The Hidden Library (5 page)

She and Todd, in her mind, are gods.

Eventually, Mary’s truth serum runs its course and answers dry up. Screaming returns alongside threats. She will make us pay for what we’ve done. She will personally cut out our tongues and add them to her collection in her box.

I make a mental note to ask if a box filled with vile trophies has been located during any of the Society’s many searches of the Ex Libris bookstore’s attic.

Mary’s phone beeps, reminding us we have a meeting to attend within the hour. As my colleague tidies up the needles and vials, I once more take hold of Rosemary’s chin to steady her face and control her gnashing. I lean down, close enough that my words are for her ears and hers alone. I tell her, “You’ve been a very naughty girl, Rosemary Nellie Lovett. Please be assured that you will never walk out of this Institute alive.”

She shows her hand by shrieking, “He’ll come for me! He’ll carve you up and I’ll bake you into pies!”

I certainly hope he’ll try. I am banking on it, actually.

“I
PRAY YOU BE sympathetic to our concerns, sir,” Emma Knightley is saying.

Is it petty that I want to shove my father’s perfectly sharpened pencils into my eyeballs and eardrums simply to drown out her unfailingly polite voice? Worse yet, sitting across the room, out of view of the monitor and thereby outside of Emma’s range, my father offers me a smug smile as if to say, “See what I have to put up with on a daily basis?”

I resist the urge to flip him off.

“Of course I am,” I lie to Emma, “but I hope that you can understand where we’re coming from, too.”

It’s the same conversation she and I have been running through over the last three communiqués. Some asshole at the Society let slip to the Janeites shortly after Brom’s attack that we have two suspects in custody, and for some ungodly reason, they feel as if they are entitled to whatever information I get before anyone else.

True to form, Emma glosses right over what I’ve just said and continues to push the Janeites’ agenda. “We would be most amenable to sending someone to assist with questioning.”

Imagining a Janeite interrogation leaves me fighting to hide my smile. “I appreciate that, but it’s not necessary. As soon as we have anything, I promise we will share. But until—”

“Mr. Van Brunt, there is much . . . concern over whether or not the items collected are indeed the catalysts for our Timelines.”

Even my father rolls his eyes at that one.

“Please be assured that all of the catalysts in the Museum are, in fact, genuine and have been verified by the Librarian. You have no reason to believe otherwise.”

“There is still a villain afoot,” she blurts out, gravely and yet timidly all at once, “and, as you know, the Janeite League Timelines are quite beloved.”

She’s fucking with us, right? Because it’s not like any of the rest of the Society’s members’ books have never sold a copy before, right? Or be made into movies or TV shows? I fight back the urge to set her straight and say, instead, “Since the acquisition of 1814AUS-MP, all of the major Janeite Timeline catalysts have been acquired. Outside of breaking into the Institute and then the museum, there is no possible way the suspect can do any damage to your Timelines.”

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.”