The Hidden Library Read online

  Whispering occurs off-screen. Emma keeps her eyes on me, though, a serene smile on her face. I’ll give it to these Georgian ladies—their manners are impeccable, even when they’re insulting the shit out of you. “We would be most grateful, Mr. Van Brunt, to be appraised of the security measures being taken to assure such protection.”

  “I hope you can understand I am not at liberty to fully describe our security systems to you as that would defeat the purposes of such things.”

  More whispering, sounding a lot like the buzzing of angry bees. Emma’s face pales at the same time her cheeks splotch bright red with outrage. “Surely you are not accusing the League of . . . of . . . impropriety!”

  “Of course not,” I quickly assure her. Across the room, my father sighs in frustration for the both of us. “I’m just stating that Society policy states that only active field agents at the Institute are cleared for access to the Museum.”

  Again with the whispering off-camera. I try not to groan as I imagine which Janeite or Janeites are sitting just off-screen. Let’s see . . . Elizabeth Bennett Darcy, most likely. She’s clever and got a good head on her shoulders, but is stubborn as all hell. She’s the real brain behind the Janeites. Anne Eliot Wentworth . . . No. Well, maybe. She’s super soft spoken and doesn’t tend to deal with Society matters much, but all her years with her husband have left her with a good understanding of military matters, too. There’s a possibility she could have been called in. Marianne Dashwood Brandon . . . Very likely. Marianne is always one for proper outrage and action, and also had married a military man. Her sister Elinor? Probably not. Elinor is much, much more reserved than Marianne. Catherine Morland Tilney? Hmm . . . she’s probably around, too, and the main instigator of this whole mess. She’s got a wild imagination, and likely laid out her assumptions and fears to the others in vivid detail.

  “Perhaps,” Emma carefully murmurs, “we could designate a representative as an active field agent.”

  It isn’t like Brom hasn’t offered this option to them before when we had openings. The Janeites always rebuffed him, insisting nobody was willing to separate themselves from their Timeline long enough to work full time for the Society. So, I can’t help but call their bluff. Chances are, they say this now but their tunes will change shortly. “You are more than welcome to submit an application for employment.”

  A gentle knock on the door sounds before cracking open. It’s Alice, and she looks troubled. Just what did Rosemary tell her?

  My father taps on his wrist. Shit—that’s right. We’ve got a meeting to go to.

  “We hear that an agent was recently conscripted without application,” Emma is saying.

  We hear. We think. We worry. I’m ready to kick the ass of the person giving the League this information. “Emma, I hate to cut this short, but I really need to take care of some important matters here.”

  The whispering off-screen is frenzied. “I am most keenly aware of your obligations, Mr. Van Brunt, but I pray you indulge us for just—”

  I tried. I swear to all that’s holy, I really did. It’s time for firmness. “I’m sorry, but I refuse to discuss our hiring or recruiting situations for our current employees. Even here at the Society, we have rules about confidentiality. If the Janeite League wishes to have an active field agent on the team, they are more than welcome to submit an application, just like anyone else from any other Timeline would. Until then, I really need to go so I can ensure we track down the remaining suspect.”

  She blanches. The whispers turn to outrage. And I, no doubt being the dick Emma and the rest of the Janeites are pegging me for, end the transmission without further warning.

  Alice slips inside the room, shutting the door behind her. “I apologize for interrupting your call.” And then, to my father, “It is good to see you, Van Brunt.”

  He mock salutes her.

  I lean back in my father’s chair. “Actually, I’m glad you did. No doubt Emma Knightley could have gone on for another hour if given the chance.”

  Brom’s look is disapproving. I point at him, saying, “You know she would.”

  Aha. He cracks a smile, because he knows I’m right.

  Alice stares at me for a long moment in that calculating way of hers. It took me awhile to get used to it. She isn’t one to blurt out her thoughts like so many of the people I know, but instead carefully chooses exactly what she says even if she’s razzing you. She clutches her cards against her chest; she carries her past with her like a tattoo no laser surgery can erase.

