What would I do if I knew an item was safeguarded in an inaccessible location, but still must impossibly obtain? If I did not have enough manpower to lay a proper siege? Fire would do, wouldn’t it? Explosions and damage would do quite nicely.
Wendy ultimately failed. She was overtaken and nullified by agents, therefore bringing her reign of terror to an end. What if she was fighting to resist the Piper’s lure, just as Sara has? Small, timed explosions were detonated, rather than simply dousing curtains and papers and crafting trails of fire. Wendy was strategic in her placements. No one perished during her attack. According to Jack, not one agent was seriously injured.
She protected her colleagues and loved ones, no matter what anyone else might surmise. Wendy might have wreaked havoc within these walls, but, as one who has lived through warfare all too often, I know the damage could have been exponentially worse.
Wait a golden afternoon moment.
Harry is in the kitchen, arguing with the chef over dish cleaning duties.
“We have a dishwasher!” Monsieur Florent, an older gentleman who trained to become a chef for the Society after a run-in with the law in his Timeline, throws up his hands. “There is no need for you to do this!”
The translator, a soft-spoken German woman by the name of Charlotte, patiently conveys this to Harry. In return, the former servant holds a stack of dirty dishes closer to his chest. “It is no trouble.”
Florent bangs on a stainless-steel-covered machine. “This is a dishwasher. It will clean the dishes for us! Simply put in the dirty dishes!” Charlotte rapidly converts this as the chef wrenches open the door. Before she is finished, Florent snatches the plates from Harry’s hands and slots them between thin white pegs. The door clicks closed and a button pushed. “Vóila! In an hour, they will be spotless.”
As Charlotte tells him this, Harry warily eyes the machine, as if it will spit the dishes back out at us like a catapult.
I withhold my amusement and offering greetings instead.
Florent’s smile stretches wide. “Ah! Mademoiselle Alice. Might you want some of those tarts you favor? I baked some today, just in case.”
“You are too kind.” And I am too weak to refuse what he offers, especially since they are rather tasty. “Harry, might I have a word with you?”
“Yes!” Florent shoves a few tarts into Harry’s hands, too. “I shall finish up in here while you two enjoy your late-night treat.”
With that, I take Harry’s arm so we might be shooed away from the kitchen, back into the dining room. Charlotte joins us as conversation flows much more quickly when I must not hunt for words.
Harry asks, “How may I help you, my lady?”
It is wondrous what a mere day of freedom can do to a person, although I am fully cognizant of how so much of his helpfulness, the busyness, are necessary for maintaining a hold on sanity. “I have a problem, Harry, and I am hoping you might offer me counsel on how to solve it.”
His lined face wrinkles even further as Charlotte conveys this. “Me, my lady?”
We sit at an empty table. The dining room’s lights have dimmed; its music quieted. “All I require is knowledge. Nothing more.”
When he savors his tart, it’s as if he fears it may be the last to ever pass his lips. “I am happy to share what I know about Koppenberg.”
“And I appreciate that.” I modulate my tone so that it is soothing rather than demanding. “I am specifically interested in what you may know about the book—or codex—that sat in between the thrones.”
After Charlotte translates this, the remaining tart languishes upon the table, forgotten as shadows once more descend upon Harry. Lips white, his attention darts around the room.
“You are safe. Do not fear punishment for speaking, as there will be none. Nor will there be any if you choose to hold silent.”
He licks his lips, catching tart crumbs in the corners, chin quivering. “The debased are forbidden to speak of the holy Codex of Life and Death.”
Before I can argue, Charlotte swiftly reminds Harry that no one is debased, let alone him.
“Is that what the Chosen call it?” I press. “The Codex of Life and Death?”
His nod is jerky. The quivering spreads.
Charlotte says to me, “Although I am certain you are in need of answers, remember this is a person who has suffered greatly.”
I do not allow my irritation to show. “That is true, and I grieve for such atrocities. However, there is a madman and his cult who have the power to destroy Timelines running amuck, and time is not our friend.”
