“It is a broad term that has long painted women of magic.” Her shrug is elegant, dismissive. “It will suffice for the time being.”
Finn chooses, like I, to remain standing, his body drifting closer to mine. “I don’t remember a lot of our encounters, to be honest. What I do. . .” He bites his lip. “The images blur together, like watercolors left out in a rainstorm. Like dreams, I guess.”
“How many times did you see her?” My question is hoarse, tainted with too much trepidation.
A weighted minute or so passes. The Librarian slowly loops around him, us, her eyes slits as she traces every inch of his body. His, not mine, although it feels as if her sight passes straight through my skin and bones so that it can find his. “No, don’t try to answer.” She ceases pacing. “You won’t be able to.”
A small flinch shudders across his shoulders. “Why not?”
Rather than answer him, the Librarian wanders back to her desk for her teacup. “Remember what we discussed, Alice. I’ll see you two when Brom returns tonight.” Then she pivots and heads into the catalyst stacks.
“What did you two discuss?” Finn asks as she disappears around a corner.
I tell him the truth. “I honestly have no idea.”
THE COMMUNAL DINING HALL is busy—not with Society agents, but with folks still shook up from a swift exit out of their original Timeline. Up until the day before, while many witnessed various advanced technologies brought back into Koppenberg Mountain, none had personally visited worlds where society advanced beyond slavery. There are still lots of tears and many folks who drift hesitantly, as if fortune will change in the blink of an eye. Too many stoop when standing or shy away from those who do not share the bonds of Koppenberg slavery. I don’t blame them, not after what I experienced in that hellhole. All we can do is give them space and as much comfort as possible. We’ve brought in a translator to help erase the wall erected by language. Our guests are clean and wearing new clothes. They are under the care of excellent physicians. Their bellies are as full as they wish them to be.
It’s a start.
“We ought to officially present ourselves,” Alice told me after our meeting with the Librarian. “Especially you, as the standing official representative for the Collectors’ Society.”
It was the queen in her, thinking about the concerns of others. And it’s the same now as she benevolently commands the room, inquiring about health, sleep, and necessities. When men and women drop to their knees before her, offering their names and clutching her hands as they press kisses against her skin, she soothingly reminds them that they owe her no service, nor should they bow before her. Their days of service are done, if that is what they wish. More tears flow, along with gratitude. Harry, the de facto spokesman of the group, talks briefly about the hope of new mornings. Strangers wish both Alice and me well, thanking us for risking much to ensure their safety. Prayers are offered in our names, and I cannot help but wonder if this is what Alice’s life was like back in Wonderland.
As lunch of pizza is served, which is met with both suspicion and then delight. Harry joins us in passing out drinks and napkins. Alice encourages him to sit down and eat, but he stubbornly insists on helping out. “Too many here have only served. None know what it is like to be served.”
Once everyone has what they need, Alice ushers Harry to a table. I bring him a couple slices of pepperoni and some salad. As he pokes at the melted, greasy cheese, Alice asks, “Did two gentlemen by the names of Henry Fleming and Franklin Blake come to speak with you?”
“Indeed they did, my lady. I was happy to talk to them and answered as many questions as I could.” A black smudge of defeat appears. “And yet, I feared what would happen if they were to discover my betrayal.”
“You have betrayed no one,” Alice assures him. “A person belongs to themself, and no one else.”
It’s not entirely true, though. I hold no illusions or grudges that my heart belongs to her. Willingly, though. Consensually.
She continues, “Allow me to promise you and the others that we will do everything within our powers to ensure your continued safety.”
When he gazes upon her, it’s with adoration. It’s another thing I can’t blame him for. I look at her the same way, like she’s the brightest star in the sky.
As they discuss the definition and merits of psychological counseling, especially in light of the risk of rapture, I focus more on Alice than what she’s saying. On how her shoulders remain straight and strong when she speaks to others, only softening in private. On how her voice changes, too—how she is so self-assured and steady in any public situation, yet when she pushes past the queenly veneer, there’s a heartbreaking quality to everything she says. Her hands, elegant and pale, can alternately serve as weapons and yet deliver kindness and bliss.
