The Golden Specific (10 page)

Sophia watched her for a minute before taking up volume 27. Instead of reading, she propped the book upright, on its spine. The pages ruffled across her thumb, and then they stopped of their own accord at a point halfway through. As the pages opened, she found that they had yielded to a purple ribbon of the finest velvet that lay coiled like a sleeping snake near the fold. She reached for it, her eyes wide. This was her mother's way of marking pages. Sometimes Sophia still found lengths of ribbon in the books at East Ending Street.

As she pulled the ribbon from between the pages, her gaze was caught on a line of text: a cluster of words that jumped out at her clearly. For a moment, she could not believe what she saw. She blinked, hard. But it was no illusion; the line of text was there, looking no different from all the other lines above and below and beside it.

Sophia forgot to breathe. The curved shape of the letters swam before her eyes. She pushed back her chair so quickly it almost tipped backward.

Whether cleared his throat and frowned from across the room. Remorse, putting down a bundle of pages, looked at her levelly.

“Remorse, could I ask you a question?” Sophia said, her voice cracking on the last word.

Remorse rose to join her. “How can I help you?” she replied.

“Can I show you what I found?” At the Nihilismian's nod, Sophia pointed to the page.

“‘Diary of Wilhelmina Tims, Granada Depository,'” Remorse read aloud. “This is very good news,” she murmured.

Sophia's mind whirled. Her mother had written a diary! She had written a diary after leaving Boston, and the diary was in a place called the Granada Depository. She held up the sliver of purple velvet. “This was coiled up on the page and then I saw it—my mother's name.”

“Remarkable,” Remorse said, her face impassive.

Sophia felt overwhelmed by a sudden wave of gratitude that she knew she could not voice. “Where is the Granada Depository? Can I go there? Or can the diary be sent here?”

Remorse took the velvet ribbon and slowly curled it around her finger. “The depository is in the Papal States. In Granada, which lies beyond the Dark Age. And our archives do not lend their materials.”

“So I would have to go in person?”

Remorse inclined her head. “Precisely. And, as is the case here, only Nihilismians are granted entry. Your investigator's card from Boston would not give you access, but you could apply again for a card in Granada.”

Sophia took a moment to absorb this information, her understanding of what lay before her quickly reshaping itself to accommodate the circumstances.
I'll have to go in person.
Shadrack and I can go. But . . . Shadrack may not have time. Even if he wanted to go halfway across the world to visit a Nihilismian archive, he might not be able to. But I could go with Burr and Calixta. They wouldn't mind sailing to the Papal States, would they? Maybe I could persuade them. The question is, can I persuade Shadrack to let me go all the way to the Papal States without him? And how am I going to get an investigator's card in Granada? I don't even speak Castilian. . . .

She saw the diary disappearing from view, like a boat sinking into the horizon.

“Thank you. I have to go,” she heard herself saying. “I have to . . . make some plans.” Quickly, she copied the entry into her notebook. Remorse watched silently as she closed volume 27, put it back on the cart, and packed her satchel. “Thank you for all your help,” Sophia said.

“Every—” Remorse said, getting to her feet. She glanced up at Whether and stopped. “I'm very glad you have found what you were looking for.”

“Thank you, Remorse. You've been very kind.”

She hurried out of room 45. Shadrack would be at the ministry.
I just have to persuade him,
she said to herself.
I just have to tell him the truth, and he'll understand.

“Every.” Remorse had followed her into the corridor. “Wait just a moment. I wanted to tell you something. About the Papal States.”

Sophia looked up at her. “Yes?”

Remorse drew close and lowered her voice. “My mission is to the Papal States, you may recall.”

“I remember.”

“As I mentioned this morning, my ship departs tomorrow.” She glanced at the open doorway of room 45 and lowered her voice even more. “If you like, I could ask the captain if there is room for you and your uncle.”

Sophia's eyes widened. “For me and Shadrack?”

“You have Nihilismian credentials,” she said with a meaningful look, “and though your uncle does not, exceptions have been made in the past for relatives and paying passengers. I believe Captain Ponder could be persuaded.” She paused. “If you travel with me, I could easily gain access to the Granada archive. After you read the diary, you can return to Boston with your uncle.”

The Papal States. Tomorrow.
Sophia could barely conceive of it. And yet, she realized the opportunity Remorse had placed before her would never occur again. Was it rash to accept? Or was she simply following the signs sent to her by the Fates? Suddenly the words Minna had spoken that morning found her, winding their way into the dark corridor of the Nihilismian Archive:
Take the offered sail.

Sophia felt a surge of elation. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, we'll go.”

Remorse reached out impulsively and squeezed Sophia's hand. “I'm glad. We leave at fifteen-hour, and you can board any time after midday. The ship is called the
Verity.
Speak to Captain Ponder when you arrive.”

“I will. I just have to tell Shadrack. But I promise—I'll be there.”

 9 

The League of Encephalon Ages

February 24, 1881

Finally, on our fifth night aboard the
Roost
, we made a discovery that exposed the breadth of Captain Wren's deceit.

