The Hidden Library (24 page)

When Finn runs his hands through my hair, it feels more loving and less like petting than when Marianne attempted her kindness. “Yes, but the asshole who did this is not from 1876/96TWA-TS. It’s assumed he’s from 1846/47RYM/PEC-SP, although I ought to note he’s been in multiple Timelines over the past few years. Why?”

The doctor sighs so loudly that I feel his breath spread across my bare skin. “I’m not able to identify whatever is in her system. I’m working on breaking down the compounds, but . . .” He blows out another breath. “Whatever it is seems to be organic in origin, although from what I cannot identify.” There’s a bleakness to his voice that has me shivering from more than just cold. “I also have reason to believe there’s a parasite in her system.”

. . .
What?!

“I’d like to do some scans to verify, but it doesn’t appear Victor has the necessary materials here at the Institute. Here, let’s get her comfortable again. I’ll take these cultures back home with me and use my own machines. Maybe that will help.”

When the doctor leaves, Finn asks Marianne to step outside for a few minutes. Once she’s gone, too, he sits down in her chair next to my bed. My hand is in his, and his forehead comes to rest on our conjoined fingers.

The other hand, I can tell, is still a bloody mess. “We’re going to fix this,” he tells me quietly. “I’m going to question Todd tonight with the truth serum. This is going to be fixed. You’re going to be okay.”

Oddly, I am not as worried about my situation as I ought to be simply because I believe in him. He will not give up on me, just like I will never give up on him. I have nothing concrete to base this overwhelming yet wonderful piece of faith on, but it’s curling throughout me like sips from a cup of cocoa on a frigid day: comforting and warm and perfect.

Gravity is a beautiful thing, I think.

I want to ask him how he is. How he’s feeling. Yesterday was a raw day for him, in ways I fear came from years of pent-up anger and grief. I want to comfort him, hold him. I want to tell him that it’s going to be okay, too. That I’m here for him. That, together, we will work through all of this tomorrow.

And that, maybe, just maybe, if I ever see Tom Sawyer again, I’ll kick his arse, too.

But all I can do is just stare at him, hoping he can somehow sense all of this and know the depths of my love for him.

Bloody paralysis having to go muck everything up.

“I have a lot to tell you.” He kisses my hand again. “But I need to go talk to my dad and the Librarian about some shit that’s just gone down.” He pulls back so he can see my face. “Do you want to be present tonight when I question Todd?”

I give him the firmest blink I can. Hell yes, I want to be there to hear what’s going on.

He reluctantly stands up, placing my hand back on the bed like it’s the most priceless thing in the world to him. And then I unleash another flurry of blinks.

He says, “I promise that as soon as Victor gets here, I’ll have him look at my hand.”

My eyes fill with tears again.
He knows.

Finn’s at the door, his hand on the knob, when he stops. He turns around, rare vulnerability on his face. “Before I go, there’s something I need to let you know. Something that’s taken far too long to be said.”

The thing is, I know, too. Actions, I want to tell him, speak louder than words most times.

“Somehow, in the last half year, you’ve become my best friend. I’ve fallen in love with your laugh and the way you roll your eyes, but do it surreptitiously, because you think it’s rude but you do it anyway. I’ve fallen in love with how you always have a comeback, especially when you’re feeling exposed. I fallen in love with how you sink like a stone once you hit your pillow, faster than anyone I’ve ever met, and then snore like a lumberjack sawing trees.”

It’s enough to make me gasp in mock consternation. But also to turn to mush, which is an altogether inconvenient situation when a person cannot wipe their own eyes or sniffly nose or burst out the feelings of their heart.

“I’ve fallen in love with how you make the worst places incredibly romantic. And with the fact that, even though it doesn’t seem like it, we’re so damn alike. You get me when most people don’t.” More softly, “You stood by me in St. Petersburg. You didn’t even bat an eye when I hit that asshole. You—you trusted me, even though you had no idea what was going on. I know you have trust issues, but God, Alice. Your trust means the world to me.”

This man. How I love this man.

“I love you. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. It’s the best damn feeling in the entire world.”

I unleash another flurry of blinks. He lets go of the knob and comes back to exactly where I want him. When he kisses me, slowly yet gently, I feel it in every numb cell of my body. His touch is like those sparklers I saw people using on the Fourth of July this last year here in New York: beautiful, bright, and fizzy, so magical their light left lingering pictures in the air.

They’d enchanted me. This man here? He enchants me more. He kisses me, because
he knows.
He knows me. He knows my heart.

He has become part of my heart.

My gravity pulls at his. His pulls at mine. We orbit one another, me and my north star, and I will be damned if anyone will ever tear us apart.

“F
INN, HOLD UP!”

Victor jogs through the mess littering the basement to catch up with me. Thank God he’s back.

“I’m gone three days, and everything goes to hell!” He’s not smiling, though. His voice is projecting, and there’s a level of irritability and anxiety to it that leaves me more worried than anything else. He’s on edge and so hopped up that I wonder if he’s slept at all lately, either. “I’m sorry it took me so long. It wasn’t the easiest to get hold of these supplies. There were a few times I was certain Mary and I were going to be captured.” He shudders, yet lifts a bag. “I come bearing many treats, though. And Mary’s bag is even more full than mine. She was like a kid in a candy store.”

I could hug him, I’m so relieved. I know I ought to be busting his balls about taking his meds, but first things first.

We make our way through the elaborate security measures that allow authorized Society members to access the Museum. If there’s anywhere in the building that is safe to talk about all the shit that’s gone down, it’s there. Brom and the Librarian are already below, getting briefed by Wendy and the A.D. I fill Victor in on the basics, and by the time the last set of doors slide open, he’s on board with what I’ve got planned for tonight. He’s also ranting and talking a million miles a minute.