Before Alice, the concept of love was nebulous. I grew to love my family. There were friends I loved, like Jim. Attraction and lust ruled intimate relationships. Once upon a time, I thought I might be in love, but after a month of hot sex and little else, Avery and I decided we were better off friends. I wasn’t broken by the transition; in fact, I was relieved when we shifted gears. There were no tears on either side and neither of us argued about the switch. When Avery and I get together nowadays, always as mere friends, that month never comes up. One night, after too many beers, Victor insisted that was how one knew if it was love or not: if it left a mark, a hole, if it lingered . . . it was real.
I trace the curve of Alice’s lips, the bow that forms at the top, with the paintbrush of my mind. If she were to walk away from me today. . .
I wish that we’d met under different circumstances. If only life and death weren’t commonplace occurrences. That, instead, we could debate restaurants and movies rather than ways to bring down a mass murderer. I want us to go dancing, rather than travel to distant lands in order to find ways to save one another. I wish that guns and swords and homicidal maniacs were not the norm.
But I would never wish her away.
When I was in Koppenberg’s torture chamber, I held fast to a daydream. If I lived through a minute, an hour, the day, I promised myself, I would be that much closer to finding out whether or not my hopes would ever become realities. Alice and I were older, in my dream, and were at a kid’s birthday party. My arm was around her; her head was on my shoulder. Someone who looked an awful lot like Alice, but had my hair color, bent over the child, reminding them to blow out the candles on their cake.
I want that. I want that pretty damn bad.
I want her. Forever. She owns me as much as any person can own another without the chains of slavery.
Brom and Mary arrive ten minutes after sunset. They come up from the garage, indicating whatever mission they were on most likely meant car rather than editing pen.
We convene in the conference room, which will have to serve double duty as his office until the other is officially renovated. He claps me on the shoulder but rethinks the action, pulling me into a bear hug. “Glad you made it home, son.” More loudly, as he pulls away, “You worried us by staying away so long.”
Mary says nothing, but there’s no need to. Her questions are written plain as day across her pinched face.
Brom tosses a rain-slicked wool coat onto the back of a chair. “Where is Victor? Call him and let him know that we must debrief the past week’s events.”
I can do this.
Only, as I open my mouth, I can’t. Any coherent words are themselves sucked into the event horizon of the black hole inside me.
Alice shakes out Brom’s coat before hanging it on a nearby coat rack. “Victor is currently within the medical wing, under the care of a number of physicians and specialists.”
Mary bolts for the door, but the A.D. swiftly blocks her from barreling through.
“Let me out lest you wish to become a eunuch.” It’s as sinister of an order as Mary has ever issued.
No matter how hard she shoves, he refuses to budge. “Stop flirting, lu
v, and give Her Majesty a bit o’ time to explain everything.”
Mary’s balled fist swings, only to be caught by Brom.
“Finn,” my father says, “what the hell is going on?” His ruddy face is considerably paler beneath his beard, just like it was the day we discovered our mother’s Timeline was destroyed with her in it.
My mouth is dry. My stomach bottomed out. I ask Mary, “Did you tell him anything about what happened before you left Koppenberg?”
Brom’s sharp, “Tell me what?” fires off at the same time Mary stamps her foot and shrieks, “You have better not failed me, Finn Van Brunt!”
“We, uh, thought it best not to say anything.” A flush steals across the A.D.’s neck. “All we said was that you were still searching for the Piper. Best not to cause a colossal panic amongst the masses.” He crosses his arms, mustering enough courage to meet my father’s intense fury. It’s a miracle he doesn’t collapse in a pile of ash. “But then, the bastard brainwashed Wen into bombing the Institute, and it was assumed he was in New York, or nearby, so. . .” His shrug is tight and defensive.