Some part of me had been expecting it, of course, but neither Bronson nor I anticipated the form it took. We were waiting for the captain in his cabin. He had invited us to dine with him, as he always did, but on this occasion he immediately excused himself, saying he had to attend to something on the ship. He urged us to make ourselves comfortable until he returned.

Bronson and I sat in silence. The last two days had been tense between us. While I felt increasingly ill at ease aboard the
Roost
, certain as I was that something was not right, Bronson was increasingly enthralled by Captain Wren and his crew, certain that they were the kindest, canniest fellows in the world. The night before, we had almost argued about it. I insisted that we should reveal nothing more about ourselves, and Bronson fairly laughed at my insistence. I called him a fool for being so easily won over, and Bronson called me a fool for being so easily suspicious.

So we sat in silence in Wren's cabin, until I got up, somewhat impatiently, and went to the back of the cabin, where I began to peruse the shelves that held the captain's library and nautical instruments. Shelves full of books always put me in mind of my brother Shadrack and make me feel at home. I ran my finger idly along the spines, none of which had titles I recognized. Imagine my surprise when I saw the very name that had just come to mind:
Shadrack Elli
. I exclaimed in delight.

“What is it?” Bronson asked, condescending to speak to me.

“Wren has a book by Shadrack!” As I said these words, however, I found myself suddenly confused. The author was, indeed, Shadrack Elli. But I knew my brother's books quite well, and this was one I had never seen—
Maps of California, the Mexican Border, and the Mexican-American War
. I stared at the cover. “Could it be he published a book without telling me? There couldn't possibly be another author with the same name. It doesn't make any sense.”

Bronson came up behind me and read the title over my shoulder. “That's not one of Shadrack's books.”

“I know,” I said quietly. “And what is California?”

“Check the printer's information,” he suggested.

I turned to the front of the book, and what I saw there gave me sudden pause:
Roberts Bros., Boston, 1899
. “How is this possible?” I whispered to Bronson, aghast. “When it is now 1881?”

Bronson was frowning at the book, equally baffled, when the door opened.

Captain Wren saw at once that something had happened. With a nervous air, he pocketed the amber monocle. Instead of speaking or asking what the matter was, he simply stared at us. I was surprised and even more confused to see fear pinching at the edges of his eyes.

“Captain Wren,” I asked, holding up my discovery, “how is it that you have a book here written by my brother and published
eighteen years from now
?”

Wren held up his hands as if to appease us, the apprehension in his eyes giving way to an equally disturbing look of resigned sorrow. “Please,” he said. “Please, do not be alarmed.”

“I
am
alarmed,” I said, somewhat more loudly than I intended. I could feel Bronson's arm slip around my waist, steadying me. “I don't understand what this means.”

“I will explain—I will explain it to you,” he assured us. “Please, sit down. Allow me to call for dinner as I had planned, and I will explain everything to you.”

If Wren had wanted to harm us, some part of me reasoned, he would have had many opportunities. And besides, I
wanted
an explanation.

Bronson and I took our seats. Wren rang the handbell, calling for dinner, and, as he always did, poured us glasses of wine. I noticed that the wine, which he usually took from a glass cabinet, came from a drawer in his desk and had a
very unusual, pristine label, unlike any I had ever seen. For some seconds, he seemed lost in thought. Bronson took my hand—the discovery had erased the tension between us—and squeezed it.

“It will seem to you,” Wren began with a sigh, “that I am a liar of the worst sort. And there is no doubt that I have lied to you. But I would beg you to keep in mind, as you learn of my deceit, that the deceit is not only perpetuated for a very good reason, it is required of me—by my government, by the League of Encephalon Ages, and by my own sense of honor.”

Bronson and I shared an astonished look. A knock on the door announced the arrival of our dinner.

Wren served us roasted chicken, broiled potatoes, and carrots with minted butter. We'd had no cause to complain of the meals aboard the
Roost
.
They were always exceptional, if mysterious—I had never been able to get a straight answer about where all the fresh vegetables came from. But though Wren encouraged us to eat, we could not. Our food sat there, getting cold, as he began his account.

“I am not from New Occident at all,” Wren began, looking each of us straight in the eye in turn. “I am from Australia. My entire crew is from Australia. We are carefully—meticulously, even—outfitted to resemble a ship and crew from New Occident. Each of us has been trained in the history, customs, and speech of your Age. But, as you have discovered, Minna, our training is not perfect. In point of fact, we are not permitted to have contact with anyone
from your Age without approval, so there are few occasions to test the adequacy of our training.”

“Then why the deceit?” I asked, utterly perplexed. “Why go to so much effort if you do not even speak to us?”

“There are circumstances,” Wren continued, “in which communication is permitted. One is the circumstance that allowed me to take you on board: when a person's life is at risk. The second, more common circumstance, relates to our mission aboard the
Roost
: to infiltrate and gather information about your Age.”

We digested this. “Information?” Bronson said.

And I said, at the same time, “Then you are spies?”

