The Hidden Library (17 page)

Amy blinks, no doubt unnerved at how little details either of us are willing to provide. She shifts the boy to her other hip. “Tom will be thrilled to see you, no doubt. He’s at home right now—Becky’s due any day, I suspect, and he’s been a right mess, waiting to see if he finally gets a son.”

I neglect to tell her that I had no idea Sawyer’s wife was expecting, nor do I care.

Another familiar face appears, only to make my jaw ache from the amount of grinding that’s going on. It’s Sid, Tom’s brother. And . . . apparently Amy’s husband, as he takes the boy from her.

I never liked Sid much, but even I find this to be a strange match. Sawyer’s former flame and his brother? I wonder how much that has stuck in his craw over the years. Pettily, I hope a whole damn lot.

Sid offers me his hand; I reluctantly shake it. And now we’re officially forced into introductions, which Alice bears with her normal aloof grace. A story is spun of how she and I met when I moved to London for work, and after several months of travel here, we’re set to go back within the week.

I leave no wiggle room. Sid, once an annoying tattletale and probably a consummate gossiper nowadays, will hopefully ensure people understand that I am not officially back, and most likely will never return again.

Sid parrots his wife’s belief that Sawyer will be over the moon to hear I’m back in town. Fuck that. I turn and leave without saying another word.

“How long,” Alice murmurs, “do you feel it will be before we see this Tom Sawyer?”

I dip my head as yet another person stops and stares as we walk by. “Not long enough.” And then, quietly, “You should probably know that he and I had a falling out.”

When I opened up to her yesterday about my past, I neglected to mention anything about Sawyer.

And still, she simply smiles that wry smile of hers. “I would have never guessed. Would you like me to stop you from beating the shit out of him? Or shall I help? Gentleman’s choice.”

A bubble of surprised laughter escapes me. But then, just seconds later, I’m scowling once more. On the street corner ahead, somebody is preaching about how Abraham Lincoln is a demon come to earth. A group surrounds him, rapt as they nod in agreement.

All of my amusement fades away until disgust roils around in the pit of my stomach.

“Lincoln was one of your presidents, was he not?”

I tear my eyes away from the mob. “Yeah. He’ll be assassinated in a few years. If, you know, this Timeline follows all the rest.”

“I feel for him. I myself have had multiple attempts on my person, and it can be exhausting, constantly wondering if the next time will take.”

We round a corner, and memories long repressed wash over me. I ran down this street many times, my bare feet thick with mud. The last time I walked down it, it was to leave this place behind. Brom and Katrina had made me an offer I couldn’t refuse—a life of adventure that also had purpose. And now here I am, making my way to the large house up on a hill I once resided in, and I honestly don’t even know how to feel about it all.

The porch creaks just as it did sixteen years before. The paint is peeling, though, and there’s a quiet to the property I don’t quite remember. A knock to the door brings a young woman whose face is unfamiliar.

I take my hat off. “I’m here to see Mrs. Douglas.”

I never called her Mrs. Douglas. She was always the widow to me—or rather, the widder, considering my poor vocabulary and lack of education. But I’m not that kid anymore, and the woman who took me in for a small span of time deserves more than that.

“I’m sorry,” the girl says. “But the miss is not doing too well for visitors.”

She’s a maid, I realize. A really, really young one, too. Maybe fourteen? I was thirteen or fourteen when the widow took me in, a hopeless charity case that proved to be a massive failure. Maybe this girl has done better than me.

“I think she’ll want to see me.” I clear my throat. “Will you tell her that Huckleberry Finn is here to visit?”

“Well, you shoulda said that first!” The door groans as she opens it wider. “The miss has been talkin’ about you. She’d want me to make an exception for you.”

Inside, everything is nearly as it was years before. The house is clean, the furniture worn. The maid takes my hat and overcoat alongside Alice’s. “Can I get you nice folk some tea? It’s might chilly outside. My pa says it’ll snow hard soon.”