Brom rounds on me. “I want an immediate explanation.”
I glance at Alice, who steps around the table, toward me. “The A.D. and Mary were sent back to the Institute with a book that we suspected was important. The rest of us, save Grymsdyke, were captured.”
Mary’s fight drains away as she ceases thrashing about. Brom releases her arm, the blood leaching once more from his face. I tell the story behind what happened to Victor, then Alice and me, as simply and unemotionally as possible, which is damn hard. In the end, it’s a woefully piss-poor summation, but too many memories still hold a hazy sheen to them.
Mary’s steps are wobbly. “Victor is here, though? Being tended to by doctors?”
“I’m sorry.” The black hole within me roars hungrily. “I’m so sorry.”
“This is not your fault.” Alice is in front of me, as if she knows I’m at risk of spiraling furthering into the vat of forgetfulness. “You bear no responsibility toward these fiends’ actions.” She fills Brom in on the rest of the details, and those bright Van Brunt eyes move up and down my body, searching for wounds that now live within the black hole inside me. All I see is Mary, crying.
What’s between my brother and Mary is real, too. His pain is her pain.
Only family, including Alice and Mary, head to the medical wing. Fresh paint covers the walls, and the aroma of bleach is strong. Puttering about are more doctors than I originally assumed would be present. New instruments line the walls, along with temporary tables, undoubtedly brought in from various Timelines associated with these men and women. One that lives in New York and moonlights for the Society as needed over the years goes over the litany of Victor’s ailments and miracles for us. While he’s kind, especially to Mary, who cannot keep her focus off of my brother, each new unknown is a blade through skin and muscle. No one can explain how there are four different people’s DNA found in his body, including a blue eye and a black leg. There are no conclusive explanations as to why his bones fail to show any grafts or pins on x-rays, or as to why there are no signs of atrophy in his muscles.
“I know it sounds crazy,” Dr. Addu says to us, his head bobbing up and down thoughtfully, “but if we hadn’t done DNA testing, I would have sworn this is the body he was born with.” He gives Brom Victor’s chart. “We ran every test twice.” He nods toward the others in the room. “We have some calls in to other specialists who we’re hoping will come as soon as possible. I must admit, it’s a bit of a scientific mystery we have here on our hands.”
The paper beneath Brom’s fingers crinkle. “He’s in a coma?”
“Medically induced.” Dr. Addu leans against a counter, lips puckered. “The drug is wearing off, though.” His quiet snort of laughter is in no way indicative of humor. “How in the hell somebody in medieval Germany got ahold of such a drug is beyond me.” He throws his hands up. “Victor ought to wake up within the next twenty-four hours. I wish I could give you a more precise timeframe, but if I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s under magical influences.”
My brother is no longer in the rudimentary icebox we found him in. Instead, he’s on a bed, hooked up to dozens of machines.
“We think whoever did this tried to jimmy up a poor man’s cryogenic system,” Dr. Addu continues. “While drugged, they kept his body temperature down to maintain stasis. They obviously have had some kind of medical training.”
“Why?” Mary’s question is little more than a whisper.
Addu squints behind his thick glasses. “Well, the clean grafting is close to miraculous, and then there’s—”
“No.” She wraps her arms around herself like a blanket. “Why would someone do this to him?”
“Oh! That I honestly don’t know.” It’s said kindly, though. “There’s a whole lot about this situation that’s just baffling, which, given the parameters that the Society is working within, is understandable. More testing and observation are needed before any real conclusions can be drawn.” His mustache lowers as he leans in toward Brom. “If I were you, I’d work whatever ties you have and find Victor an excellent psychologist before he wakes up. He’s going to need one, don’t you think?”
Mary’s fingers curl around my bicep, digging through the cloth and into my skin. “You were gone for four days.”
When I tell her, “I know,” I want to punch my fist through the repaired wall closest to me.
Four days of no protocol.