Harry asks, “Did I do something wrong, my lady?”
I smile gently. “Of course not. May I ask what is it that makes the Codex of Life and Death holy?”
“I do not know much, my lady.” He wrings his bony hands so much so that the skin stretches back and forth like ancient, tanned leather too thin for usefulness. “The Lord and Lady of the Mountain call it so, and that to touch it without permission is to court a fate worse than death.” His stares at the half-eaten tart. “Those who do so enter the dungeons to never return.”
I think of the young man I encountered in that foul place, and of how he begged for death’s release.
“The Codex speaks to the Lord and Lady, and they in turn preach to the Chosen. The debased are not permitted to hear its secrets, or enter the hall when its rapture is called forth.”
Its rapture. Not the Piper’s.
I ask, “To whom do the Chosen owe their allegiance? The Piper and the thirteenth Wise Woman, or to the Codex?”
“They are the Lord and Lady’s disciples.” His lanky hair swings across his brow. “The Codex belongs solely to the Lord and Lady of the Mountain.”
“Do you know how to read the book?” I press gently. “Or perhaps coax it to share its secrets?”
His entire frame droops. “No, my lady. I cannot read at all.”
“Perhaps you can learn now, if you like. There is always time to learn to read.” He smiles when Charlotte conveys this. “I thank you for answering my questions, Harry. Shall we take the others some tarts, as well? Do you think they would like that?”
We three pester Florent for more desserts, and he grumbles good naturally before packing a basket filled with more than mere tarts. Good food, he often tells the Society, is not a privilege that only the fat and wealthy ought to enjoy. It ought and should be enjoyed by everyone.
Finn and Van Brunt are seated next to Victor’s bed, cell phones out, folders and papers strewn haphazardly across their laps and the floor. When Finn notices my approach, he yawns behind the crook of his elbow. “Is Mary all right?”
“She’s asleep in my bed. Has there been any change?”
Finn stands, stretching his arms high above his head. A small swath of skin peeks out between shirt and jeans. “Some spikes in his brainwaves, which the doctors consider a good sign, but that’s about it.”
Once again, I must trust in the impossible. I must believe that Victor will wake.
When Van Brunt also yawns, stooped in his chair, he attempts to hide his exhaustion behind papers. That quickly changes as soon as I reveal the contents of my conversation with Harry. Within seconds, he types a message to the Librarian, informing her to expect us in the Museum within a quarter of an hour. A quick conference with Dr. Addu follows before we’re off to descend into the bowels of the Institute for the second time in a day.
The Librarian peers through an overly large magnifying glass at the spine of the book. “The Codex of Life and Death, you say?”
“Have you heard of it?” Van Brunt queries. We are all hovered around her desk—and the Codex.
It presents as so benign, despite its gilded edges, as nothing more than an antique book touched by time and use.
One of the Librarian’s blue eyes appears ginormous behind the warped glass. “Not specifically.”
Finn pulls out his cell phone and taps upon the screen. A moment later, he holds it out for us to see. Pictured are
Egyptian figures and hieroglyphics. “What about the Book of the Dead?”
A smirk tugs at one corner of the Librarian’s mouth as she sets the magnifying glass down. “Certainly, one would think of such an association, considering the name.”
Finn opens the Codex to one of its many blank pages. “Not to mention the pages are reminiscent of papyrus.”
“No single text of the Book of the Dead exists outside of movies, unfortunately.” The Librarian rings for Jack to bring down a fresh pot of tea. “It is, however, mentioned in surviving scrolls, but if there ever was a canonical Book of the Dead, it has long been lost. Most of what was written were upon objects, rather than scrolls anyway.”
“Could not this be it?” I prompt. “If it is, in fact, missing—”
She shakes her head, effectively silencing my argument. “Try as you might, this is not papyrus. It’s similar, but whatever plant was used is not native to this world.” She taps a finger against her plump lips. “Egyptians did not bind their books. Although, I certainly cannot rule out that these pages weren’t bound at a much later date. Nevertheless, the Book of the Dead consisted of so-called spells and instructions on how to lead a soul into the afterlife. It served funerary functions.”