As she hangs up our coats and hats, Alice mutters, “How nice it would be for us to go somewhere tropical and away from all this blasted snow. Everywhere we go seems to be on the verge on snow.” To the maid, she says, “Tea would be lovely, thank you.”

The girl curtseys and scurries out of the room. Alice sits down upon a threadbare chair, but I’m too antsy to follow.

Somewhere, upstairs, a woman is dying.

Footsteps sound, and soon enough, the town doc emerges, his black bag in hand. “Daisy, can you—” He stops as he takes me in. “Son, I am right glad to see you.”

Daisy reappears with a tray in her hand. “Doc, this is the nice boy the miss has been asking for.”

“Not so much a boy anymore, are you?” the doc asks me. He sticks out his hand. “It’s good to see you, Huck. You look as if you’ve done well for yourself.”

The backhanded compliments just keep a’coming. “Thank you, sir.”

“She’s close now,” he tells me. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t last the night.”

Alice asks, “What ails Mrs. Douglas, if you don’t mind me inquiring?”

“Consumption.” He wipes his face. “It’ll be best to not get too close.”

Daisy passes out cups of tea. The doc sits down across from Alice, sipping his tea wearily. “Go now, son. She’s been in and out of consciousness today, and talking is a might difficult. Keep that in mind.”

Alice makes a move to stand up, but I hold out a hand. She nods, her eyes filled with understanding and concern.

I make my way up the stairs, my boots echoing against the wood and paint. Miss Watson used to snap about how I apparently walked too loudly, and how it wasn’t what polite folk do. One afternoon, she had me practice going up and down the stairs for what felt like forever, a book on my head to help me stop slouching. My thighs burned afterward, and yet she still found me a disappointment. I’d wanted to run away that night, but the widow caught me as I was sneaking out the window.

And here I am, near sixteen years later, stomping once more. Miss Watson is long dead, the widow nearly so.

Her room looks the same. The same quilt upon her bed, the same wooden frame. The same pictures and needlepoint upon the walls, the same dresser off to the side. A chair now sits by the bed, a bowl of water on a nearby stand. The moment I cross the threshold, her eyes creak open.

She sighs. Coughs. “If I live or die, Huckleberry Finn is once more in my house.”

I sit down on the chair. “I’m sorry for taking so long to come see you.”

A frail hand reaches for me. “You are so handsome. You look like a right, proper gentleman.”

Her intentions are good, and yet I can’t help remembering being that kid who wasn’t a gentleman.

A coughing fit overcomes her, and when she pulls away her handkerchief, it is spotted with bright red blood. “I wanted to know life has done right by you before I go to meet our maker.”

I feel like an impersonator answering this question, but I do so anyway. She coughs again, the sounds rattling her thin chest and shaking the bed.

“What can I get you?” I glance around the room. If only I’d let Victor come.

“Nothing.” She gasps. “The Lord will see me soon enough and will take care of me then. Tell me about your life, Huck.”

The room smells like sickness, and her skin is sallow. Memories nearly suffocate me. “I work for my father in New York.”

A smile has just enough time to emerge before another round of coughing leaves her even weaker. I don’t let her ask anything further—I just tell her about my life. I tell her how I went to two different universities, and that I can speak three languages. I tell her about traveling all over the world and of discovering new cultures and peoples. I tell her that the family I left her for, the one that I allowed in after years of her trying, were good people and that I love them deeply. I tell her that I found the woman of my dreams, and that she sits downstairs in her parlor.

The widow smiles the whole time, her coughs punctuating my story like commas and periods. Her handkerchief is nearly scarlet, there’s so much blood. By the time I’m done, she whispers, “You always was the charmer, Huck.”

Doctor’s orders be damned, I lean over and kiss her paper-thin cheek.

She reluctantly nods off to sleep, her breath shallow and rattling. Beyond the curtains and glass, it’s started to snow harder. Soon, the rattling stops and there’s nothing but bone-aching silence.

