The Golden Specific (3 page)

The groundskeeper ignored Sophia as she walked toward the granite steps. On the roof above the open doorway, the blindfolded gargoyle depicted on the pamphlet perched comfortably, its stone tongue impossibly long.

A crimson runner beyond the open doors led across the marble floor to a tall wooden desk. Sophia held her head high and walked steadily toward it. The man behind the desk looked up as she approached and put down the book he was holding. He nodded. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Sophia said. She forced herself to look the
attendant in the eye. He was bald, with blue eyes so pale they seemed almost colorless. Sophia swallowed. “I am here to consult the archive.”

The bald man nodded again without taking his eyes from her. “Patrons wishing to consult the archive may apply for an investigator's card, which will allow them unlimited access to the depository. However,” he paused, “access is only permitted to Nihilismians.”

“Yes, I understand,” she replied. “I am Nihilismian.”

 2 

The Nihilismian Apocrypha

A
T
FIRST
, S
OPHIA
thought the Nihilismian pamphlet might have been sent by someone at the Boston Public Library who had been helping with her search for so many months. Perhaps one of them was secretly Nihilismian.

Then it occurred to her that it might have come from a friend of Shadrack's who believed, quite rightly, that he would balk at the idea of consulting a Nihilismian archive himself. Shadrack was not closed-minded, but the events of the previous summer had set him decidedly against Nihilismians. He had always believed their ideas misconceived; now, he also believed them to be dangerous.

Then Sophia considered that the anonymous sender might be someone who actually worked at the archive: someone who knew for certain that the collection contained something of value for her search. Unlikely as it seemed that a strange Nihilismian would want to help her, the idea that some real clue existed and had already been spotted made her tremble with anticipation.

Perhaps, she thought, as she stared at the attendant on the other side of the desk, this very man was the ally who had sent her the message. Though his persistently unblinking stare made it seem unlikely. Sophia reached to clasp the pendant that hung around her neck, clearing her throat quietly. The Nihilismian's attention obligingly drifted to the circular amulet. Then he turned slowly and opened a drawer in his desk. He drew out a piece of paper and handed it across to Sophia with a pen. “Here is the application for an investigator's card.”

“Thank you.”

“I am required to emphasize,” he said quietly, indicating the signature line, “that this application functions as a legal contract. If you sign the form and anything written there is discovered to be untrue, it will be considered fraud.”

“I understand.” Sophia paused, but went on despite herself. “What happens when it is considered fraud?”

The bald man gazed at her without expression. “It depends on whether the archive pursues the matter in court. The archive pursued three such fraud cases last year and won them all.” He cocked his head slightly to one side, as if considering an
unspoken question. “The only thing these ‘investigators' will be reading for some time is the mail they receive in prison.”

Sophia nodded briskly. “I see. Thank you.” She took the pen and the form to one of the ample burgundy armchairs that made up the sitting area in the foyer. Her hands were trembling. She sat quietly for a moment, collecting herself; then she reached into her pocket and clasped the spool of silver thread for encouragement.

She took her notebook from her satchel and placed it under the form, filling out each portion as quickly as possible.

Name?
Every Tims.
Date of birth?
January 28, 1878.
Address?
34 East Ending Street, Boston.
Was she a citizen of New Occident?
Yes.
Did she hereby swear that she was of the Nihilismian faith? Sophia hesitated for the barest instant.
Yes.
Had she been Nihilismian from birth or was she a convert?
A convert.
If the latter, what was the name and address of the Nihilismian who had officiated at her conversion?
Seeking Montfort, 290 Commonwealth Avenue, Boston.

Sophia signed at the bottom, slipped her notebook back into the satchel, and rose to hand the form back to the attendant.

“We will be in touch with Seeking Montfort to confirm,” he said quietly, without looking up.

“Of course.”

“‘Every,'” he said thoughtfully. “March twenty-fifth.
‘Every vision around you is false, every object an illusion, every sentiment as false as a dream. You live in the Age of the apocryphal.'
” He looked up at Sophia, waiting.

“Truth of Amitto,” she murmured, pressing the amulet around her neck. Since Nihilismians adopted new names from the Book of Amitto when they converted, Sophia had chosen the name that seemed least objectionable, avoiding ones like “Purity,” “Lament,” and “Beneath.”

The attendant cocked his head to the side again. “Please have a seat. I will call one of the archivists. Your card will be ready to pick up when you leave the archive today.”

“Thank you.” Sophia began to turn away.

“Every,” the attendant remarked. “Your amulet is very unusual.” Sophia raised her eyebrows. “Did you make it yourself?”

“Yes, I did.” She held his gaze while she clasped the circular pillow of midnight blue embroidered in silver thread with a small hand, open-palmed, fingers outstretched.

“We see that in many cases where families don't approve. The faithful find a way.” He nodded his own approval.

Sophia watched as he left the foyer, his heels echoing on the marble floor. Then she took a deep breath and sank back into the burgundy armchair.

• • •

S
EEKING
M
ONTFORT
WAS
,
in fact, a genuine Nihilismian. But he had not officiated at any ceremony for Sophia's conversion, and he no longer resided at 290 Commonwealth Avenue. He had passed away the previous year, leaving only his widow and an aging pair of lapdogs. Sophia calculated that she had at least three days and perhaps as many as six before the Nihilismians of the Boston Depository discovered the truth. It all depended
on the zealousness of their inquiry and the cooperation of Mrs. Montfort.