I dig my heels in. “How can you be certain that this does not?”
“Because of what your slave described.” She plants her hands down upon either side of the book, managing once more to loom over me despite being shorter. “Think, Alice. What do we know about the Piper and his actions? He is choosing which Timelines to destroy and which ones to leave be, possibly due to influence from this book. He has assembled an army of devoted followers who move in and out of rapture, a state we now know is associated with the Codex. It is considered a holy book, and while the Book of the Dead could be dubbed as such, it certainly did not discuss ways to bring about the destruction of life. Instead, it focused on how to ensure the dead found comfort in the afterlife. Can we honestly say that the Piper offers such considerations for those he destroys?”
She may be maddening, but the enigmatic lady makes an excellent point.
“As Harry aptly told you, this is the Codex of Life and Death, and we must assume that it consists of both stages of existence.” She sweeps out a hand, knocking several unrelated books onto the ground before whirling to face the other direction, her face contorting into something . . . monstrous. Something craggy and hideous.
I stumble back a step, startled enough to instinctively reach for a weapon.
What did I just witness?
A quick glance shows neither Van Brunt nor Finn alarmed. In fact, Van Brunt rounds the desk, his view of her face clear. “You are not omnipotent, old friend, no matter how much you may wish otherwise.”
Rue riddles her chuckle. When she angles her head toward him, I find smooth skin, blue eyes, the same beautiful face I have known for nearly a year. “My ego does not accept defeat well, even if temporary.”
Had I imagined the whole thing?
As Van Brunt encourages her to keep trying, Finn flips through the pages of the Codex, confusion drawing fresh lines by the second. He brushes across the textured surfaces—not horizontally, but vertically. Up and down, up and down. And then, a flurry of blinking has him jerking away. He rubs his eyes, wincing.
I touch his arm. “Are you all right?”
He startles, as if he hadn’t remembered I was still standing next to him. The Librarian and Van Brunt quiet, turning to face us.
I snatch a disposable tissue from the Librarian’s desk and hold it to his nose. “You’re bleeding.”
He takes the tissue from me, the confusion lines on his forehead doubling. “It’s nothing. Just a nosebleed.”
“May I ask as to why you were running your fingers up and down in the Codex?”
Finn throws away the tissue; the blood has slowed. He shakes his head. “It’s the damndest thing but . . . for a moment there, I thought I saw something.”
Quick as the Dodo in the Caucus race, the Librarian’s attention hones in on Finn. “Such as?”
He squints, staring at the pages once more. “I don’t know. Something glowing and golden, but really faint.” He shakes his head again, and another thin stream of blood snakes from his nostril. I pass over another tissue.
There is nothing upon the Codex’s pages, faint or otherwise.
“Do you still see them?” the Librarian presses.
He dabs at his nose with a fresh tissue. “No. I must be tired.”
She tries again. “Could it have been words? Pictographs?”
When he doesn’t answer, I say, “Whatever they were, they are situated vertically, not horizontally. Correct?”
Finn winces so hard that he drops the bloody tissue.
The Librarian swiftly skirts around her desk and snatches Finn’s chin to crane his head toward her. Despite his nose continuing to bleed, he’s startled enough to allow it. Outraged at her misplaced sense of propriety, I hand over another tissue and reach to knock her hand away—only to have Van Brunt stop me.
She stares up at the man I love, her countenance terrifyingly serious, as she angles his head left and right. Finn snaps, “What the hell are you doing?”
As if he’s on fire, she lets go of Finn. Before another word is said, Van Brunt’s phone chirps. He reads the message and announces, “Victor’s eyes have opened.”
I CAN BEST DESCRIBE the blue-green and brown balefully focusing into the distance as eerie as all hell.
“Victor?” Dr. Addu flashes a penlight in front of my brother’s face. “Can you hear me?”