I make my way back down the stairs, my boots finally soft in their meetings between rubber and wood. Alice and the doc are still in the parlor, but neither is talking. It’s all so quiet.

Alice stands up the moment she sees me. Within seconds, her arms are around me, and mine around her. I bury my face against her neck, not even knowing how to feel. Her fingers twine in my hair, holding me tightly like once more, she’s afraid I’ll float away.

Eventually, the sound of new boots on the stairs emerges. Unable to help it, a bitter smile curves my lips at the thought of what Miss Watson would have said to the town doc. Would she have forced him to walk up and down with a book on his head?

A door opens and closes. A loud, familiar voice fills my ears. I kiss Alice’s cheek and let her go. And then I turn around to face Tom Sawyer in person for the first time in over a decade.

The sonofabitch has the audacity to look happy.

“Huck! Sid said you was here, but I didn’t quite believe him. But here you are, an’—”

I punch him so hard he hits the ground, out like a light.

I
T TAKES MUCH PRODDING, but Finn finally allows me to examine his hand. We are safely ensconced within a local inn, in a snug yet sparse room that at least has a proper fire. Upon arrival, I’d immediately requested water and bandages, which only made my partner’s already questionable mood turn darker.

“Well.” I peer down at the tender flesh. “I do not think you broke anything. At least on your end, that is.”

He sighs.

An extraordinarily pregnant woman who accompanied Sawyer to Mrs. Douglas’ home screamed once her husband hit the ground, and I’d unfortunately been tempted to smack her myself. In any case, I’d hissed, “Show some proper respect. There is a woman dead in this home, and your histrionics will serve no purpose.”

“Huck!” She tumbled awkwardly to her knees and grappled at the unconscious man’s chest. “How could you?”

Finn promptly stalked out of the house and I calmly followed. Daisy, the little maid, ran after us and stood on the porch until we’d reached the bottom of the hill, almost as if she couldn’t believe what she’d seen.

Once I caught up with him, I said mildly, “I suppose you decided you wanted to beat the shit out of him after all, didn’t you?”

Finn did not respond, nor did he say anything else until we reached the inn. At that point, everything was clinical and to the point: we wished to have a room for precisely one night. Money exchanged hands, and then furtive glances as a few of the employees whispered amongst themselves how we traveled with no luggage and that they were positive Huckleberry Finn had returned home.

He wanted to go back to New York but I’d let him know that while he had been upstairs, the doctor informed me Mrs. Douglas had requested Finn to take care of her funeral arrangements. We are to stay until he can do so in the morning and then promptly depart.

I’ve just finished wrapping Finn’s hand when a knock sounds on our door. It’s tentative, yet neither of us gets up to answer it.

The tension in Finn’s body rouses internal alarms. I have seen him angry before, I have seen him focused and in a fight, but I’ve never seen him quite like this.

“Huck?” Another round of pounding, louder now, echoes throughout the small room. “I know you’re in there! Open the door. You—you need to hear me out. Huck?”

I gently place Finn’s hand back into his lap. “He’s a tenacious one.”

All I get out of Finn is a grunt.

The alarms within me ring louder.

The door handle jiggles, the pounding turns deafening. “If you think I’m goin’ to go away, why, you got another thing comin.’ You hear me, Huck Finn? I am not leavin’ before I say my piece! You owe me that!”

Finn explodes out of his chair and nearly tears the door off its hinges. Sawyer, now sprouting a red-and-purple-welted face, nearly trips over the threshold.

“I don’t owe you shit,” Finn barks. “Now get the hell out of here before I finish what you deserve.”

As I make my way to the door, Sawyer pulls himself upright, straightening his coat. “Now, see here—”

Finn punches him once more in the jaw. Sawyer slams up against the wall beyond our door, and hysterical wailings sound. Frabjous. The pregnant woman has come along for the show.

Miraculously, Sawyer teeters forward, undeterred. A hand rubs his chin, which, truthfully, I’m more than a bit suspicious might be broken. “Huck—”