  She is a hedge maze I’m afraid I’ve lost myself within.

  “Mary and I were successful in our usage of the truth serum, only . . .” A frustrated sigh is blown out as she holds a small recorder aloft. “I fear I’ve basically cut the head off of a Hydra.”

  I wrack my brain, trying to place the familiar-sounding name. What the hell is a hydra? It sounds like something from mythology, or possibly a fantasy or sci-fi based Timeline. Dammit, I hate feeling like an idiot. Familiar yet loathed insecurities resurface, and I force myself to remember I am not that kid anymore. I’ve got a lit degree from NYU, for crissakes. Magna cum laude, to boot.

  Brom taps on his wrist again. As there’s no time to listen to the recording in full, I ask her to give us the highlights.

  By the end of Alice’s recounting, I’ve finally remembered what a hydra is—some kind of monster that, when one head is cut off, many take its place. She’s right to use that analogy, though, because these answers of Rosemary’s leave us with more questions than ever before.

  In related news, I’m left with a monstrous headache.

  “How many catalysts does the museum have?”

  “I don’t know the exact number,” I tell her. “But it’s a lot. That said, there are millions of books, so it’s also not enough.”

  “We need to question Jenkins next, and do it soon.”

  “Flemming will have to take over for you, as we’re off on an assignment tomorrow, remember? Besides, he’s already getting to know the proprietor of the Ex Libris bookstore pretty well these last few days.”

  She glances down at my father. His smile is rueful but in perfect agreement with what I’ve said.

  A huff of air scatters stray hairs around her face. “Fine.” And then, hesitantly, “It’s hard sometimes to stand back and let others take charge. You would think I’d be resigned to that, what with the prophecies and all, but . . .” Bitterness reflects in her eyes.

  “Old habits die hard,” I fill in for her when she doesn’t finish.

  “They do indeed.”

  As I wheel my father out of his office and down the hall, I look at this woman, this beautiful, maddeningly secretive queen without a country, and all I can selfishly think is how damn glad I am for Wonderlandian prophecies.

  Close to two-dozen people crowd around the wooden table spanning the length of the room by time we arrive in the conference room. Wendy already has a computer hooked up to project plenty of visuals of items found on the Ex Libris bookstore’s attic walls. A standing ovation erupts the moment everyone sees Brom, and it leaves him more than a bit embarrassed. My father holds up his hand and then makes a slashing motion in front of his neck. Everyone in the room goes awkwardly still, their eyes wide.

  Victor and I find Brom’s sly way of poking fun at himself pretty damn funny, though. Our poor dad is beside himself, knowing that asshole Todd got the drop on him. I guarantee it’ll be the last time, though. His ego won’t ever allow it to happen again.

  “Relax,” my brother says as he lowers his lanky frame into a chair near the front. “He’s just telling you blokes to shut up.”

  That’s Victor for you.

  Mary comes to sit next to him, pressing a quick kiss against his cheek. “Tact, my love. Remember? You’re working on utilizing it.”

  The Librarian makes her way over to Brom, and if I’m not mistaken, there are tears in her eyes. “It is so good to see you back where you belong, old friend.” And then, more
formally to the crowd, “Thank you all for coming. While I wish I had the full extent of answers to give, tonight’s meeting will be brief. Specialists are still working on decoding the riddles found upon the walls of the Ex Libris bookshop, but there are a few bits of information I would like to share.” She extracts a small laser pointer and angles the red dot at the pictures on the screen hanging over the head of the table. “While dismantling the items to bring back to the Institute for study, Jack Dawkins discovered something we had missed before. Behind every sheet of paper, there is a carved set of numbers and letters.”

  This I already knew, having been briefed on it the morning after I returned from Wonderland. And carved is a generous term—most of the numbers and letters were barely scratches that cut into the wood’s meat. Some are nearly impossible to read.

