The Collectors' Society 01 (12 page)

Amongst others.

“The Collectors’ Society is somewhat like a living organism. Its members act as functioning body parts. If we were to argue that Brom is the brain, I would then follow as the heart.”

My interactions with hearts have not always been favorable in the past. “What would I be?”

Her smile would do the Cheshire-Cat proud. “That is a most excellent question.”

I must lose my mind, because I continue on when I ought not to care one iota which ridiculous body part I’d be in this bizarre analogy. “I am told I am Huckleberry Finn’s partner. If we continue with this analogy, what would he be?”

A strawberry is dipped into clotted cream. “You’re
told?”

My frustration rises, but I do not give into temptation to let her know I’ve had enough word games for an entire lifetime.

“It was my impression you already stepped willingly into that role.”

I nearly burn my tongue, the tea she’s poured me is still so hot. “The question stands.”

“One might argue that Finn is the right-handed fist.” She’s completely serious as she tells me this, no lingering hints of amusement present to suggest a game.

Interesting.

“Each member of the Society plays an important function,” she says after savoring the sweetened strawberry. “Even when there are times when one might feel as if they are a missing limb.”

The back of my hand covers a carefully constructed yawn, although images of people already met fly through my mind. Is she trying to tell me something? Or, is she trying to warn me?

“Joining the Society,” she continues, “is not something to be taken lightly.”

I allow a bite of toast before answering. “I do not believe I’ve officially joined your little club. I’m here for a singular goal, am I not?”

Her laughter is soft yet darkly charming. “Then why is it, just hours ago when you could have been sleeping or plotting your way back to the asylum we found you within, you insisted on throwing yourself immediately into Society matters?” Her head tilts to the side. “Come now. You know as well as I, had you truly wished to stay in your England and live the boring, reclusive life you feared you’d been resigned to, you would not have followed Brom through his door. To stay in your Timeline, on the path you were . . . it never would have lasted. Sooner or later, you would have chased yet another adventure.”

In my lap, my fingers curl inward until nails bite skin.

“You sought excitement as a child multiple times. And then, when you were grown, when you should have been out in polite society, you chose to go back to Wonderland.” She gently shakes her head. “No, Alice. It has always been your intent to be
more than
. That is why you are here, with fellow members and their intentions, and it is those which bind us together.”

“What is your intent?”

My question pleases her. “The one that concerns you best is my efforts to ensure the safety of Timelines.”

So. She’s going to play her cards close to the vest, too. “And yet, you are a librarian. Or rather,
the
Librarian.”

She reaches over to her nearby desk and picks up a pair of worn, red books with gold trim. One is held aloft for me to see—in the middle of the cover is a golden illustration of a girl clutching a pig. A quick twist of the book shows me the spine; words in matching gold read: ALICE’S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND.

I forget how to breathe. My body forgets how to pump blood through my veins.

The second book is help up for my inspection. Another golden picture is on the cover, one of a stern queen. The spine reads: THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS.

Curling my fingers into fists barely keeps me from snatching them out of her hands.

The Librarian sets the second book down in her lap so she can reclaim the first. The cover is opened, a few pages are sifted through. “The girl in these pages liked to ask questions. She was constantly trying to figure out how the world she was in worked.”

Although I’m positive my face is drained of all color, there is no doubt my cheeks match the red of those books.

“Some members, upon learning the Society’s secrets, become fixated on the pages that chronicle bits of their lives. Some even become obsessed.” She flips the book to show me an illustration of a girl looking up at a cat in a tree. “Obsession is rarely a good thing. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Goose pimples break out along my arms. There’s a smile on the cat, one that isn’t entirely docile in nature.

“I’d like to think that, being familiar with the repercussions of obsessions, you would want to shy away from such things. Let’s just say that some books are best left upon shelves, with pages filled with mysteries rather than the known.”

“And yet,” I say, voice embarrassingly hoarse, “I do know what those pages contain, don’t I? So they can’t be too much of a mystery.”

She closes the book and sets it on the table next to her mug. “Living through something and reading another person’s opinions and views of your choices and existence are two very different things. There are lenses looked through, colored perceptions taken into account. Very little good has ever come of any member of the Society reading such things.”

