The Hidden Library (28 page)

The Cat bounds off the chair and comes closer. “Extraterrestrial?”

“Alien,” I correct, but he asks for clarification on that one, too.

“From space.” I point upward. “People who live in space are extraterrestrials.”

Everyone in the tent actually seems confused and potentially terrified of this possibility. Of all the crazy things in Wonderland,
this
is what freaks them out? Aliens?

I’m tired. I’m stressed. I’m going fucking crazy, because I lose it again. “Can we all just
focus?
What the hell is this beastie that our doctor thinks is a parasite? Todd admits to cutting open her lower back and sticking something in. Claimed it was pretty. Whatever it is, it’s making it impossible for Alice to move and
I want to know what the fuck it is so I can get it out of her!”

The Cat looks up at the White King, dawning filling its bright eyes. “If she is . . .” Its growl fills the tent. “Does she dare?”

The King runs his hands through his hair. He’s pacing, muttering things I can’t understand. Finally, “It has not been done for ages. The accords forbid it.” And then, “If it is so—”

“We have not much time.” Although the Cat stretches, it is clearly on edge. “Sir Finn, when did you say the Queen was attacked?”

“I don’t know the exact time, but I’m going to say close to forty-eight hours now.”

The King pushes his way out of the flaps, bellowing for the camp physicians. The look on his face scares the shit out of me, because he looks like it’s been scared straight out of him.

He knows something I don’t.

“What’s in Alice?”

The Cat tilts its head. “A boojum.”

All of the soldiers and advisors in the tent shudder and kiss their fingers.

“What is a boojum?”

“It is a type of snark. The nastiest.”

My fists ball up. “What is a snark?”

“A beastie, of course.”

I just cannot anymore. I’m close to violence. “Look! Do any of you know how to fix this? Because I’m wondering if this was a colossal waste of time!”

The Cat shakes itself until its hair puffs around it. “The Queen of Diamonds does not have much time. If we do not remove the boojum before it molts, she will surely die. Come, lad. Let us find the King. He is collecting what we require to purge the beastie from Her Majesty’s body. It appears we will be visiting your New York City after all. What a turn of events this is.” He faces the rest of the advisors. “You will hold our lines and our positions until His Majesty returns. Speak not a word of this to anyone.”

They all bow to the Cat. As for me, I’m not sure I even have legs anymore. All I can think is that I have to get back to Alice and get that—that—whatever the hell it is out of her body before it’s too late. “You can do it, though? Get this boojam—”

“Boojum,” the Cat corrects.

“Fine.
Boojum.
But can you get it out?”

“I cannot,” it says. “But you and His Majesty might be able to, Sir Finn.”

“Everyone keeps calling me that. You know I’m not a knight, right?”

The oversized Cat leaps up into my arms. And then, amazingly, it shrinks down into a normal-sized cat. “You are the Queen’s chosen consort. There has been some discussion about this, as it is an unprecedented occurrence. The general consensus holds your title to be Prince Finn, but . . .” It yawns a fishy-smelling yawn. “There wasn’t time to have the heralds announce. You will have to suffer with Sir until then.”

I don’t even know what to say, let alone think of that.

The Cat grooms itself as I make our way through the camp. Grymsdyke crawls out of my coat and assumes his perch on my shoulder. Forget Wonderland. I’ve obviously edited into
The Story of Dr. Doolittle.

V
ICTOR RESUMES GRILLING TODD as soon as his brother departs, tweaking his questions for specific answers. Three doses of truth serum are administered, and by the start of the third, Todd is effectively drugged to the point he isn’t able to evade concise answers as his comrades had. Victor, on the other hand, appears as if he can go for hours and hours. His eyes shine with a light I know all too well. A mad one that leaves me concerned.

“Whom do you work for?”

“Now,” Todd slurs, “tha’ll depen’ on how you look at it. I work for who I am tol’ to work for. For example, I worked for tha’ angry lady who din’t feel too kind t’ward li’l Miss Wonderland.”