His head totters in an attempted nod, like it’s perched atop a coil rather than a solid neck. Eyelids lower and flutter. Cracked lips are sloppily licked as he attempts to focus on the doctor, on the people standing around him, Brom and me included.
His mouth forms a silent oh.
Dr. Addu pulls his stethoscope off his neck and inserts the buds into his ears. He presses the pad against Victor’s chest and listens for several seconds. “Are you in any pain?”
Victor smacks his lips together, his tongue clumsy, as if it were two times too big for his mouth. Suddenly, the door to the medical wing flies open and Alice and Mary barrel through it.
“Victor?” Mary rushes the bed. She seizes the hand closest to where she lands. “You scared me, you big lout, staying asleep as you have!”
His attention wavers toward her, tongue lolling.
“What’s wrong with him?” she demands of Dr. Addu. “Why is he acting like this?”
Brom says quietly, “Ms. Lennox, please allow the doctor to finish his checkup. There will be time enough for questions later.”
“Victor.” The doctor reclaims my brother’s attention. “Are you in any pain?”
“Pain?” Mary’s voice could shatter glass, it’s so shrill. “Alice, go to my lab, fetch the morphine.”
Alice does no such thing as Victor’s dark eyebrows pull down even farther.
He wobbles a no. No pain.
Thank God.
“I’m going to do a few tests, Victor,” Dr. Addu continues. “Just to check your reflexes.”
The bed is adjusted, so Victor is upright rather than prone. Despite his bobble head tendencies, he does not topple over. Brom and I ready ourselves on either side of him, just in case.
Addu pricks the fingers of hand and arm we are certain are Victor’s. My brother jolts, annoyance flashing across his face. The other hand is pricked, and he registers pain in it, too. Both feet are tested. He has feeling in both, which blows my mind, considering I know damn well one of those legs isn’t his. Addu tests every bit of Victor’s body that has been determined to be foreign, and yet my brother feels every single prick. How is this possible? Like Alice and me, he was only in the mountain for a few days. How can nerves connect, muscles knit together, and bones mend seamlessly in such a short time? Transplants are tricky, and often require time to take. Oftentimes, they are rejected. Victor’s patchwork before us acts as if i
t is the body he was born with.
His hearing is checked. His vision, too. Addu even brings out that rubber hammer doctors use for knees. More blood is taken. Dozens of yes or no questions are asked, checking for comprehension. Although clearly confused and often annoyed, Victor does not resist any of it.
As Addu confers with his colleagues, Mary morphs into an unfamiliar mothering figure who cannot sit still. She plumps Victor’s pillow, not once, but three times. She adjusts his shirt and tucks in the sheets “just the way Victor prefers”—tight on the sides, but loose on the end, so he can stick his feet out if needed. She dabs at the corner of his mouth, wiping away saliva. She coos to him in the gentlest tone I’ve ever heard Mary Lennox use.
Each time Brom or I come in too close, she shoos us back.
Victor warily follows her actions the entire time. As the minutes pass, his head grows steadier, his focus less imbalanced. Hands and feet twitch in what appears to be an effort to move. His lips pull together and contort as a visible frustration mounts.
When Mary adjusts the sheet for a second time, ensuring a penny could bounce off of its taut surface, Victor catches hold of her shirt.
She ceases tucking. Her face lights up. “Yes, my darling?”
He screws his face up, mouth moving. Mary is so entranced that, when we all close in, she doesn’t push us away.
His first attempted word is little more than a slur. I say, “Take it easy, okay? There’s no need to rush,” but Mary hushes me.
“Talk to me, darling.” She wipes away more drool. “Is there something you need?”
He takes a deep breath. As if it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done, Victor says, “Gee hway.”
Mary leans in closer. “What’s that?”
Suddenly, Victor lets go of her shirt and snatches at her hair. “Gee hway!” The volume increases significantly. His mismatched eyes blaze. “GEE HWAY!”
Mary yelps and jerks away, straight into Alice. A sizable chunk of her hair remains tangled in her boyfriend’s fist, like it’s a hard-won trophy.
The Lost Codex Page 14