  “At first, it appears as if the numbers and letters are random. None match Timeline designations, years of publication, titles, or authors. For example, found beneath a torn page from Anna Karenina, a Timeline verified to have been deleted, was the following code: x7SpRn.” A red dot hovers over a zoomed-in shot of the scene. “1877TOL-AK is affiliated with Leo Tolstoy. There are no As, Ks, Ls, or Ts within the coding. 7 might have matched 1877, but it was unlikely when considering other parameters. That said, the more we looked, the more we saw some slight commonalities. Most Timelines that have been deleted have Xs at the beginning. Their numbering makes no sense, though—none fall within order of deletions or go higher than ten. As for the letters—”

  “They’re initials,” Alice interjects firmly. “At least, the ones to the right are.”

  All eyes turn toward her.

  “Sp indicates Sweeney Patrick. Rn is Rosemary Nellie. If I had to guess, the letters are representative of who possibly found or destroyed particular catalysts associated with Timelines.”

  The Librarian says nothing, but I’ve known her long enough to see she’s impressed by Alice’s quick summation.

  I am, too. Damn, Alice is hot when she gets all know-it-all.

  “Did the suspects finally talk?” Professor Otto Lidenbrock asks from his place down the table. Lindenbrock is one of our best agents in the field despite his age, but he gets off on more adventures than paperwork.

  Alice smiles coolly. “Rosemary did.”

  Surprised, pleased murmuring fills the room.

  Victor asks, “Do all the codings have letters like these to the right?”

  “No.” The Librarian turns back toward the screen. “And many have various other letters assigned to the front. Of the twenty-six letters in the English alphabet, less than half are represented in some form or another.” One of the pictures zooms in when she points to it. “Note how some are capitalized, and others are lower case. Some are upside down. There is no clear consistency. That said, our researchers have been focusing on the order of the most recent deletions, beginning with that of 1889TWA-CY.” The pictures on the screen shift, dissolve, and reform to showcase a torn page illustrating a knight astride a winged alligator (although I suspect it might meant to have been a dragon), waving a banner that reads, “This horrible sky-towering monster.”

  It’s A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court by Mark Twain.

  The night we found out about the tragedy, Victor railed at me about the significance of Todd destroying 1889TWA-CY’s catalyst. It was a message, he insisted. A clear memo Todd was sending to both me and the Society. He knows who we are, he knows who the authors associated with our Timelines are, and he has no qualms about taking us out, one by one.

  My brother had a point. The only comfort is that most Society agents’ Timelines are protected. Our catalysts all reside within the Museum below the Institute. And that’s a shitty comfort to hold on to, when countless lives were destroyed all in the name of making a point.

  “Beneath this page was the following inscription: /10SpRn. There was no letter at the beginning, just a slash.” She flicks the red dot so it draws a quick line, finishing the X we all began in our minds. “There were two other Timelines which had slashes at the beginning of their designations.” The pictures shift again, bringing into focus a mangled DVD cover insert and a dust jacket ripped in half. “Both have identical codings: /8SpP.”

  Wuthering Heights and The Jungle Book.

  “If Sp indicates Todd, who is P?” one of our agents, named Mr. Holgrave, says.

  The Librarian meaningfully looks to Alice, a hint of a smile touching her lips. When my partner says nothing, the Librarian adds, “Who, indeed?”

  A distinct yet discreet grunt of exasperation escapes Alice’s lips.

  “Interestingly enough, neither of these Timelines’ catalysts have been collected yet by the Society,” the Librarian continues. “Furthermore, it has been strongly suggested to us by those researching these riddles that both 1847BRO-WH and 1894/95KP-JB are at immediate risk. Therefore, Brom and I have discussed the matter thoroughly and have decided that, despite the current quest to locate Todd, we must quickly send agents into both Timelines to collect these catalysts. While we already have several teams in the field on previously scheduled assignments, we cannot wait until they come back.”

  Translation: Alice and I, as well as Victor and Mary, are the lucky ones.