A letter sent today would arrive tomorrow. Montfort's widow would take at least a day to reply. Sophia had visited her, in the cramped rooms made pungent by the spoiled lapdogs, with a question about a made-up relative who had converted to Nihilismianism and left on a mission to the Closed Empire. She had seen the formidable wooden cabinet where Seeking Montfort's records resided, and she had watched as Mrs. Montfort searched rather carelessly for the imaginary document. After a few minutes, the woman had given up; she was much more interested in her yapping dogs than the history of her husband's legal practice. If the Fates smiled upon her, Sophia figured that Mrs. Montfort might take several days to search fruitlessly through the cabinet and reply.

Or, on the other hand, she might reply immediately.

Sophia rose from the chair as the attendant returned, now accompanied by a tall man with a gray mustache. The man made a slight bow toward her. “Whether Moreau,” he said, extending his hand.

“Every Tims,” Sophia replied, taking it.

“It is a pleasure to welcome you to the Boston Depository.”

“Thank you.”

“Please follow me.” Walking toward the archive's main corridor, Whether Moreau left Sophia to hurry after him. Despite the warm spring weather, the building was silent and uncommonly cold. Crimson carpeting muffled their footsteps. Sophia caught a glimpse of several rooms as they passed: high ceilings,
oak bookshelves, dark wallpaper, and spherical flame lamps. Dark curtains over the windows prevented sunlight from reaching the documents.

They arrived at a marble staircase. As they climbed, Sophia determined, glancing at him sideways, that Whether was no secret ally. He stared ahead, eyes withdrawn, almost as if he had already forgotten Sophia's presence beside him. The dark suit he wore was pressed with a precision that bordered on ferocious, and its darkness was reflected in his well-polished shoes.

On the second floor, they followed another corridor, finally stopping at one of its many open doorways. Sophia peered past him into a room much like the ones she had seen below.

“Are you familiar with the structure of the Nihilismian Archive?” Whether asked, looking over her head at a point on the wall.

“I know only what is explained in the informational pamphlet.”

“Let me explain our organizational system before I ask about your line of inquiry.” He paused. “The archive contains forty-eight rooms,” Whether said, gesturing down the hallway. “Rooms one through thirteen are dedicated to the Age of Verity—
Veritas
, as we call it here. Meaning ‘truth,' of course. These are where chronicles of time before the Great Disruption, as well as texts produced during that time, are stored. The Apocrypha rooms contain the chronicles of the Age of Delusion—the time elapsed since the Great Disruption—and, as you may note from the number of rooms, fourteen through forty-eight, that collection is larger. This would seem
counterintuitive,” he continued, “as less time has elapsed since the Disruption than before it. But you will discover that documents and texts from before the Disruption are exceedingly rare. Each room has its own curator. I am the curator of room forty-five.” He indicated the open doorway.

“So the archive is organized chronologically?”

Whether nodded. “That is correct. We arrange all the chronicles and texts sequentially, since this method lies at the heart of the archive's mission: to demonstrate the great abyss that separates our world from that world we lost more than ninety years ago.” He led Sophia into room 45. “We pursue this mission by contrasting and comparing the recorded differences between occurrences in the Age of Verity and the Age of Delusion.”

Whether took Sophia to a mahogany reading table. “Please have a seat. I'll demonstrate more clearly what I mean.”

As Whether headed toward the back of the room, Sophia studied the space around her. Room 45 had high windows that overlooked the gardens at the rear of the building, but the curtains were again drawn, and flame lamps illuminated every corner. Bookshelves filled the walls from floor to ceiling, separated halfway up by an iron balcony that connected to a spiral staircase. Along the carpeted floor near the reading table, freestanding shelves bore the weight of row after row of precisely labeled volumes and document boxes. A young woman wearing unusual clothes—loose pants and a man's dress shirt—was putting books from a cart onto one of the shelves. She glanced at Sophia and paused for a moment.

Perhaps this is my secret ally,
Sophia thought. She gave a slight
nod. The young woman did not acknowledge her, but turned back to her task.

Sophia swallowed. She sat up straighter in her chair, determined not to be undone by the chilliness of the Nihilismian archivists.

A moment later, Whether returned with a large box. He spread its contents out across the table, placing side by side before Sophia two items: a folded newspaper that looked quite new and a torn single page of newspaper that looked quite old. He tapped the first with long, white fingers. “This paper, as you can see, was printed earlier this month.” The copy of
The New-York Times
was dated May 1, 1892. Sophia leaned forward to glance at the headlines, which included a story about the deportation of a major financier who had been discovered to be an unnaturalized native of the Baldlands, a short report about pirate raids near Seminole, and a long article about the ongoing dispute with the Indian Territories. “This, however,” Whether said, framing the older fragment of newspaper with his thumb and forefinger, “was also printed on May 1, 1892.” He leaned back and waited.

At first glance, the paper looked identical. It was labeled
New-York Times
in the familiar font, and the date said “New-York, Sunday, May 1, 1892.” But then, as she examined the headlines, Sophia realized that the stories were very different. “Is Sherman's Eye Upon It,” the page said near the middle. “The Ohio Senator declines to answer a hypothetical question,” declared the subtitle. “A Return to Barbarism,” read another
headline at the far right, and below it, “Europe trembles before the Anarchist bombs. Paris and Brussels fear May Day—Foreign ignorance of the Chicago Bomb Throwing
.
” “Minnesota Still Wants Blaine,” said a smaller headline farther down.