“But they do read each other’s.”

A dainty shrug displaces a chunk of her lustrous hair. “When necessary.”

“Have you read your stories?”

She folds her napkin and sets it on the table. “Who says I’m from a story?”

When I don’t answer, the Librarian stands up. She’s so tiny that I wonder if the top of her head would come to my chin. “I’m off to go get a case ready for the catalyst you and Finn retrieve. I will see you two when you come back.”

I’m on my feet as well. Sure enough, I tower over her. “The one from Wonderland?”

“Goodness, no.” One of her hands briefly curls around my shoulder. “You’re not ready for that one yet. Oh, and Alice? A word of advice.”

“Yes?”

“You’re going to have to decide whether or not he’s worth your trust. That decision is going to have far-reaching consequences.”

My eyes narrow. “Trust who? Van Brunt?”

But she exits the room, leaving me with far more questions now than I arrived with, and still far fewer answers than I’m comfortable with.

“ARE YOU NERVOUS AROUND
weapons?”

I conceal the unwanted smile forming by purposely turning away so I may examine more closely one of the large paintings hanging in the hallway leading to Van Brunt’s office. “Are you asking if I occasionally find myself besieged by the vapors when I’m in the presence of strong men wielding weapons only masculine hands might possess?”

That charming blush I first saw in the early hours of this morning steals across Finn’s cheeks once more. He rubs at his hair, his head ducking as he chuckles ruefully. “Vapors . . . As in fainting? Shit, put it that way and my question sounds sexist, doesn’t it? I haven’t heard that word in forever.”

“Sexist?”

“Gender discrimination.”

Hmm. “Are modern-day ladies much prone to vapors?”

“None that I know.”

“And from your story—or rather, your Timeline?”

“Maybe,” he admits, and there’s a cautiousness to him I haven’t seen before. “But I think a lot of so-called fainting spells were really just excellent examples of acting.”

“Then yes,” I tell him coolly, although I am secretly amused. “That does sound rather sexist.”

He starts. “I didn’t mean—”

“I’ve never fainted before. Have you? Perhaps men in this modern day and age are now the vapor-prone.”

“I faint all the time.”

It’s my turn to start. His face is serious, his eyes earnest as he says this to me. A quick glance of his body, from the thick boots on his feet to the plaid shirt with sleeves rolled up over strong arms, leaves me doubtful, though. “Truly?”

“Sorry, no.” An impish smile curves his mouth, one that has me inappropriately itching to touch my fingers to his lips. “I can’t think of a time I’ve ever fainted.”

Van Brunt has summoned Finn to his office to discuss matters, whatever they may be. Luckily, once I left the library, I intercepted my new partner on the way to do so, only to nearly tear my hair out when he suggested, when questioned as to why I wasn’t also informed about the meeting, that I ought to take at least a few days to acclimate to my new surroundings.

“I don’t need a few days,” I told him.

He was not dissuaded. “Most people tend to—”

“I am not most people.”

We had a stand-off, and it was then it became somewhat obvious this man before me was used to getting his way.

I told him, “Don’t treat me gently, Finn. My looks are deceiving. I will not break, no matter how many times I am thrown to the ground.”

And then he said, slowly, carefully, “You were found in an asylum for the insane.”

I’d rather wanted to punch him right then, beautiful face and all.

He backpedaled, his apology sincere as he attempted to explain he meant it’d been obvious I was at the Pleasance for a reason, a healing reason, and that it was certainly understandable if I wanted to take my time with everything that’s been thrown at me. While his flustered, flurry of words grudgingly charmed me, they also made me want to prove him wrong. Because, I am quite used to getting my way, too.

So now we are wandering down a long corridor toward Van Brunt’s office, and it’s obvious Finn’s doing his best to try to engage me when I can tell he’d rather me go back upstairs, or at least go find Mary and do something patently idiotic and wasteful of my time, like redecorate his former partner’s flat.

Sexist, indeed.

