The Hidden Library (11 page)

I have to take a deep breath. Center myself, because I feel like I’m going to break something again.

I remember the day I found out about what Sawyer had done. I pretty much destroyed my room and then broke some kid in the neighborhood’s nose simply because he
looked
like Tom Sawyer. The police were called. I was arrested. As I sat in the back of the cop car, I laughed so hard until I sobbed. Because I got arrested for breaking somebody’s nose. Sawyer got to go his merry way when there was blood staining his hands.

Jesus, life was unfair.

I’d threatened to go back and make him pay, but in those early days, Katrina and Brom wouldn’t let me. I think they were scared about what I’d do. I was scared, too. I’d never felt such rage before.

“Look,” Victor is saying, “let me go into 1876/96TWA-TS, reclaim the liaison materials, and personally hand them off to whomever you choose.”

My brother’s trying to protect me. I get that. Or maybe he fears, much like our parents had, I’ll beat the shit out of Sawyer and get myself arrested again.

“I appreciate the offer,” I say dryly, “but I might have to go there anyway in the next few days, so I’ll take care of it myself.”

Brom’s eyebrows lift once more. My brother knocks over his empty cup of coffee. “What in the bloody hell for?”

He makes a good point, considering I’d vowed multiple times to never step foot in my original Timeline again once our parents calmed me down from threats of extreme violence. “The Widow Douglas is dying and has asked to see me.”

“Shite.”

Yeah, shite all right.

“You can’t be thinking of going alone?”

He knows me well. Hell, I haven’t even decided if I
am
going. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll—”

“Go with Mary to get the serum.”

“You must be joking. Why—”

I glare at him. It’s enough to cut that sentence off, but unfortunately allows the next. “Get Alice to go with you.”

And he asks if I’m the one joking.

“Or Dad. Wheel his arse into St. Petersburg with you.”

Our father has the audacity to actually nod, as if this is a good idea.

To him, I say, “I am not wheeling you into 1876/96TWA-TS.” To my brother, “You’re a doctor, man. You really think that’s a good idea for me to do to our father?”

“Fine. It’s a bloody awful idea. I just . . . I don’t want you going alone.”

That pisses me off. “Are you saying I need a babysitter?”

He’s like a dog with a bone, though. “Finn—”

I lift up my eyebrows in challenge.

“Fine. What does Alice have to say about this?”

“Not a damn thing,” I say coolly.

“Because you haven’t told her, right?”

I’m done with this. I stand up, but he grabs my arm. Brom scribbles away on his board.

“You can’t keep hiding your past from her. You know it’s going to come and bite you on the arse sooner or later.”

“Says the man who has an incredibly screwed-up relationship himself.”

It’s a low blow, one I immediately regret. As if he can help it.

Our father flips his board around.
Stop this idiocy at once!!!

Victor blocks the door. “Which makes me a bit of an expert on how messed-up relationships go, right?”

“Speaking of, have you been taking the protocol regularly?”

Brom shoves the board out farther. Both of us ignore him.

“You’re changing the subject.”

“I can’t inquire about your welfare? Oh, wait—that’s something only you’re allowed to do?”

I’m pretty sure he wants to take a swing at me.

“Finn—”

“Are you?”

“Yes, I’m taking the bloody protocol!”

But we all know he’s lying. That’s the way it always goes. He takes it until he feels better or gets distracted, and then it goes by the wayside and he backslides and shit gets real again. The highs and lows of Victor Frankenstein Van Brunt.

I reach past him, my hand curling around the door handle.

“Finn—”

It isn’t the first time I’ve shoved my brother to get out of a door. I’m sure it won’t be the last. The moment I’m in the hallway, though, I immediately wish myself back in, arguing pointlessly with Victor. Because standing in front of me is none other than Marianne Dashwood Brandon.

Damn, I need a drink.

