The Hidden Library (9 page)

I do, though.

My mother deserved better than she got, and I’m going to track down the motherfucker who did that to her and exact justice, whether Katrina would have wanted that for me or not.

“I’m so sorry,” Alice is whispering. She shifts my hand to her other, so an arm can wrap around me. “I’m so sorry, Finn.”

Graves are funny. They’re actually incredibly selfish things. Dead people don’t give a shit whether or not they’re buried in a grave or cremated or frozen or sent into space or scattered to the winds. The dead are dead. They’re beyond caring. But we who remain, the greedy survivors, we need something like this. We selfishly take a body and put it in a plot of land that could be, I don’t know, used for a variety of other things other than letting skin and bones rot within, and we selfishly put up a slab of marble or concrete and we then use all these things to let us cling to the past.

Katrina doesn’t have a grave, though. And that’s acid in the pit of my stomach. I loved my mother. I still love her.

And yet, the absence of my mother’s grave isn’t the only one that cuts deeply. So does Jim’s. One of my oldest, truest friends, one of the very few who treated me with respect and as an equal when I was a kid, doesn’t have a grave, either. So, yeah. Sweeney Todd is going to pay for what he’s done to my mother and countless others. And when I’m done doling out that bit of justice, I’m finally going to go avenge Jim, just like I should have all those years ago.

Tom Sawyer is going to pay for what’s he’s done.

F
INN HAS GONE TO speak with his father, so I am the one who must deliver our latest acquisition to the Librarian. It takes me a good ten minutes to pass through all of the security measures before I enter the Museum, a cavernous yet elegant holding room buried deep beneath the Institute. Instrumental music that Finn informs me is called elevator music fills the space, and no matter how many times I’ve heard it in this room or her office upstairs in the library, I still cannot seem to succinctly draw the line connecting such peppy tones to the inscrutable woman who calls herself the heart of the Society.

She loves it so, though.

I find the Librarian dusting books on shelves within a small office that consists of little more than a pair of overstuffed chairs, a turquoise telephone, and a coffee table that is made from a large slab of raw rock and quartz, cut open and polished until it shines like glass. “Ah,” she says, not even bothering to turn away from her cleaning duties, “I was wondering when you’d come.”

I suppose this is less insulting than her frequent charges of my tardiness.

“Was there any difficulty in obtaining 1847BRO-WH’s catalyst?”

I’m annoyed she asks such a thing, when I’m confident she already knows the answer. “Outside of the labor, none at all.”

She finally turns around and offers me a wide smile. She is truly beautiful, with thick dark hair and bright eyes more shrewd than kind. “Why, Alice. You and I both know you are no stranger to getting your hands dirty.”

“Contrary to what your crystal ball must tell you, until last night, I had never robbed a grave before.”

Her laugh fills the small room. “Could you relate to Cathy, though?”

It’s a challenge to hold back my irritation. “Dead and possibly a specter?”

“Torn between two loves.”

Honestly, the gall of this woman. I drop the handkerchief-wrapped locket in her outstretched palm, refusing to rise to her bait.

The Librarian unwraps the catalyst and pulls it up by its chain. The small locket is dirty, yet manages to glint in the bright light anyway. “Catalysts are always symbolic,” she muses. “This, for example, represents the enduring struggle between two lovers its owner was torn between during both life and death.” She picks up a small cloth conveniently sitting on her desk and begins to polish the stolen jewelry. “Did you see her ghost, perhaps?”

My answer is clipped. “No.”

“Some people believe that beloved objects such as this can be haunted by their owners.” She flashes me an indulgent smile. “Do you think that possible?”

“If it is,” I say tightly, “Mrs. Linton will be haunting you down here in the Museum.”

Another laugh. “She would have much company then.”

I am mortified to admit the hairs on the back of my neck rise at her throwaway comment, but I refuse to glance around me to verify whether or not the Librarian is telling the truth.

“I have another assignment for you today.”

I temper my impatience. “I intended on spending my day further questioning Rosemary and Jenkins.”

“Unfortunately, Henry Flemming misjudged how much truth serum to administer to F.K. Jenkins,” she says, “and our stock is depleted. I sent word to Victor and Mary. They will be en route to obtain more by morning. Until then, I have an assignment for you.”

Frabjous.

“I’ll need you to go to the New York Public Library and fetch several books for me.”

Fetch, as if I am a canine?!

“They’ll be waiting with a young but enthusiastic librarian named Bianca Jones. She is a local contact of ours, and a valuable one, to boot. Please ensure you show her your best side.” The infuriating woman wraps the locket in a clean cloth from her desk. “You need to get out more, after all.”

So people keep saying to me. I know they mean well, but honestly, nearly a year in modern-day New York City has not found me as acclimatized as one might assume. Everything is so fast and big and loud. Cars race by, people shout into their phones, planes roar overhead, and everyone is in a hurry. There is little leisure remaining in today’s society, it seems. And rather than the embracing the sensation of a breath of fresh air on my outings, I am more apt to wonder if I’m in a fishbowl, trapped by tall buildings and choking on polluted air.

“Your consideration toward my welfare is much appreciated.” My words are cool, though.

“Also, I need you and Finn to head upstate to purchase a pair of books for me tomorrow, ones associated with stories mentioned upon the Ex Libris wall. I mentioned the acquisition to Finn a few weeks back, but . . .” Her lips press together ruefully. “Things have been chaotic around here. He may have forgotten. I’ll have all the details sent to you within the hour so you can better acquaint yourself with them.”

I stifle the urge to curtsy in the most mocking of ways. I’ve gone from Queen to page, apparently. “I am sure there are much more imperative things to be done here in the pursuit of Todd and the mysterious boss or bosses behind the Timeline deletions.”

