The Hidden Library Read online

“It’s still your God-given name, whether you like it or not.”

  I made damn sure that my birth certificate—the only one that matters, the one that I have here, in New York City—reads Finn Van Brunt and nothing else. While my adoptive parents may have had idiotic sentimentality attached to Huckleberry, I sure as hell don’t. That name? The one that ties me to this asshole in front of me? I’ll be damned if I ever go by it again. “I repeat—what do you want?”

  His mouth opens. Shuts. Has the audacity to appear wounded, and it’s only fresh lemon juice on a paper cut that refuses to heal. “You can get off your high horse with me. Just because you went to those fancy New York schools—”

  I let out a bark of a laugh. “Are you serious? You want to lecture me about my education? That’s why you called?”

  “I’m just sayin’ you don’t need to get all hoity-toity about your new smarts and fancy accent.”

  Part of me, a part I’ve worked hard to shove deep down, wants to mock him over such jealousy. He and I both know why he’s on me about my education—he’s bitter as all hell I’m smarter than he is nowadays. That my situation is better than his. That I’m no longer his poor, ignorant, charity case tag-a-long. Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. Two literary bros everybody sees as best friends, because they don’t know the truth. “You called. Not me. I’d be more than happy to take the high horse and myself straight out of this room.”

  Frustration fills Tom’s face. “Why won’t you let it go?”

  It’s like a jab to the kidneys. Can he really just gloss over what he’s done? Is he really that much of a dick? Christ. For the thousandth time, I can’t believe I wasted a single second of my life on this waste of space.

  “Huck, it’s been—”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  But he keeps going, “A few years now, and you know I’m awfully sorry—”

  If he were in front of me, I’d punch him in the face for that. Awfully sorry? What kind of piss-poor excuse is that? Who says that after what he’s done? Awfully sorry?!

  “And it’s time to let bygones be bygones—”

  Over my dead body.

  “I just think it’s a right shame how those people changed you. The Huck I know wouldn’t be—”

  “What are you not understanding, Tom? What part of I don’t ever want to speak to you again is difficult to grasp? Or is my so-called fancy accent too much for you to comprehend?”

  He finally shuts up. Blinks some more like the idiot he is. Damn right, I’m changed.

  “What part of I will never forgive you for what you’ve done or You and I are no longer friends isn’t sticking?”

  “Jesus preaches about forgiveness.”

  I’m incredulous. Now he’s trying to rationalize what he’s done via religion? “We’re done here.”

  I’m just about to tap End Transmission when he waves his hands like a madman. “Wait! I . . . I didn’t get on this thing about that. I have news you need to hear.”

  Unless it’s news that informs me I’ve been the victim of a cruel, practical joke for the past decade, and what happened really didn’t, I don’t give a damn what he has to say.

  “The Widow Douglas is dying.”

  My finger hovers over the tablet.

  “The doc says it’s consumption. She’s coughing up lots of blood and can’t get outta her bed much more anymore. It’s only a matter of days now, if even that.”

  I’m numb, I think, because all the anger fades into a lack of anything worth comprehending.

  “Ever since her sister died all those years ago, she’s been all alone in that there house of hers, remember?” He swallows. “Aunt Polly’s been bringing her some meals, but she stopped eating a few days back. A bunch of us have been helping out, making sure someone is there with her at all times. Ain’t right, going when you’re all alone.”

  The Widow Douglas dying. It seems as if she’s been old for ages now, only . . . only now she’s actually dying. She’s alone and she’s dying.

  “She’s been asking about you, Huck. Been talkin’ about you lots lately. Reminiscin’ on how she feels like she coulda done more for you. Says she wants to see you one last time. You were the only child she ever had.”

  A buzzing fills my ears.

  “Feel as you may about me, you ought to come and pay your respects. She took you in when she didn’t have to. She got you educated, or at least a good start. Gave you a roof, food. She’s a good Christian woman, Huck. And whether or not you deserve it, you’ve got a bit of her heart.”

  That’s rich. He throws that in my face? After what he’s done? Worries that she will die alone? Claims it ain’t right?