“Finn, we’re not—” Victor stops the moment he sees Marianne. And then he grins like a total fool—only it’s not a genuine smile. It’s his
get me the bloody hell out of here immediately
smile. Well, shit. Maybe he
has
been taking the protocol after all.

“Marianne,” he chokes out.

“Mr. Van Brunt.” She lifts her chin and then says to me, “Mr. Van Brunt.” And then, farther behind us, “Mr. Van Brunt.”

Victor and I nearly get frost burns from the greeting.

“Mrs. Brandon,” I say, and her shoulders jerk back almost as if I’d punched her. Her eyes widen and yet zero in on Victor.

Thank God Mary isn’t here.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” my brother says. “When did you—”

“I am here on Janeite business.” She takes a deep breath and focuses on me and Brom rather than Victor. “I believe Mrs. Knightley has discussed our concerns with you?”

Stupidly, Victor doesn’t take the cut like he ought to and run as fast as he can in the opposite direction. Instead, he blurts out, “You’re wearing black.”

I have to bite back my groan.

“As I was saying, Mr. Van Brunt, we—”

Victor doesn’t let it go. “You weren’t wearing black last time.”

Forget a drink. I need a whole damn bottle of booze to deal with all this.

Marianne is outraged. “I am in mourning, sir!”

“Your husband has been dead five years!” Victor counters. Scratch my previous assumption. He’s obviously not taking the protocol, because what kind of levelheaded person keeps up with this shitty line of questioning? “The last time I saw you, you were wearing some kind of yellow—”

“How dare you!” She slaps him straight across the face and then, realizing what she’s done, takes a step back. A gloved hand covers her mouth, but I have to be honest—she looks more pissed then horrified.

Brom is, and appropriately so, exasperated yet unsurprised at his elder son’s actions.

“Victor?”

My brother, also holding a hand to his now pink face, tears his eyes away from Marianne.

“Take Dad to his checkup. And while you’re there, take the protocol.”

He wheels our father away, but not before giving Marianne one last pointed look. And then, because today hasn’t had enough excitement, Mary Lennox rounds the hallway corner and halts in her tracks when she sees Marianne and me.

I swear to God, it’s like the Institute has suddenly turned into one of those Western movies, where one gunslinger stands off against the other on a dusty road. Mary’s eyes narrow sharply; Marianne’s widen and then do the same.

Part of me wants to defend my dumbass brother. Mary had dumped him a week before he and Marianne hooked up, and it wasn’t until a few weeks later did they reconcile. The drama between these two is unbelievable. But most of me just wants to throw up my hands and remind everyone that we’re not in fucking high school anymore. Not that I think either Mary or Marianne’s schooling experiences were like mine, but still.

Marianne stands up a bit straighter. Frost fills the hallway when she says, “Hello, Mary.”

Mary matches her pose and tone. “Fancy seeing you here, Marianne.”

I reopen the door to the office I’ve inhabited this week. “Shall we?”

Marianne skirts around me and through the entryway, her silk dress swishing softly. Once the door shuts behind her, she murmurs, “I am sorry for all of that.”

“Are you talking about slapping Victor or nearly getting into a cat fight with Mary?” I shake my head. “You always knew how to make an entrance.”

She folds her hands primly in her lap. “I cannot seem to keep my wits around your brother, Finn. As for Mary . . .” She offers me a very modern shrug. “She and I have yet to see eye to eye on things. Someday, perhaps.”

Finn is better than Mr. Van Brunt. I motion toward the small wet bar the A.D. keeps stocked regularly for my father. “Tea? Wine? Or . . .”

“Whiskey, please. I fear I am in great need of it this afternoon.”

“Whiskey it is.” I pour us both some from one of Brom’s finer bottles, given to him by a Scot grateful his Timeline was safe, thanks to the Society. Once I’m seated next to her, I hold mine aloft. “To old friends.”

A hint of a smile curves her full mouth. “To old friends. And to whiskey. How I’ve missed whiskey.” Her glass clinks against mine before we sip the smooth, amber liquid.

