The Lost Codex

by Lyons, Heather

  I am once more startled. “Two weeks?”

  The Librarian slowly savors her drink. “Your Caterpillar is dead, is he not? How many other Wonderlandian poisoners are talented enough to concoct mixtures to allow non-natives to leave?”

  “I meant—”

  “I will speak with Jack and Marianne,” she continues, as if I were not speaking at all. “It’s best we leave while it is still dark.”

  I try another quandary. “Why only three sets of provisions, if there will initially be five of us—with the possibility of six to eight in total, once the Van Brunts return from Antarctica.”

  Entirely unruffled, the Librarian tops her cup off. “Brom and the boys know better than to expect us to behave as their pack mules.”

  Mary slowly refocuses. “Who is the fifth in the original party?” She holds out a hand, ticking down fingers. “Me, Alice, Jack, Marianne—”

  “And me, which was clearly stated when you entered the room.” The Librarian adds a bit of honey. “Mary, you really must snap out of this melancholia. If you continue to be slow-witted, we might as well paint a large target on your back.”

  Mary immediately tosses her cup and saucer onto the table, splattering tea onto wood and books. “I beg your pardon.”

  “You will do no such thing. Begging is below you, Mary Lennox. Now clean up this mess. We are in the Institute, not some kind of coastal tavern filled with drunkards and wenches too inebriated to keep their beverages in containers.”

  Although grumbling, Mary does as asked and fetches paper towels from the kitchen. As she mops up the liquid, the Librarian says, “I have come to realize that, from this point forward, my staying behind is no longer a viable choice. The Society has risked, and at times paid, too much for me to allow this. If or when the time comes for me to also pay the steep costs for my travels, I will be ready to accept it.”

  I am the most joyous dog with a juicy bone gifted after months of no treats. “What costs?”

  “That reminds me.” The Librarian sets her saucer and cup onto the silver tray resting on the table. “Mary, I must have a word alone with Alice. Organize our provisions and pack yourself a bag. Do not bother with period clothing. Bring only the necessities; anything else can be obtained in Wonderland. Tell Jack and Marianne to do the same, and then have Jack put out a call to all agents in residence for a mandatory meeting in two hours’ time.”

  Mary is clearly torn about leaving, as she, no doubt, wants answers, too. Muttering beneath her breath, “This is bullshit,” she storms out of my flat.

  I am not such a trusting soldier, though. “If we are to work together outside of the Institute, I expect answers. Why are we only to bring three provisions?” I prod. “You yourself pointed out the addictiveness of Wonderlandian food.”

  Finally, her familiar sly smile emerges. “As your White King ensured his blood runs within you, in order to combat such an occurrence, I figured it was time to put his theory to the test. That said, perhaps you ought to take another dose before we leave, just to be on the safe side.”

  “That takes care of four members of our party. What of the fifth?”

  The corners of her lips curl even higher. “Haven’t you already guessed?”

  Freshly ground dust flakes from my teeth. “Why would you not require such precautions?”

  “The reason I wished to speak privately with you, Alice, is to impart a bit of essential information concerning my participation in the trip.”

  Why do I bother asking anything at all?

  “It must be you. The others are . . . more sentimental, I think.” Slyness melts into something infinitely harder to recognize. “Should the need arise, and you deem it so, do not hesitate to cut off my head.”

  I—what?! Should a Jabberwocky burst through the walls in this moment, I would not be more flabbergasted.

  “Burn it within ten minutes of the act,” she continues. “I urge you to collect my right femur—sharpen it and it will be far more useful to you than any sword. Only the right. The left will. . .” She pauses. “Well. I trust you know your right from your left.”

  To ogle another person is entirely impolite, and yet I am doing fantastically so.

  “Granted, I hope we will not have to come to such circumstances, but one never knows. It’s been a while, and I don’t know if the rush will be too strong to resist.”

  “Who are you?” bursts from me so strongly, I am positive she can feel my words in both her right and left femurs.