Victor knocks a rough hand against Todd’s face, rousing his eyes open. “Rosemary and Jenkins claim they have never spoken to anyone else. Rosemary got her orders from you; Jenkins got his from email and courier. How did you get your orders?”

Todd’s nose bunches up, as if he, even as drugged upon truth serum as he is, cannot quite remember. “I jus’ knew sometimes. Woke up knowin’ about where to go an’ what to get. Sometimes I got meself a nice book or a piece o’ newsprint, o’ a pretty package . . . But there was the calls.” His eyes, glazed now to the point his pupils were wide and eclipsed the irises, shine.

Upon his capture, Todd had no phone on him. No search of Ex Libris recovered one, either.

“Who called you? Did you know a name?”

“Name?” Todd’s confusion grows. “Wha’ is a name? There was names. Plenty o’ ’em. Kop—Koppen—Koppenberg? Koppelberg? Somethin’ like that. It changed, see. And ‘e liked Buntin,’ although I only ‘eard tha’ once o’ twice. Got right mad at me for rememmering.” The fiend lazily taps his forehead, but mistakingly pokes himself in the eye. Ha! “I remmemmer, though. I remmemmer ‘is voice. Sweet as an angel’s, it ’twas, and sometimes a devil, too.”

“Did you meet this Koppenberg? Koppelberg? Bunting? In person, I mean?”

I think if he had the strength of mind to do so, Todd might very well roll his eyes. “You don’ meet your maker, do ya? ‘E speaks to you with signs and messages.”

Victor grills him on Rosemary. On Jenkins. On all their relationships. On my attack again, and who ordered it. On why his accent changes (to which I am grateful, considering I wondered myself)—he is, according to Todd, a “man of many tongues and worlds.” Victor queries how Todd knew Finn and I were in 1876/96TWA-TS, or even 1814AUS-MP earlier in the year.

A flying man bearing secrets told him, the pseudo-barber claims.

“Who is the flying man? What’s his name?”

“‘E don’ see fit to tell me that. ‘E’s a creepy thing, though. I cut him once, to see if ‘e bleeds red. We ‘ave an understandin’ between us, though.”

Victor keeps at it for hours. Some questions are asked repeatedly, reworded each time to attempt a different, more concise response. And yet, the more serum Todd has, and despite the better his answers, he’s now slurring his words together so strongly it has become difficult to discern proper meanings.

Just when my own eyelids are drooping, and I’ve begun fantasizing about all the ways I will may Todd pay for what he’s done to me, Van Brunt pulls his son aside. Calls Mary over, asking her to go prepare something. Victor argues, eventually turning belligerent, but in the end, he departs with Mary. In his place, the father sits on a stool by the barber’s bed. He holds out a photograph for Todd to view. “Do you know where Finn found this?”

It takes a good twenty-seconds of squinting before Todd’s eyes light up. “Rose, they ‘ave one o’ your pretty photographs.”

Rose does not answer him, having been sedated several times herself in the last several hours. Victor had no mercy for her, and it’s questionable as to whether or not she’s actually still breathing. As for me, I cannot obtain a decent look at the photograph. Van Brunt has it angled just right so that all I get is a glare of gloss.

Eventually, the Society’s leader tucks it back into his pocket. “Do you know anything about Bücherei?”

Wait—Bücherei? Is he talking about Gabriel Lygari’s home Finn and I went to awhile back?

Todd’s head lolls back and forth. “What’s Boosh—Boosher . . .” He snorts. “I don’ know any Boosh.”

“Do you know why the library was hidden from my team?”

Todd’s giggles are closer to gurgles, but he has nothing to share concerning any hidden libraries. What does Van Brunt mean, the library was hidden? The one at Bücherei? How does a library
hide?

The next few minutes are spent on the flying man and whether his name was perhaps Peter Pan. And if so, did he, Todd, ever work with Wendy?

This only leads to more giggles but no concrete confirmations.

Pan . . . That is the name of the boy who kidnaps members of Wendy’s family, is it not? And—what does Van Brunt mean, did Todd conspire with Wendy?

Argh. Son of a jabberwocky, it is highly inconvenient not being able to speak.