There must be a similar maw within Mary, too, one that eats up her sarcasm, or even her sense of self, because the woman who leads me over to my brother is a mere shell of the one I’ve known for years. Our black holes grow and merge together into a singular beast, swallowing all of the sound in the room. Time ceases moving as Mary traces each row of stitches drawn upon my brother.
She asks one of the doctors to show us his eyes. The first one peeled back is familiar brown, one that used to sparkle with mischief or mania. The second is a watery blue.
Mary tugs on her sleeves until the fabric covers her hands. “When I was a child, in India, I was my mother’s dirty secret—her ugly, nasty, mean-spirited daughter. Then the cholera outbreak came, killing my parents and my Ayah. Everyone else died or fled. Nobody came looking for me. Nobody remembered me. The only companion I had was a small snake. I don’t normally talk about this, you know.” She rubs her sleeve-covered fists together. “I was found entirely by accident before I, too, could contract the disease.” When she presses a kiss against my cheek, I’m afraid to touch this unfamiliar frail woman before me. “Thank you for remembering him.” And then she drifts out of the room.
Alice touches my shoulder. “I’ll go. She shouldn’t be alone, not after a shock such as this.” Before she leaves, though, she pulls me into her arms.
I am selfish, because I don’t want to let go, not even for Mary.
After she leaves, my father drags a chair over and sits down next to Victor. He takes his son’s hand—his real hand—and clutches it like it’s the line we need to hold on to this man we both love.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I’m so damn sorry, Dad.”
I’m engulfed in another hug as he holds the both of us. “Never say that. I love you, son. You did what you could. I am so thankful for your safety, and that you are home. Both my boys are, and that is what matters.”
In my father’s arms, next to my brother, I cry.
Our family is broken, but we’re still holding on. And we’ll keep doing so.
DUE TO A RATHER questionably decadent serving of absinthe, Mary does not fight me as I steer her toward my bed. She refused to sleep in her own, citing the presence of a pillow that, “reeks like Victor.” By her choice, little was spoken about her love over the past pair of hours. She interrogated me about both my and Finn’s fates, but refused to hear anything about Victor other than Finn’s slaying of his tormentor. That detail brought out the absinthe spoons and fountain,
and a bottle absconded earlier from a visit to a Nineteenth-Century Timeline.
Wherever it came from, her version of the green fairy was much tamer than Wonderland’s.
“Ima glad yer no’ dead.” She yanks on my hair, tripping over her own feet as we cross the threshold into my room.
She is lucky to have a fistful of minimal strands. “I thank you for the concern. I am pleased I am not dead, either.”
“An’ Finn. Though. . .” An unladylike belch that reeks of anise fans my face. I fail to hold back my gag. “Sucks ‘bout the torture.” She jerks out of my grip and plops face down on my bed.
“What sucks is your use of such an uncouth modern slang word.” I wrangle her boots off, which is a more daunting task than one might assume, as she pretends to pedal a bicycle whilst singing (garbling?) a muffled song about someone named Daisy who prefers bicycles built for two.
It requires much cajoling to guide her beneath the covers. I then bring round the waste bin and fetch a glass of water to place upon the nightstand. Light, licorice-y scented snores fill the room.
She deserves her rest.
In the sitting room, I begin a list of known quantities about the Piper and his Chosen. When I note to the mysterious book, I begin a new list: Leather bound; gilded edges; papyrus or similar make; blank; magic.
Why is this book important? It must have been—the Piper and the thirteenth Wise Woman placed it on a golden stand in between their thrones. What had the Chosen guarding me referred to it as? A tome?
No. A codex.
“If this keeps up, heads will roll,” Frau Magrek said.
“They already are,” the ancient jailer responded. “What with the chaos over the codex missing, and the convergence near upon us—”
The absent codex prompted anger and, undoubtedly, panic. The Piper departed Koppenberg Mountain to possibly search for it. The Institute was attacked from within, but the codex was hidden within the one room Wendy could no longer enter.
The Lost Codex Page 13