I’m surprised, to be honest. Mary is usually on him about his meds like white on rice.

We find everyone crowded in the Librarian’s tiny office. Folding chairs have been squeezed in, and in between those and the chairs and table already present, knees are practically touching when we all sit down.

“First,” I say, “explain to me what you meant about the Society being bugged.”

Brom holds up a hand, getting his whiteboard ready. Victor pops out of his chair, though. “First,” he says, “let’s get Dad all fixed up so he doesn’t have to take ages writing this stuff out. From what I saw, the application is simple.”

A slim bottle is extracted from his bag. Can it really could be as easy as just spraying something from a bottle on a wound to heal it? And yet, it is, because after Victor removes our father’s bandaging and sprays the stuff, the angry red line across my father’s throat fades away until all that’s left is smooth skin.

Holy. Shit.

“Try saying something!” Victor’s bouncing on his heels, he’s so pumped.

Our father, our stodgy, cultured father, says in his distinguished voice, “Holy shit.”

The Librarian claps her hands and then covers her mouth. The A.D. whoops; Wendy is agog.

“Take care of your brother’s hand while you’re at it.” Brom is clearly uncomfortable with all eyes on him. “He’s been too stubborn to have it looked at.”

“Bloody hell,” Victor yells as he stares down at the mangled mess that I call a hand. “What did you do? Punch a brick wall?”

“Two—named Tom Sawyer and Sweeney Todd.”

Brom clears his throat. “And got himself arrested. Let’s not forget that.”

I kind of love my father’s voice, even when he’s giving me shit.

“Fine. I got myself arrested. I’m not sorry about it, though.”

He sighs. “I only want what was best for you. I hardly think I ought to be stoned for such wishes.”

What’s best for me is getting back upstairs and figuring out what’s wrong with Alice. What’s also best for me is to stuff all this shit back into the box I’ve kept it in. I just—I can’t process it all right now. I just can’t.

Victor’s got my hand fixed in no time. It’s insane—it’s like my hand was never hurt in the first place. Damn, that Timeline has something good going. Okay, well, not the alien invasion or anything, but man. With drugs like this, our assignments will go a lot more smoothly.

But, as fascinating as all that is, we’ve got much more important business to attend to. “Now, about the Society being bugged? Let’s make this fast. I need to get upstairs and interrogate Todd so we can try out Victor’s new medicine on Alice.”

Wendy takes great offense to this. “My security system is unrivaled. I’ve cobbled together pieces of coding and technology we’ve gotten from various Timelines, making it impossible to crack. There is no way for anybody to have broken through it.
No way.”

Brom exchanges meaningful looks with the Librarian. “You are very right, Ms. Darling. We have no indication that anybody has broken in from the outside. See, it has come to our attention that there might be a mole—or moles—
within
our midst, working from the inside out.”

That’s—no.
No.
No way.

The Librarian opens the laptop sitting on her geode of a coffee table while Wendy’s eyebrows form a V. “I would know if there were any transmissions coming out of the Institute. All calls, even personal ones, are logged. My team goes over them at night to ensure nothing is off.”

Before Brom can continue, she cuts him off. “We’ve also got video surveillance all over the building. All editing and retrieval information is downloaded off of pens after every assignment. If there’s a mole, he or she shouldn’t be too hard to find. I’ll get my team to start combing through our records.” She pulls out her phone. “Is there anything concrete you’ve found so far? Something we can maybe use as a springboard?”

“Yes, Gwendolyn,” the Librarian says softly. “We have, in fact, found something quite troubling.”

On the laptop screen is security footage of Wendy’s lab. She’s in there, tinkering with what looks to be a pen prototype. The timestamp says it’s nearly two-thirty in the morning. Wendy is a well-known night owl here at the Institute who rarely requires more than three, four hours of sleep at night.

The footage glitches, wavy gray and black zigzags bend the picture. And then Wendy gets up and heads over to a window, punching in the code to still the alarms attached. Suddenly, she drops down to the ground, her back to us.

In the room we’re in now, down inside the Museum, she whispers, “What—?”

On the video, somebody comes through the window. Somebody lean and young and whose feet do not touch the floor. He has pipes pressed to his lips, and Wendy’s head tilts back in awe as she gazes upward.

“Oh my god,” the Wendy sitting in this room murmurs. “I—what?”

Still playing his pipes, the boy drifts down, circling Wendy. His gaze is adoring, and within seconds, they head over to her laptop. Many minutes are spent with him looking at whatever she shows him before he finally sets down the pipes. Something is whispered in her ear; Wendy nods and smiles dreamily. Papers are printed and handed over. Another few minutes are spent talking. He nods often, eyes serious, as he takes in whatever she has to say.

They head back over to the open window, and within seconds, the boy is gone. Wendy carefully shuts it, ensuring to punch in the security codes and reactivating the alarms. And then, as if nothing strange has just happened, she wanders back over to her laptop and types furiously for a good minute.

The picture glitches again before the Librarian presses pause. All eyes now shift to Wendy. She’s still staring at the paused footage, like she can’t believe what she’s just seen. And then she says something that is absolutely the wrong thing in a moment like this. She says, her voice soft in disbelief, “He came. He finally came for me.”

The A.D. explodes out of his chair. “What in the blimey hell is that, Wen?
He came for me?
You were just obviously fucking around with some guy, some
kid
who—who broke into the Institute, from the looks of it! And you gave him God knows what, told him even more, and all you can say is:
He came for me?”

The A.D. and I don’t often agree on everything, but I’m going to have to concur with him on this one.

Wendy’s unfazed by the hostility rolling off him, though. Unfazed at how everyone is now staring at her like she’s some kind of stranger. She stands up, whispers, “Pan came,” and then promptly faints.