  Before he can say anything else, I tap End Transmission, both drained and worried I’ll tear apart the hub.

  I expected another round of pathetic apologies. Another round of Sawyer trying to reestablish whatever it is he thought we were to one another. I didn’t expect this.

  I stand up, sliding the tablet onto the control panel. And suddenly, I’m thirteen years old, and I’m on the Widow Douglas’ couch listening to her and her spinster sister lecture me about everything under the sun.

  “Sit up, dear. Slouchin’ isn’t proper.”

  Slouching was comfortable. Sitting up was a pain in the ass.

  “Did you make sure you washed behind your ears?”

  I scratched at the skin Miss Watson referenced; nope, I must’ve forgotten that one again. Bathing was a right pain. Swimming in the river could cure all this, couldn’t it?

  The widow asked, “I’m thinking about us having some pie made for after church on Sunday. You like pie, don’t you?”

  I did, actually. But any I’d ever eaten were stolen. Pies were luxuries far and few between.

  They went on and on with their instructions of societal proprieties. Each time either issued a new one, or, heck, said one they’d spouted off before, I itched to run right through the door. I’d had over a dozen years mostly on my own; I’d done just fine, hadn’t I?

  I was suffocating in here. They were suffocating me with all their good intentions.

  I didn’t fit into that world of theirs. I didn’t fit in anywhere.

  IN DIRECT CONTRAST WITH her frightful state, Rosemary’s sweet voice fills the medical wing with the same melody from before. And still, the glass windows around us vibrate in fear. Her loudly offered melody grudgingly reminds me of the songs Wonderlandian soldiers sing before they march into battle, though. Perhaps Rosemary, as insane as she might be, understands what is to happen between us today, and how it is, in fact, war between us. This is a battle of wills, and I fully intend on emerging the victor.

  The song ends as Mary wheels in a small metal cart filled with vials and syringes. But silence is not a gift given. The melody now morphs into the steady heartbeat of a clock.

  Tick-tock, tick-tock.

  Mary sticks a hypodermic needle into the top of the vial marked TRUTH SERUM. “How she manages to keep that up and still breathe is beyond me.”

  The chanting grows louder. More fervent. Come to think of it, it is rather surprising the woman is able to draw breath and keep up the steady pace of her nonsense.

  “I got word from Victor that he and Brom are en route back to the Institute,” Mary says amiably.

  The chanting stops; the silence draws both Mary’s and my attention.

  Ah. Interesting. It appears Rosemary did not know that Van Brunt survived Todd’s attack, and hearing he has is most distressing for her. Excellent. I want her off balance. “Are you ready to have that conversation now?”

  She screams a wide swath of obscenities toward our persons.

  “You know, one almost could get bored by how few adjectives this one has in her arsenal. Sluts? Whores? Bitches?” Mary tsks whilst affording Rosemary a false yet sympathetic glance. “The charitable thing to do would be to supply her with a thesaurus.”

  This earns my colleague an, “I’m going to enjoy killing you, you fucking bitch whores!”
r />   “See?” Mary flicks the hypodermic needle’s chamber, ensuring any linger bubbles disappear. “No variety. How can we truly respect somebody who doesn’t know what a synonym is?”

  The villainess’ body bucks wildly against the mattress, her wrist and ankle straps leaving her muscles straining and the springs below her squeaking in protest. “I’ll show you a synonym, you ugly bitch whore!”

  “Once more, my point is proven,” Mary tells me forlornly. “I fear you and I will be forever bitch whores. Ugly ones, to boot. My ego is too fragile for this.” She motions at our captive. “Shall we?”

  Yes, we shall.

  Without further notice, Mary jabs the needle straight into Rosemary’s arm. Our prey howls in indignant yet curiously fearless fury at such an attack, but soon enough, she sags against the bed. A thin sheen of sweat lines her forehead and the fever in her eyes dulls.

  There’s the broken woman I’ve been waiting for.

  Mary switches on a recorder as I take my place by the bed. “What is your full given name?”