  I expect the Librarian to brush me aside, as always, or even deflect my query with one of her own. Instead, her authoritativeness eases into susurration. “Promises are sacrosanct to me. I made several very important ones years ago, when I, along with a handful of others, agreed to found and join the Collectors’ Society. I have sustained those promises, even when they chafed. I chose to do so because of my faith in the Society and its missions. To me, those were far more important than power.” Her attention drifts away from me, to somewhere distant as her eyes lose focus on the tangible. “I am not undertaking this sojourn lightly. But to stay in the shadows, when too many suffer. . .” Her eyes glow in an otherworldly way that leaves me uneasy; the smile she offers is unrecognizable for the face I’ve known for nearly a year. “We must all take a stand, even if the future is unclear.” She pauses. “Even if the devil is both inside and out.”

  Around a dozen Society agents, all of whom deserve a good night’s rest but will surely not get one anytime soon, settle into the conference room. Even Kip, our weapons specialist who normally eschews meetings, has come to listen to the Librarian explain away the Van Brunts’ absences. As she lectures the group, I cannot help but find the enigmatic woman unexpectedly fragile in appearance. Three new bracelets in gleaming black, red, and white bind bird-like wrists. Her ebony hair is wound into a tight bun, her face is wiped clean of the faint traces of rogue and shadow she normally favors. No longer donning high heels, the Librarian metaphorically recedes closer to earth with sensible boots.

  She does not fool me. She is a powerful giant in a child’s clothing.

  “There is no need to bother Abraham or Finn at this time.” The Librarian hands a stack of folders for Jack to pass out. “Henry, you will assume leadership until one or both return.”

  Fleming, only recently returned from the hospital after keeping vigil over Lidenbrock, his partner and closest friend, sputters. “Why not you? Everyone knows you are the foundation of this place.”

  On my second day in the Institute, she told me something quite different. “The Collectors’ Society is somewhat like a living organism. Its members act as functioning body parts. If we were to argue that Brom is the brain, then I would follow as the heart.”

  Fleming’s confusion, however, is matched across the room by all present save those going to Wonderland.

  A haughty look that borderlines insulting is leveled over the tip of the Librarian’s nose. I would find it comical, if she weren’t quite so fierce in appearance. “I can hardly oversee the Institute, let alone the Society, if I am not here.”

  Mild chaos breaks out, only to be quickly, tightly reined in by the Librarian’s stinging clapping of hands.

  “Franklin, I expect you to assist Henry, as needed.” Blake startles in his seat, as if she snapped at him with a whip rather than mere words. “If necessary, you may contact Jo Bhaer for guidance. Despite the night’s injuries, she is aware of the situation.”

  Mr. Holgrave, himself sporting a black eye, raps his fingers against the table. “First Brom, now you? This is unprecedented.”

  Promptly ignoring the chatter, she orders everyone to open their folders. “I trust you will continue monitoring all situations concerning the Chosen, as well as the Institute’s reconstruction. While catalyst collections are on hold for the unforeseeable future, all communications between our organization and liaisons must remain as it ever has. Inside these dossiers, you will find Abraham’s notes concerning your tasks. Expect to find some emails in your
inboxes over the next few hours, too.”

  The conference room’s door groans and then sings as it opens. The most ethereal women I have ever laid eyes upon floats in. Rich copper curls, topped by a thin ruby-clad crown, cascade down her snowy velvet-covered shoulders. “Darling,” she says in an utterly melodious voice, “forgive me if I am tardy.”

  The Librarian warmly takes the woman’s hands, and they press kisses against one another’s cheeks. “Nonsense. Your travel dress is sumptuous. Is it new?”

  The woman hugs the Librarian. “Yes. Would you like one? I will have one made for you.”

  Mary whispers, “What in the bloody hell?”

  I must concur with this assessment.

  The Librarian ushers the woman to the front of the room, and the queen in me ogles the stranger’s lush gown. Tiny pearls and sapphires that mimic her eyes dot the full skirt, forming intricate designs.

  “Allow me to introduce Lady Glinda,” the Librarian says. “She kindly agreed to take charge of the Museum during my absence.”

  Blake’s eyebrows shoot upward. “Glinda, as in . . . the witch from Oz?”

