, once an annoying tattletale and probably a consummate gossiper nowadays, will hopefully ensure people understand that I am not officially back, and most likely will never return again.

  Sid parrots his wife’s belief that Sawyer will be over the moon to hear I’m back in town. Fuck that. I turn and leave without saying another word.

  “How long,” Alice murmurs, “do you feel it will be before we see this Tom Sawyer?”

  I dip my head as yet another person stops and stares as we walk by. “Not long enough.” And then, quietly, “You should probably know that he and I had a falling out.”

  When I opened up to her yesterday about my past, I neglected to mention anything about Sawyer.

  And still, she simply smiles that wry smile of hers. “I would have never guessed. Would you like me to stop you from beating the shit out of him? Or shall I help? Gentleman’s choice.”

  A bubble of surprised laughter escapes me. But then, just seconds later, I’m scowling once more. On the street corner ahead, somebody is preaching about how Abraham Lincoln is a demon come to earth. A group surrounds him, rapt as they nod in agreement.

  All of my amusement fades away until disgust roils around in the pit of my stomach.

  “Lincoln was one of your presidents, was he not?”

  I tear my eyes away from the mob. “Yeah. He’ll be assassinated in a few years. If, you know, this Timeline follows all the rest.”

  “I feel for him. I myself have had multiple attempts on my person, and it can be exhausting, constantly wondering if the next time will take.”

  We round a corner, and memories long repressed wash over me. I ran down this street many times, my bare feet thick with mud. The last time I walked down it, it was to leave this place behind. Brom and Katrina had made me an offer I couldn’t refuse—a life of adventure that also had purpose. And now here I am, making my way to the large house up on a hill I once resided in, and I honestly don’t even know how to feel about it all.

  The porch creaks just as it did sixteen years before. The paint is peeling, though, and there’s a quiet to the property I don’t quite remember. A knock to the door brings a young woman whose face is unfamiliar.

  I take my hat off. “I’m here to see Mrs. Douglas.”

  I never called her Mrs. Douglas. She was always the widow to me—or rather, the widder, considering my poor vocabulary and lack of education. But I’m not that kid anymore, and the woman who took me in for a small span of time deserves more than that.

  “I’m sorry,” the girl says. “But the miss is not doing too well for visitors.”

  She’s a maid, I realize. A really, really young one, too. Maybe fourteen? I was thirteen or fourteen when the widow took me in, a hopeless charity case that proved to be a massive failure. Maybe this girl has done better than me.

  “I think she’ll want to see me.” I clear my throat. “Will you tell her that Huckleberry Finn is here to visit?”

  “Well, you shoulda said that first!” The door groans as she opens it wider. “The miss has been talkin’ about you. She’d want me to make an exception for you.”

  Inside, everything is nearly as it was years before. The house is clean, the furniture worn. The maid takes my hat and overcoat alongside Alice’s. “Can I get you nice folk some tea? It’s might chilly outside. My pa says it’ll snow hard soon.”

  As she hangs up our coats and hats, Alice mutters, “How nice it would be for us to go somewhere tropical a
nd away from all this blasted snow. Everywhere we go seems to be on the verge on snow.” To the maid, she says, “Tea would be lovely, thank you.”

  The girl curtseys and scurries out of the room. Alice sits down upon a threadbare chair, but I’m too antsy to follow.

  Somewhere, upstairs, a woman is dying.

  Footsteps sound, and soon enough, the town doc emerges, his black bag in hand. “Daisy, can you—” He stops as he takes me in. “Son, I am right glad to see you.”

  Daisy reappears with a tray in her hand. “Doc, this is the nice boy the miss has been asking for.”

  “Not so much a boy anymore, are you?” the doc asks me. He sticks out his hand. “It’s good to see you, Huck. You look as if you’ve done well for yourself.”

  The backhanded compliments just keep a’coming. “Thank you, sir.”

  “She’s close now,” he tells me. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t last the night.”

  Alice asks, “What ails Mrs. Douglas, if you don’t mind me inquiring?”

  “Consumption.” He wipes his face. “It’ll be best to not get too close.”

  Daisy passes out cups of tea. The doc sits down across from Alice, sipping his tea wearily. “Go now, son. She’s been in and out of consciousness today, and talking is a might difficult. Keep that in mind.”

  Alice makes a move to stand up, but I hold out a hand. She nods, her eyes filled with understanding and concern.

  I make my way up the stairs, my boots echoing against the wood and paint. Miss Watson used to snap about how I apparently walked too loudly, and how it wasn’t what polite folk do. One afternoon, she had me practice going up and down the stairs for what felt like forever, a book on my head to help me stop slouching. My thighs burned afterward, and yet she still found me a disappointment. I’d wanted to run away that night, but the widow caught me as I was sneaking out the window.

  And here I am, near sixteen years later, stomping once more. Miss Watson is long dead, the widow nearly so.

  Her room looks the same. The same quilt upon her bed, the same wooden frame. The same pictures and needlepoint upon the walls, the same dresser off to the side. A chair now sits by the bed, a bowl of water on a nearby stand. The moment I cross the threshold, her eyes creak open.