“Yes,” Wren sighed. “I expected you to see it that way. Yes, we are spies. But let me explain further; I promise you that our intentions—at least the intentions of those aboard this ship—are entirely benign. A moment earlier, I mentioned to you the League of Encephalon Ages. Our Age, Australia, belongs to it, as do the other Ages that lie temporally beyond New Occident.”

“What does that mean?” asked Bronson.

“Your cartologers and historians have begun to map the ‘new world,' as you call it, is that right?” We nodded. “If the new world were to be ordered by place in linear time according to the pre-Disruption world, some places would lie behind New Occident and others would lie before it. So the Prehistoric Snows are in the distant past, and New Occident in the nineteenth century.” We nodded once again in agreement.
“The Ages that lie beyond your Age, beginning with ours, Australia—which experienced the Disruption in the twentieth century—form an alliance: the League of Encephalon Ages.”

Wren paused, as if he had reached a difficult point in his narration. He looked down at his food and, apparently seeking a distraction, took two or three mouthfuls of chicken and potatoes. “Have you never wondered,” Wren asked, putting down his fork and reluctantly continuing, “why you have not received envoys from what you consider ‘future' Ages?”

This left us momentarily dumbstruck. “Of course we have. The challenges of travel are forbidding,” I suggested.

Wren shook his head. “Not for everyone. In certain Ages, travel is less of a challenge. Australia would be easily able to send hundreds, thousands of people to your shores—every week.”

“Future Ages would have no interest in dwelling on the past,” Bronson argued. “For the same reason that we do not pack up and move to the Papal States, where they are on the verge of burning our friend thanks to superstitious backwardness, you would not want to travel to New Occident.”

Wren shook his head. “Bronson, you know better than anyone the curiosity of an explorer. You are, yourselves, journeying as explorers to the Papal States. Does it not seem odd that no explorers from Australia have ever turned up in Boston?”

“I suppose you are right,” I conceded.

“The League of Encephalon Ages,” Wren explained, after another mouthful of food, “was formed shortly after what you know as the Great Disruption. Your Age, New Occident, lies at the cusp of the divide. All the Ages after it belong to the league, and we agreed not to venture into your Age, or any earlier one.”

“There are future Ages in the Baldlands, and we venture back and forth all the time.”

“But those Ages are mere fragments,” Wren explained, “that lost their encephalon qualities soon after the Disruption. They do not qualify for the league.”

“But what is the
purpose
of the league?” Bronson demanded.

“The purpose,” Wren said, sitting back, his face suddenly weary, “is to protect all of you from us.” For a moment, he sat and looked off into the middle distance. Wren was so consistently a cheerful man, always radiating such good humor, that the sudden gravity of his expression seemed to alter him completely. He appeared ten years older. The lines of his tanned face seemed grooves of worry rather than laughter. He passed his large hand over his forehead, momentarily covering his eyes. “To tell you why such protection is necessary would defeat the very purpose. All our Ages are agreed that yours should not know of”—he paused, taking a deep breath—“the misfortune in ours. We are protecting you from knowledge. And we aboard the
Roost
are only a few among the thousands who make it our task to sustain this
protection and enforce the terms of the league. In most cases, we are communicating with agents of our own; we need only be persuasive enough to pass muster from a distance.”

“Agents?” Bronson echoed.

“Yes,” Wren replied with an apologetic look. “There are among you—in all the pre-cephalon Ages—people from our league, pretending to be of your Age.” I opened my mouth to speak, but he continued: “I know how it must seem, but understand that we are there primarily to police ourselves: to track down and capture people of our Ages who have no permission to travel, who have broken the terms of the league treaties, who would corrupt your Ages with knowledge from ours. We were, in fact, returning from a failed mission to apprehend one of these wrongdoers when we found you. Since your lives were in danger, the terms of the league did not prevent me from hauling you from the water. But the crew and I are not accustomed to such constant and perceptive attention.” He smiled. “I feared that it was only a matter of time before we gave ourselves away.”

Bronson and I still could not eat; we needed to absorb the captain's words. Staggering as the information seemed, there was such an air of truth to it, and such an earnestness to Wren's demeanor, that we did not for a moment doubt his explanation.

I reviewed the last five days in light of this new knowledge. All the things I had considered suspicious—the subtle but noticeable difference in the health and stature of the men,
the odd mixture of old and new aboard the ship, the misinformation scattered throughout Wren's conversation—now made sense to me. It also made sense that, as I had keenly felt, Wren meant us no ill will. The curiosity I might have felt about the Encephalon Ages, their league, and their mysterious secret was superseded by my sudden, sharp appreciation of all that Wren had done for us. He had not only saved us from the sea; he had, touchingly, done his best to fit his world to ours, thereby honoring his own allegiances. I could not, perhaps, understand the secret of the Encephalon Ages, but I could certainly understand the effort it cost Wren to adhere to his principles.

“Thank you, Captain Wren,” I finally said, “not only for your explanation but for your kindness to us. I can see, given all you have told us, that many in your position would have left us to our fate in the ocean.”