The Hidden Library (13 page)

A hospitable one, I’m loath to admit. Lygari offers us mulled wine already waiting upon a silver cart off to one side, alongside a variety of canapés. “Forgive my poor service.” His smile turns apologetic. “I’d given my housekeeper the night off before I knew the Institute would be sending representatives out.” And then, boldly, “Imagine my delight at our running into one another not once, but twice in two days, Alice. And after a good couple of months of me trying to find you, to no avail. How interesting is it that both times have been in libraries?”

Did I say hospitable? Surely, I meant unbearably boorish and more than a wee bit stalkerish. I turn to Finn and say flatly, even though I already know he does, “Perhaps you remember Mr. Lygari from a dance club we both found ourselves in earlier in the year?”

Lygari chuckles, his blush insincere at best in the face of my rigid reminder that I am wholly uninterested in pursuing anything between us.

Finn sets his glass down upon the rolling tray. “We truly appreciate your hospitality, but as you pointed out, it’s forecasted to snow, so we’d like to get on the road as soon as possible. Are the books in question still up for sale?”

Lygari sips his wine as he studies Finn. “Of course.” He lowers the glass and motions toward a nearby glass display case. “I’m afraid I’m a bit of a hoarder. There are some stories I have multiple first editions of, and not because I’ve forgotten I’ve acquired one already. Such as this one.” He moves toward the exhibit. “At last count, there are five first editions of
The Old Man and the Sea
by Ernest Hemingway within Bücherei’s walls. And that was after I gave away several to employees.”

I peer into the case. There is a black typewriter posing next to a pair of books—one closed, its bright blue and brown cover facing us, and another propped open, its yellowed pages filled with ramblings about sharks.

“It’s Hemingway’s.” Lygari taps on the glass. “If I’m not mistaken, he wrote
The Old Man and the Sea
on this very one.”

Finn says nothing as he stares at the typewriter, but his eyes narrow significantly.

“I—” Lygari chuckles once more. “Forgive me. I know you two are eager to get on the road, but I have so few visitors here at Bücherei. I’d love to show you some of my more impressive acquisitions if you don’t mind? I promise not to keep you too long. It’s just . . . this is part of my lifelong work.”

I fully expect Finn to refuse him, but the suspicion on my partner’s face morphs into what can only be described as carefully constructed interest. “We can spare a few minutes.”

We’d
like to frankly get out of this ghastly so-called library, but I suppose I can grudgingly understand why Finn wants us to look around. Bücherei isn’t what we were led to believe it was based on the Librarian’s report on Lygari.

Over the course of the next half hour, Lygari tours us around his personal library. It is, according to him, nearly six thousand square feet and houses roughly a quarter of a million first- and second-edition books. It’s only for what he calls truly significant stories does he go out of his way to hunt down author artifacts. There are multiple typewriters, pens, journals, writing tables, chairs, and various odd documents and books found in cases throughout the gallery. For an author named Charlotte Brontë, he has a tiny manuscript in booklet form he claims was written when she was a mere fourteen years of age. For a man named Leo Tolstoy (
Leon,
he sniffs, is the correct name), there is a pencil with electric lighting. For another named F. Scott Fitzgerald, there is an inscribed flask. When we stand in front of a large case with a drop-leaf table in it, two books with familiar names stand upon it:
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
and
Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.
Both are by a Mark Twain.

My attention swerves sharply back to Lygari.

Finn stares silently at the books as our host delightedly prattles on about how difficult it’d been to acquire the table—it’d been gifted by the author’s daughter to a museum that didn’t really want to let go of it. But apparently everything has a price in this modern age, because here the table sits, inside a glass case in none other than Gabe Lygari’s house, and much of me wants to smash through the barrier and break the table into kindling.

I watch Lygari’s mouth as he tells us about it, to suss out a hidden agenda. Coincidences, at least those I’ve experienced in Wonderland, have never been things to trust.

“You know,” Lygari says, “I have something you might like to see, Alice.”

Considering this unpleasant surprise, I rather doubt that.

He leads the way toward a case on the far side of the room, and based on the red covers with golden pictures, I have no doubt which books lay within. Now it is my turn to view which items he scrounged from a long-dead author, only now I can succinctly understand how Finn must have felt moments before. My stomach cramps as if a strong fist was shoved against my belly.

There are photographs decorating the area around the books. At least a dozen, and all of extremely young girls in varying poses that seen more lurid than innocent.

“Some people think Lewis Carroll was a pedophile,” Lygari muses as we stand before the case. “I’m not so sure, though. There’s a certain charm to the photographs, don’t you think?”

A sour taste fills my mouth; anger fills my veins as I take in the images.
Coincidences,
the Caterpillar often told me,
are never really coincidental at all.

“How very curious,” is my flatly stated response. Is he playing a game with us?

“Your collection seems well curated,” Finn says in a deceptively light yet inquisitive voice. “Do you allow the public to view it often?”

Lygari, for his part, seems less than devious as he talks about these abhorrent items. There is no hint of specificity, no clue that he has any inkling as to who we are when he informs us that the collection is a personal one. There is merely a sincere joy in his tone indicating that, to him at least, artifacts such as these in this room are to be cherished.

I study him as he talks, search for some tic that illuminates proof of subterfuge, that there is more to all of this than mere coincidence. And yet, I can detect none. His eyes do not shift. His attention does not waver. He does not stammer out well-rehearsed prompts. What he does say flows easily, and with great ease.

I sorely regret dancing with him.

Eventually, Finn offers a yawn I suspect is manufactured. And I am frustrated that I can tell this about him—a smooth-talking liar when necessary—and yet cannot ascertain the slightest bit of
off-ness
from our host. “It appears it’s finally started to snow,” my partner says, his attention lingering on a darkened window nearby. “We really should be on our way now.”