  Her dark eyes swing my way, and I’m surprised to see the rage bubbling beneath the glazed surface. Does she know she’s unwillingly answering my questions? “Rosemary Nellie Lovett.”

  While quickly given, Mary and I share a meaningful yet equally troubled glance. Nellie Lovett was the infamous Sweeney Todd’s reputed paramour and accomplice who perished due to poison.

  “Where is Todd?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Mary simply shrugs when I lift a peeved brow. “I told you I’ve never used it before,” she mouths.

  More firmly, to Rosemary, “Where could he be?”

  Now there’s cruel pleasure reflecting out of her eyes. “The possibilities are endless.”

  I brush back my disappointment. There are still other pertinent questions to be answered, ones that could lead us forward. “What is Todd’s full given name?”

  Her rage and frustration is back, because she practically spits out, “Sweeney Patrick Todd.”

  S. Todd. Sweeney Todd. Rosemary Lovett. Mrs. Lovett. Logic is wrestled down and applied as I process this revelation. Words can be still be lies even if they are fervently and wholly believed. Names can be lies, too. Names are nothing but assignments. Names are nothing but costumes we wear.

  Even still, I can’t help but admit I’m disconcerted by her perceived truths. How can it be possible this woman is the Mrs. Lovett from the infamous penny dreadful A String of Pearls? The original Lovett died at the hands of Sweeney Todd himself in that storyline. Furthermore, the murderous barber expired when he was hanged for his crimes once the authorities captured him. The lives of Sweeney Todd and Mrs. Lovett of lore, the ones from 1846/47RYM/PEC-SP, have long been snuffed out. One of the concepts that has been hammered into me time and time again during my tenure at the Society is events which occur during the book associated with a Timeline are gospel. They cannot be changed.

  And yet, conversely, both Finn and the Librarian have told me the authors of these books leave things open to interpretation. So . . .

  I ask carefully, “Are you the Mrs. Lovett from A String of Pearls?”

  The emotions within her eyes shift to something I cannot easily identify. “I don’t know.”

  I don’t know is far more worrying than a simple no. “Is your associate Sweeney Patrick Todd the Sweeney Todd from A String of Pearls?”

  Once more, unidentifiable emotions consume her. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know what is meant by A String of Pearls?” Mary interjects.

  The villainess seethes as she spits out her confirmation.

  “Elaborate for us its significance then,” I instruct.

  Between clenched teeth, she snaps, “It’s the story associated with our original Timeline.”

  “Our?” I query. “You mean yours and Todd’s?”

  Another reluctant confirmation follows.

  I turn her answers over carefully. “What is your earliest memory?”

  Surprise now reflects up at me. “Staring out of a window at an asylum, wondering why the sun hated England so much.”

  Very curious. “How old were you in this memory?”

  Her jaw must be dreadfully sore from all her clenching. “Eight.”

  Curiouser and curiouser. “Was Sweeney Patrick Todd at the asylum alongside you?”

  She is displeasured to provide me confirmation.

  “Who are your parents?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I add, even though I sense I already know the answer, “Who are Sweeney Patrick Todd’s parents?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How do you know your names are your own, then?”

  I’ve surprised her yet again. “The asylum told us so.”

  “Why do you destroy catalysts?”

  She doesn’t even blink or hesitate. “Because we are told to.”

  “By F.K. Jenkins?” Mary interjects.

  Rosemary’s scorn is evident. “That fat sack of shit only thinks he’s in charge.”

  “You do not work for F.K. Jenkins?” I ask

  “Fuck, no.”

  “Do you work for or with Todd?”

  “With.”

  I plow forward, undeterred. “Whom do you work for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You never thought to ask who you were carrying orders out for?” I shake my head, disgusted. I ought to feel some sense of sympathy toward her, that she was foolish to go forth and carry out inexplicable deeds without reasoning and knowledge, but at the mild shrug against the mattress, all I can muster is repugnance.