“How convenient,” I tell him now. “I’ve never fainted, either. And I most certainly wouldn’t do so simply by being around some weapons.”

Something in him hardens and softens all at once. “Violence isn’t pretty, Alice.”

“No,” I admit. “It isn’t, is it?”

He studies me for a long moment, his blue-gray eyes narrowing significantly. It’s almost as if he’s trying to peel back my defenses and ferret out all of my secrets. Too bad for this Huckleberry Finn I have no intention of letting him or any other person inside this building to do so. I’ve worked too hard to place my past behind me—or at least wrestle it into compartments I can deal with.

“Perhaps the question I should have asked is: Are you familiar with any weapons?”

I offer him a falsely sweet yet coquettish smile. “Yes.”

I wait for him to ask which ones, but he surprises me by simply saying, “Good.”

Minutes later, we are inside of Van Brunt’s large office. There are paintings lining the walls, ones of large, unsmiling individuals who all hold in their hands a large bronzed plaque bearing a darkened logo. It’s circular, almost clock-like in nature and yet similar to a compass, propped upon the open pages of a book. The same Latin words from the Librarian’s cup, now expanded, ring the shape:
In paginis mundūs invenimus. In verbis vitam invenimus
. A quick scan of the room finds the oft-painted plaque hanging prominently above Van Brunt’s massive desk.

My Latin has always been abysmal, much to the disappointment of my learned father, and for the first time in a long time, I wish I’d listened more closely to his urgings.

“How did you find the Librarian this morning, Ms. Reeve?”

I tear my eyes away from the plaque, its words now firmly rooted in my mind. “Smug.”

Finn coughs into a fist, but Van Brunt is oddly unsurprised by this assessment.

I can’t help but stir the pot. “We discussed books and body parts and their functionality. It was a most invigorating discussion. I wonder, though, who the breasts of the organization are? Or perhaps the testicles? Personally, I would love to know who the arse is. Is that person the fool of the group?”

Whatever Finn has just murmured under his breath may not have been clear, but it makes the corners of my mouth lift all the same.

It’s Van Brunt’s turn to cough. “Good. Excellent.”

Something beeps, but the man behind the desk chooses to ignore it. “I’d hoped to ease you into our work, Ms. Reeve, but something has come up, leaving me little other choice than to send the two of you on a quick retrieval mission. Upon reflection, it will be an excellent opportunity for you to see how assignments go.”

The cracking of knuckles has me glaring at Finn. He sounds bored when he asks, “Timeline?”

A good five seconds pass before Van Brunt says, “1814AUS-MP.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me.”

I’m startled enough to lose a few centimeters between me and my chair at this explosion.

“Finn,” Van Brunt says, “I know this isn’t ideal—”

The man next to me is out of his seat, his hands flat on his boss’ desk. “Is she here at the Institute?”

“I spoke with Mrs. Knightley via communique this morning.” Without breaking eye contact, Van Brunt straightens a stack of papers on his desk.

Finn doesn’t back down, though. “Send Victor and Mary instead. There is no fucking way I’m going, not after what happened last time.”

“Language,” Van Brunt says mildly.

“I don’t have time for her pointless games. Just because she’s a Janeite doesn’t mean she gets free rein over Society members.”

“There is something to be said about fostering good relations amongst the various blocs, Finn.”

“Oh, is that how we’re putting it?
Good relations?”
Finn’s face darkens.

“Victor’s pen is still out of order, and Ms. Lennox’s is misplaced, unfortunately.”

Finn’s triumphant, though. “Are you forgetting my pen isn’t in functioning order right now?”

“That is true, but I am told that Ms. Reeve’s is. She simply needs to register it prior to your departure in a few hours.”

Finn curses under his breath. “Why now? Is she bored? Not enough balls or locals to keep her occupied? What the fuck is wrong with some people?”

“The Janeites are terrified that one of their stories might be next, especially after the loss of 1847BRO-JE. They feel as if—”

“First of all, Timeline 1847BRO-JE isn’t part of the Janeite League. It’s Brontë, not Austen. Secondly, its deletion happened two years prior. The latest attack was for a Timeline much older than either of these.”