Although clearly disappointed, Lygari goes to fetch the books we’d been sent to retrieve. I turn to Finn, troubled.

“Do you—”

His head angles to the side. A surreptitious glance shows a security camera in one corner. A few more perusals show more cameras. The eyes above me, glowing softly in the fresco, appear to track our every move in the room.

Lygari, it seems, takes no risks with his possessions.

The next few minutes are tense. Neither of us talks. Neither of us peruses the room further. We stand there, surrounded by objects belonging to those who may have crafted our lives without our permission or knowledge. It does not feel like a place of worship, though, not like Lygari surely means it to be.

It feels like a mausoleum.

Finally, Lygari returns. Gloved hands present us with two books. While obviously old, neither is in poor condition. In fact, I’d hazard to suggest neither has even been fully read before.

Finn extracts a cashier’s check; books and money are exchanged. At the front door, Lygari murmurs, “It was a pleasure seeing you again, Alice. May our next meeting not be so far into the future.”

It most assuredly will, if I have anything to say about it.

In the car, silence reigns until we’ve made our way back to the main road. Lygari was right—the route to his home is difficult to maneuver in dark and icy conditions, even for a driver as good as Finn. But once we are officially off Bücherei lands, with our GSP telling us how to get to a nearby bed and breakfast we’ve reserved, Finn mutters, “What an asshole.”

It is a kind assessment. “How did the Society become affiliated with such a man?”

He fiddles with the heat settings without taking his eyes off the road. “The Librarian seeks out different buyers for books she needs, and this guy has been on her radar for some time. Only, he’s never been willing to sell anything before. It hasn’t stopped her from trying, though. Apparently, he’s got one of the best private first-edition collections in the country, if not the world.”

“He has two names.”

This makes Finn laugh, although there is not much humor in it. “One could say most of the people you know have two names.”

“Society members, yes,” I allow. “People from different Timelines than this, yes. But how many people native to here utilize multiple names? Is this a common occurrence?”

Lygari’s reasoning why he had two quite distinct surnames wasn’t valid reasoning at all.
As are many of us, I am a man of many names. Be rest assured, both are applicable.

“A lot of artists are like that. Actors, actresses, authors . . . Pseudonyms allow anonymity in an increasingly small world that doesn’t tolerate much privacy.”

“He is a book collector,” I point out. “Not an artist. Do people such as he require much privacy?”

“Pseudonyms aren’t uncommon in the auction world. Identities are often withheld. When a lot of money is at stake, privacy is desirable.”

It still does not sit well with me. “You believe Lygari’s collection is worth much.”

“Alice,” he says softly, “I wouldn’t hesitate to claim he has nearly fifty-million dollars of books and collectibles in there. And that’s a conservative number. Some of the items he has are considered priceless. He had handwritten letters from some of the most famous authors in the world. Pieces of furniture associated with the writing of classics. Typewriters. Pens. Coupled with first-edition books, all in amazing condition?” He shakes his head. “A lot of first editions look exactly as you expect them to, especially if they’re classics. The covers aren’t in the best of conditions, the pages are worn and possibly torn, and a lot of times, people have scribbled their names within or used bookplates or stamps. Each one of those things can depreciate the value of a book. His collection, though . . . I’m not going to lie. I’ve seen a lot of book collections, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen one in such good condition. It’s almost like he got them from people who bought the books on release day and then put them immediately into storage. The Librarian’s collection isn’t as good. She’d kill for that library, to be honest.”

I just bet she would.

“It was strange how obsessed he seems to be with fairy tales, though, wasn’t it?”

The suspicion in his voice is obvious.

“What do you mean?”

“The doors. The floors. The ceiling. They all depicted scenes from fairy tales, which was weird considering I didn’t see a single case highlighting any of the books they come from. Even we have first editions of
Children’s and Household Tales
by the Grimm Brothers and the three booklets that comprise Hans Christian Anderson’s
Fairy Tales for Children. New Collection,
as well as the compiled version he put out a year after the last booklet.” And then, his wry smile visible in a passing car’s headlights, “Surely even you had fairy tales in your Timeline.”

“You mean in my England? Of course,” I admit. “But I never read or heard them. My father, being a learned man, preferred me reading Greek and Roman philosophers. My mother found children’s tales to be too dark for proper families. I suppose, having now viewed such images in Lygari’s library, I can see why.”

“Are you serious?” His head briefly tilts toward me. “You honestly don’t know who people like Cinderella or Snow White or Rapunzel are? What about the phrase
once upon a time?”

I shrug. “Some of the names are familiar, but as I grew up surrounded by mostly my siblings, who were raised in the same way I was, and those children whose fathers also worked at the University, we did not spend much time talking about such things. And then I left England for Wonderland at eighteen, and all of those sorts of tales became irrelevant, anyway. Wonderlandian fairy tales are much different from those I believe we just viewed. I have read many of those.”

“So you never imagined yourself to be a princess when you were a kid?” He’s amused. “Never imagined some prince came to save you or you saved him?”

My fingers twist tightly in the fabric of my dress. “I am a Queen. I was crowned during my second trip to Wonderland, when I was nearly eight. To pretend I was anything less than would have been ridiculous. And I quickly learned I could save myself.”

“Right.” He sighs quietly. “Sorry.”

I place my hand on his knee. “Why are you apologizing?”

He bites his lip and stares ahead, saying nothing. And still, I interject before he can answer. I know it is unbearably rude, but I cannot allow him to assume anything otherwise. “Finn. You must surely know that my Wonderlandian status has nothing to do with my role in the Society. Or with us.”

One of his hands lies upon mine and squeezes.

“I am not
your
Queen,” I say quietly. Meaningfully. “I am simply your Alice.”

And that, to me, makes all the difference.