  A titter of interest rolls throughout the room. Clearly, I am the only one who has never heard of the Lady Glinda, let alone of a place named Oz.

  I nudge Mary. She writes on the back of her notes: “Oz is a magical land. Some say it’s similar to Wonderland in many regards. Very, very popular books and movies.”

  Lady Glinda’s blinding-white teeth flash as she bestows a benevolent smile upon her audience. “The very one. Although I rarely depart my homeland, I gladly did so to aid a good friend.”

  A quick, surreptitious glance offers me relief that I am not the only one taken aback by such a warm description of the inscrutable Librarian.

  “Have no fear.” Lady Glinda may be soft spoken, but the company within the conference room hangs upon her words. “I will do everything in my power to maintain the safety of all within the Museum.”

  “As if anyone would have doubts.” The Librarian clasps the woman’s arm. “Come. Meet the fine women and men who have dedicated their lives to the safety and alliances of all Timelines.”

  Mary and I watch in perverse fascination as the Librarian and Lady Glinda take stock of each and every agent present. Only once the majority departs, and those planning on traveling to Wonderland are all who remain, do Mary and I receive our introductions.

  Grymsdyke snuggling (snuggling!) contentedly in the crook of an elbow, the Lady Glinda touches my cheek before kissing my forehead. I fear I ape a statue. “What a strong, beautiful queen you are. I have heard much about you from our shared friend.”

  I nearly choke on my response. I have many names for the Librarian, but friend is not one I would readily use. “I wish I could claim the same.”

  Her laugh is a wind chime tinkle in a warm summer breeze. “The MA is not known for sharing details of its members.”

  Fond amusement curves the Librarian’s lips upward. “Thank goodness for small favors.”

  “What is the MA?” Mary asks.

  “The Magical Alliance, which is an utterly inane, unofficial designation, but we comrades find it droll enough to keep using it.” Lady Glinda glides over to one of the windows as the rest of us attempt to process this latest bit of information. “What a world you have found yourself, my friend. You must miss the simplicity of nature.”

  “There is too much stone,” Grymsdyke grumbles, from the crook of her arm, “and not enough trees.”

  Lady Glinda strokes his bristly fur as if he were none more than a mere kitten, and his hair was not prone to causing fire ants to invade one’s skin.

  “I have grown used to the changes.” The Librarian neatly stacks her notes. “Although, may I hope for your sake that Oz never evolves into this.”

  So many questions erupt in a firestorm within my mind.

  Lady Glinda turns away from the window. “I have been meaning to ask . . . Any success in retrieving Scheherazade’s veil?”

  “Not yet.” A frightful scowl mars the Librarian’s beauty. “I maintain hope that it will be. I trust our agents to eventually locate it.”

  “And we all trust you—Schehera, especially. You can understand her concern, though.” Lady Glinda lifts Grymsdyke and presses kisses on the top of his head. Even I, as fond of the assassin as I am, would never to dare such affection. And yet, he purrs in response.

  The world has truly gone topsy-turvy. What kind of woman is this?

  Mary elbows me. “Scheherazade’s veil . . . Wasn’t that the mission that sent Finn back to Bücherei?”

  If that were the case, does the Librarian perhaps fear something might have happened to the veil? Might it be a catalyst?

  “Of course,” the Librarian is saying. “If only there was a way to test her Timeline without it, though.”

  Lady Glinda turns her liquid gaze toward the Librarian. “Allow me to be frank for a moment. I am uneasy about this trip—and I am not the only one. This unregulated witch—”

  The Librarian’s laugh, while indulgent, borders on harsh, too. “Before you say it, let me formally reject any and all help toward my person. In these dire times, all that can must endeavor to protect vulnerable Timelines until the Society collects their catalysts. That is where help is most needed.”

  Glinda passes Grymsdyke to Jack. The thief awkwardly allows my assassin to climb his arm. “Of course. That is undisputed. I am merely pointing out that if this witch is as powerful as we assume, surely it cannot hurt to—”

  The Librarian holds up a hand. “Allow me this, my friend, and offer me your luck. Now that I have a better understanding of our opponents, the time has come for me to leave the library.”