“We have people working on it.” Her tone remains friendly, although now laced with steel. “These matters are crucial to the workings of the Society. I would not send you and Finn if I did not think it essential.”

She’s utterly maddening.

Minutes later, we have woven our way through rows of catalysts until we reach the locket’s latest resting place. The glass-faced security box is already open and waiting, its golden light focused on a small velvet-covered necklace display situated in the middle. As she arranges the chain around the stand, she says lightly, “Ghosts are not always white-robbed specters, howling or weeping in misery. And yet, all of us are haunted by ghosts, Alice. Even you.”

She says this like I am not painfully aware of how my past haunts me on a daily basis. “What or who are your ghosts?” I challenge.

When she shuts the door to the case and locks it with both metal key and key card, it appears as if she might answer my query. There is sadness on her lovely face, regret that I’ve not seen before. But like the ghosts we are discussing, the emotion vanishes quickly without lingering trace. “I hope, in the coming weeks, you will trust your instincts. Ghosts cannot always be rationalized with, unfortunately.”

Her about face is most peculiar and exasperating all at once.

“Be careful on the way out.” She taps the side of her chin thoughtfully. “One might worry we’ve roused the dead with all of our talk.”

Midway through an uncouth eye roll, a hint of gut-wrenching crying surfaces somewhere deep within the Museum, followed by a few notes of giggles that rise slightly above the strain of the Librarian’s beloved elevator music.

I stare at the woman in front of me. She simply studies me in return.

I turn and leave without another word.

Immense and beautiful, the New York Public Library stretches wide and lovingly down its street. Lions guard the stairs leading up to the doors and people mill about. It is a stately structure, one that cannot help but demand notice on a day as fine as this one.

Inside, I make my way through a gleaming hall to the main reading room. Chandeliers dangle over rows of tables with brass lamps lining the sides. Above soars a painted cloud ceiling surrounded by gilded, carved designs. The walls are lined in marble and books, and rather than the room feeling small and crowded, I’m left in awe of its expansive nature. Dozens of people are reading and circulating about in the quiet yet warm atmosphere.

In a world riddled with technology, it does my heart good to see value still placed in words and pages. Although, I might not inform the Librarian of this, considering she might just lord it over me in that supercilious yet cryptic way of hers.

I wander throughout the library until I locate an information desk. A helpful man sends me back into the main reading room, toward the far end. There, with a cart of books at her side, is the person I’m looking for.

I stroll up to her and clear my throat. “Forgive me for interrupting your work, Ms. Jones, but my name is Alice Reeve. I’ve been sent on behalf of—”

The petite, lovely woman before me, her hair a gorgeous riot that stands tall and wide around her head, drops the book she’s holding. She whispers, “Oh. My. God.” And then, faster,
“Ohmygod.”

I glance around us to see if there is a commotion I am unaware of.

One of her slim, brown hands latches onto my arm, startling me. “I am your biggest fan.
Seriously.”

I have no idea what is happening right now.

She lets go, as if she’s just realized she’s possibly left bruises, she was holding onto me so tightly. The book on the floor is quickly reclaimed and shoved onto a shelf. And then, whispering, “I’ve probably read your stories like a hundred times apiece. I’ve seen all the movies. Was first in line to see the last one—you know, the one that was all crazy and dark and featured the Mad Hatter as the hero?”

Well, now I’ve heard it all. The Hatter a hero? What utter rubbish.

Nonetheless, she’s still talking. “I was totally hoping you two would hook up in the movie—”

As I’ve finally learned what
hooking up
means, I’m appropriately and fully disgusted.

“I’m babbling, aren’t I? I am so sorry. It’s just . . . I’m obsessed with all things Wonderland. You are—” Her hands flap between us. “God, you’re like a thousand times more beautiful than the girl who played you in the movie.” She points to her flat belly. “My husband and I want to name our baby Alice.”

I am speechless. How in the bloody hell does she know who I am?

“Here, let’s go to my office. I have what you need.” And then, as I trail after her, completely oblivious as to what in the blazes is happening right now, she adds, “I hope you don’t mind, but . . . I’d love it if you could sign one of my books for me. And maybe take a selfie?”

I clear my throat again. “I’m sorry, Miss Jones—”

“Please call me Bianca.”

More gently, “Bianca, I’m afraid I haven’t the foggiest idea what a selfie is.”

She finds this hilarious.

Minutes later, we are ensconced within her small office. Before I can ask about the volumes I’ve been send for, she’s digging through her desk, prattling on about a series based on Wonderland she’d read a few years back that were apparently
awesome
in their reimaginings. “The Mad Hatter was an assassin!”

I nearly choke on this absurd bit of information.

“Your love interest in that series was . . .” Bianca extracts a book out of the bottom drawer of the desk. “Some guy. I remember wishing it were the Mad Hatter, though. He was hot in that one. All gritty and manly.”

Honestly, now.
Gritty?
What is with the modern yet absurd romanticizing of the Hatter?

It’s then I notice she’s got a framed picture above her desk of a girl sitting at a long table with a man in a hat, a hare wearing clothes, and a mouse peeping out of a teapot. A sinking feeling tells me that this is supposed to me.

The book is laid open on the desk. A pen is offered. I’m even more perplexed.

“You said you’d sign my copy?”

I stare down at the abhorrent text in horror. Did I agree to such a thing?

“Obviously I promise not to show it to anyone! Or sell it.” She titters nervously. “You can just sign it with your first name.
Ohmygod.
Alice in Wonderland is sitting in my office.”

Oh, for goodness’ sake. Has anyone else from the Society had to go through such a surreal event as this?

The book is removed once my name is hastily scrawled within. Bianca sidles up behind me, leaning down and placing her head next to mine. Her phone is stuck out in front of us, a picture is taken.