  Further questioning moves us ahead mere inches. Rosemary and Todd have been romantically attached since they were children. They were recruited as teenagers, although it is Todd who serves as link between the two and whoever they work for. They were brought out of their Timeline and educated locally. Jobs were held on and off for years—during these spans, little to no orders came through. Once they did, though, everything else was put on hold. Rosemary delights in the destruction left within her wake. To her, none of the people over the years were real. They were book people, she maddeningly claims, and never thought to draw the same distinction to herself despite her beginnings. Details are not her strong suit. She blindly follows and worships Todd (who she refers to as her soul mate), finds F.K. Jenkins to be just as abhorrent as we do, and has never possessed the inclination to search for any answers of her own. She is content with having no understanding of her past. To her, retrieving catalysts is a game, and their destruction merely another move she must make in order to win. She isn’t a reader; she has never read from start to finish a single book associated with any of the Timelines she’d targeted. It is her assumption her paramour doesn’t indulge in literary pursuits, either. They’ve shared a singular pen to edit with, but she has no idea where it came from or if it resembles Society property. Between her and Todd, they’ve collected nearly a dozen catalysts and personally destroyed half of those. As for the rest, she has no idea where they went. Todd gave them to Jenkins; Jenkins passed them to someone else (although she has no idea how). Jenkins is a reader, though. Jenkins always read the books before they went onto assignments, she tells us with disdain.

  She and Todd, in her mind, are gods.

  Eventually, Mary’s truth serum runs its course and answers dry up. Screaming returns alongside threats. She will make us pay for what we’ve done. She will personally cut out our tongues and add them to her collection in her box.

  I make a mental note to ask if a box filled with vile trophies has been located during any of the Society’s many searches of the Ex Libris bookstore’s attic.

  Mary’s phone beeps, reminding us we have a meeting to attend within the hour. As my colleague tidies up the needles and vials, I once more take hold of Rosemary’s chin to steady her face and control her gnashing. I lean down, close enough that my words are for her ears and hers alone. I tell her, “You’ve been a very naughty girl, Rosemar
y Nellie Lovett. Please be assured that you will never walk out of this Institute alive.”

  She shows her hand by shrieking, “He’ll come for me! He’ll carve you up and I’ll bake you into pies!”

  I certainly hope he’ll try. I am banking on it, actually.

  “I PRAY YOU BE sympathetic to our concerns, sir,” Emma Knightley is saying.

  Is it petty that I want to shove my father’s perfectly sharpened pencils into my eyeballs and eardrums simply to drown out her unfailingly polite voice? Worse yet, sitting across the room, out of view of the monitor and thereby outside of Emma’s range, my father offers me a smug smile as if to say, “See what I have to put up with on a daily basis?”

  I resist the urge to flip him off.

  “Of course I am,” I lie to Emma, “but I hope that you can understand where we’re coming from, too.”

  It’s the same conversation she and I have been running through over the last three communiqués. Some asshole at the Society let slip to the Janeites shortly after Brom’s attack that we have two suspects in custody, and for some ungodly reason, they feel as if they are entitled to whatever information I get before anyone else.

  True to form, Emma glosses right over what I’ve just said and continues to push the Janeites’ agenda. “We would be most amenable to sending someone to assist with questioning.”

  Imagining a Janeite interrogation leaves me fighting to hide my smile. “I appreciate that, but it’s not necessary. As soon as we have anything, I promise we will share. But until—”

  “Mr. Van Brunt, there is much . . . concern over whether or not the items collected are indeed the catalysts for our Timelines.”

  Even my father rolls his eyes at that one.

  “Please be assured that all of the catalysts in the Museum are, in fact, genuine and have been verified by the Librarian. You have no reason to believe otherwise.”

  “There is still a villain afoot,” she blurts out, gravely and yet timidly all at once, “and, as you know, the Janeite League Timelines are quite beloved.”

  She’s fucking with us, right? Because it’s not like any of the rest of the Society’s members’ books have never sold a copy before, right? Or be made into movies or TV shows? I fight back the urge to set her straight and say, instead, “Since the acquisition of 1814AUS-MP, all of the major Janeite Timeline catalysts have been acquired. Outside of breaking into the Institute and then the museum, there is no possible way the suspect can do any damage to your Timelines.”