Now awake, the green-haired beauty in question has laid strapped to her bed, quiet for hours. She has not argued, she has not questioned as to why she’s restrained. She has simply lain there, listening like the rest of us. I do not like the way her eyes look, though. They’re dull, almost as if a spark has been extinguished within her.

Eventually, the villain ceases responding. His eyes remain propped half open, as does his mouth. Drool spills out, and it’s an unpleasant sight if there ever was one.

“Show’s over,” Mary says. She’s returned, Victorless. “Alice is nearly asleep here.”

While it’s the truth, I also am desperate for answers that Todd cannot give us. For example, Finn has been gone for what I believe is over a full day. Nobody has bothered to inform me of his whereabouts, and as I am unable to ask myself, I am left moodily stewing in resentment and curiosity as Mary pushes me out of the main room and back into my smaller one. One would think they would offer me such information, yet none apparently think I have a right to know.

He said he was going to fix this. And then he left to destinations unknown.

The thought of him going up against the Queen of Hearts is terrifying. It’s not that I don’t believe in his talent with weaponry or his ability in a fight, it’s just . . . If Hearts was to know what he means to me, she would do everything in her power to tear him apart in the most vicious of ways in her quest to send me a message.

Of course, she already has sent me several, hasn’t she? The Caterpillar, the drugs . . . Still. The image of Hearts with her giant battle-axe, hacking away at Finn, is more than I can bear.

Marianne slips into the room, ensuring the door is closed firmly behind her.

“Want to share why Finn and Victor were furious with you?”

For the love of God, please do not let these two ladies go at it again. They’ve been politely yet insidiously snipping at one another for weeks now.

The woman who has played nursemaid to me comes over and helps Mary get me into the bed. “I am assuming they have been informed of the full extent of my role here at the Institute.”

Mary pulls up the blankets and tucks them around me. A nearby cup filled with vile, thick, so-called nutritious liquid is readied for me to sip via a straw. I may not be able to move much, but at least I can swallow. She asks Marianne, “Which is?”

“I was contracted to come in and search all of the Society’s security systems, databases, and record logs for discrepancies.”

This surprises both Mary and me. Mary asks, her voice decidedly less hostile than of late, “Isn’t that kind of technology beyond a woman from a Janeite Timeline?”

I turn my head away from the cup and straw. I have no appetite of late.

Marianne sighs quietly. “When my husband, the Colonel, was still alive, we discussed our desire to participate more in the Society. He, being of military background, found a sense of genteel duty in it. I found it an exciting prospect, as it would give me purpose. I was a bit lost then. Our second baby had died, and I feared I would never hold one in my arms that could breathe. Brandon contacted Brom, and we discussed several roles I might find fulfilling here at the Institute.” Her smile is bittersweet. “During a visit, I became enamored with the technology associated with the Twenty-First Century. It felt . . . magical, in a way. I saw it as one might see music—there were patterns and rhythms to be decoded, and lines to be played. And then, when Brandon died . . .” She reaches down and tucks the blankets around my legs. “I could not stand to be at home any longer, rattling alone in that great big house all by myself. My sister and her family were nearby, as was my mother and younger sister, but I needed something of my own. I dug out Brandon’s equipment he used to communicate with the Society and contacted Brom. I spoke of my wishes, and he was pleasant enough to accommodate me. I was sent to several various Timelines to hone my skills, and have spent the better part of three years now living anywhere that is not home.”

For a moment, nothing is said. Mary simply stares at Marianne. And then, miraculously, she reaches across my bed and lays a hand on Marianne’s arm. “You go, girl.”

Marianne’s relief is noticeable. “Several weeks ago, the Librarian contacted me and inquired if I could come in and surreptitiously have a look around to determine if anything was amiss. She revealed nothing other than the Society was having difficulties finding the culprit or culprits behind the Timeline deletions. Conveniently, at the same time, the Janeites were in a state over not standing on the sidelines with Society matters. I volunteered to come and do both. Only, the Librarian urged me to remain quiet about my secondary mission, even from Finn. I loathed keeping him in the dark, but I did as asked. Victor was equally unaware.”