  “Please be Wuthering Heights, please be Wuthering Heights,” my brother mutters under his breath.

  “Victor and I will take 1894/95KP-JB,” Mary says brightly. “I haven’t been to India in ages.”

  Victor sighs heavily as he slumps down in his chair.

  “To be fair,” I point out, “you could just as easily end up in the Artic. Some of the stories take place there.”

  He proves his maturity by flipping me off in front of everyone. Mary indulgently pats his cheek.

  The Librarian pays us no mind. “We cannot know for sure that Todd has yet to acquire these catalysts, but it is believed he has not.”

  As always, the question, “Believed by who?” rests on the tip of my tongue. But I learned long ago that asking the mercurial woman any such questions is pointless. She’ll only tell you what she wants you to know exactly when she wants you to know it, and not a moment sooner.

  Dossiers and copies of the books are passed out to the four of us. For the rest of the table, new files detailing the crazy coding unearthed beneath the items found in Todd’s attic are sent to their work tablets. Within minutes, the only people left in the room are those of us who are scheduled to leave at the crack of dawn.

  Victor’s lips twist into a sour grimace as he stares down at the file he’s been given. “You would think by now the infamous Sherlock Holmes would have cracked this case. He’s had nearly two weeks with all the information. Some kind of bloody legend he is.”

  Brom had been the one to select whom to send photographs of everything found on the attic wall. Our father and Holmes may be on good terms (well, as good as one can be with an narcissistic egomaniac like the famed detective), but Victor is right. The best we’ve gotten from Holmes is that a slash might indicate a possible deletion? Hell, it took Alice all of ten seconds to figure out what the letters meant. Clearly Brom and the Librarian are relying more on celebrity than present effectiveness.

  “Get up, lazybones.” Mary drapes herself across my brother’s shoulders. “We’ve got studying to do.”

  He twists his face away from her attempts to pinch his cheek. “You had to go and pick bloody India, didn’t you?”

  “India’s good for the soul.” She tugs him out of the chair. “See you two when you get back.”

  I have a feeling those two are going to do little studying tonight.

  HOURS LATER, AFTER SKIMMING the texts associated with 1847BRO-WH and overseeing the details with the catalyst location, Alice and I are on our way up to our apartments. Except, the moment the elevator doors slide shut, I have a change of heart about our destination. The last few days—hell, weeks—have been so intense and crazy that I’m selfish enough to want to spend some time with just her. No catalysts, no interro
gations, no meetings, no battles, no anything but her and me.

  I press the button for the top floor of the Institute and then tug her toward me. My hand cups the back of her head, my mouth meets hers. Her arms fold me close, and I’m no longer thinking about the Janeites or Todd or mysterious codes and bosses, because when Alice Liddell Reeve puts her mind to it, she can make you think of nothing at all and live, instead, in mere sensations. I’m kissing her, she’s kissing me, and everything in me turns hot and fills with aching need.

  Our ascent thankfully has no stops or interlopers. I’m still kissing her when the doors slide open, still kissing as I lead her out into the wide, open space. The top of the Institute is a ballroom: a gorgeous, oft-ignored area that has gleaming parquet floors, elaborate antique chandeliers, a painted ceiling, and gilded crown molding. The last party held in here, one celebrating my parents’ anniversary just months before my mother’s death, was magical. The NYC skyline glittered beyond the massive stained-glass-topped windows lining the room on all sides, and when the champagne flowed, it felt like you were floating above the city. There was so much love in this room that night. So much happiness. I remember standing there, my glass raised like everyone else’s as we toasted Brom and Katrina, thinking: There’s no way that kind of love is real. It was like something out of a damn book, which was saying something, considering.

  Now, the furniture within the ballroom is pressed up against the walls, covered with white sheets. There’s a morose kind of quiet within this space, like it’s desperate for happiness to return. There have been no more parties—not because they’ve been banned or anything, but because life just kept moving on.

  This room, once upon a time, was all about love. It needs to be again.