I pull no punches. “I have to ask why the hell are you here, Marianne.”

She grimaces. “It is as I said. Janeite business.”

I sigh loudly. Does she really want to play this game with me?

“I am well aware of just how ridiculous this is,” she says slowly, “and yet, I thought perhaps the Society would be best served by a League member who might not . . .”

“Focus on making matches rather than the big picture?”

She laughs quietly. “Just so.”

“And,” I say gently, “because you’re the only widow and therefore assumed to have the time on your hands to get involved.”

She sets the crystal glass down on the desk. “I had almost forgotten how much of a charmer you are, Finn Van Brunt.”

“You look well.” And she does. The last time I saw Marianne Brandon—what has it been, two years ago now?—she was much thinner and much more somber.

A tiny smile surfaces. “Let us just say that, when the opportunity arose to find myself useful, I did not hesitate to avail myself to coming here.”

“Marianne . . .” I cut to the chase. “You need to know that Victor and Mary are . . .” I root around for the right word or at least description to describe just what in the hell my brother and his partner are. Eventually, I shrug. “Together.”

“I am most grateful for your concern, but I assure you that I am long past whatever attachments your brother and I may have had in the past.”

I lift up an eyebrow. Granted, it was more like a one-night stand (something Victor favors when he and Mary break up), but still.

“I realize that it must not appear as so,” she quickly asserts, “but I would not have come, had I not felt I could be an effective member of the Society.”

“You know I told Emma we required an application.”

“Then let me fill out an application,” she says mildly, “and we may get on with my employment.” When I hesitate, she leans forward, her face earnest. “Finn, I fear I must . . .” She shakes her head. “Allow me this chance to make good use of myself here. Surely there is something within the Institute I may be assigned.”

It’s hard to deny her such a request, even though I know I ought to. Marianne Brandon is a loose cannon whose unfortunate
whatever
with my brother will almost certainly come back to bite me on the ass. But, she and I have been friends for a number of years now. Of all the Janeites, she’s the one I’ve been able to relate to.

“Times are tough right now. People are scared.”

Determination shines in her eyes. “I wish to help.”

What the hell. I stick out my hand. “Let me officially welcome you to the Society, then.”

After pumping my hand vigorously, she sags back in her chair, clearly relieved.

A
N HOUR INTO THE drive upstate, Alice turns down the radio. “New York is quite pretty, isn’t it?” Her smile is naughty. “Once you’re out of the concrete, of course. Granted, we ought to be back at the Institute right now, figuring out Todd’s location, but I suppose there is that.”

I actually agree with her and had words with both the Librarian and Brom over the ill-advised timing of this trip. All the woman would tell me was, “I cannot trust anyone else to go, Finn.”

Ugh.

“London has concrete,” I point out. “Even in the Nineteenth Century.” But the elephant in the car reminds me Wonderland isn’t paved and smoothed like the modern day. All the roads they had there were either brick or cobblestone, which I can only imagine make long-distance travel a total bitch in a carriage or on horseback.

I like cars. And planes. And helicopters. And the Twenty-First Century in general, thank you very much.

“What about where you grew up? Was there much concrete there?”

My fingers curl tighter around the steering wheel as I stare forward. “No.”

She doesn’t push. Instead, she turns back toward the window and stares out at the trees and buildings flashing past us. And I end up feeling like a jackass, because Victor’s stupid words keep coming back at me.

Damn my brother.

“I grew up in Missouri, along the Mississippi River,” I finally say. When that gets no response, I add, “It’s in the South. Well, it was considered the South when I lived there. Or even the West. It’s more of the Midwest today.”

Her head tilts back toward me. “Cowboys, correct?”

I can’t help but laugh a little. “I guess.”

“Were you a cowboy?”

It’s actually cute that she looks so hopeful. “Uh, no.”

“Ah well.” She rotates her body, curling up within the leather seats of the car. “I might have imagined you as one as a child, upon a stead, wrangling . . . what do they call them? Horn doggies?”