  Jack, Marianne, Mary, and I remain fastened to the extraordinarily revealing discussion unfolding before us. Grymsdyke, the little brute, has fallen back asleep in the crook of Jack’s neck.

  “There is nothing to prove,” the lady from Oz stubbornly insists.

  Which naturally leads me to wonder what, exactly, the Librarian wishes to prove.

  “Your heart has always been wide and forgiving, Glinda.” The Librarian pats her friend’s cheek. “There is no need to slap a fresh coat of paint over what we all know to be truth. I do not run away from the past. I carry it with me to this day, and will do so until the end. I am as I ever was.”

  “Are any of us perpetually steady, with nary a misstep, stumble, or quiver?” Lady Glinda queries. “Do any of us allow ourselves to stay in a box, unmoving, devoid of thought and choice, afraid and unable to breathe as we make our way through life? This is not the way the worlds work. This is not how magic works. I, and those who know you, am well aware of your facets and embrace them. The Society’s leaders have always been wise in their steady, unbending faith in your abilities and intentions as well.”

  A bit of the Librarian’s formidability thaws. “That is because their intentions have been satisfactory.”

  “As surely are those from these fine folk.” Lady Glinda angles her head toward us.

  The Librarian lifts a brow. “They are still here, aren’t they?”

  Wind chime laughter drifts through the room once more. “It has been delightful meeting you all, although I wish it could have been under kinder circumstances. I offer you my blessings for a safe journey. The Timelines place themselves within your hands.” She links an arm though the Librarian’s. “Now. Let us trek to your Museum, so I might become better acquainted with it.”

  Before she and Glinda walk through the door, the Librarian calls out, “We leave within the hour. Be ready.”

  “What a delightful witch.” If I didn’t know better, I’d say that my fiercest assassin sounds dreamy in his yawning assessment of the Lady Glinda.

  Mary marches over to Jack. “Tell us everything you know about this MA.”

  His eyes widen significantly. “I never heard of ‘em until just now!”

  She jabs a finger against his left collarbone. “You are Brom’s assistant.”<
br />
  He holds his hands aloft. “I swear I ain’t heard of this group before. I din’t even know that the Librarian knew anybody from Oz, let alone Glinda! I mean, excepting that we have the silver slipper catalysts and, well, okay, a liaison, too, but—”

  “They were friendly.” From Mary, the assessment sounds like a curse rather than an observation. “They hugged. When have any of you ever seen the Librarian hug anyone, let alone refer to anyone other than Brom as her friend?”

  “Surely, everyone requires affection,” Marianne offers.

  I focus less upon hugging and more upon another important revelation. “If she belongs to the unofficial, so-called Magical Alliance,” I muse, “we now have proof that the Librarian does possess some level of magical abilities that might very well explain her uncanny knowledge.”

  “But who could she be?” Mary asks. “A witch like Glinda? Quick. Let’s make a list of all the witches and sorceresses we know throughout the Timelines.”

  “This entire conversation is indelicate.” Marianne slams her laptop closed and proceeds to clutch it to her chest. “Discussing our colleague as if she were fodder for a gossip magazine.”

  “Oh, come off your high horse, Miss Georgian manners,” Mary snaps. “Even you must have been dying to know who she really is. For goodness’ sake, no one, save Brom, even knows her given name, let alone if she is from a Timeline or not. Why must we all be an open book when she is allowed her privacy?”

  Hearing Mary issue this defense is amusing and satisfying all at once. I have been banging this drum for some time now, and no one else was bothered enough to agree until this day.

  Marianne stiffens as she enters an absurdly nonviolent standoff with Mary. “It is none of our business.”

  “Of course it is.” Mary’s scowl contorts. “More now than ever. We’re heading into Wonderland, and she’s coming with us. None of us have been in the field with her before. You heard her just now. She was hinting about some kind of nasty past, wasn’t she? Who knows if we can truly trust her?”

  Should the need arise, and you deem it so, do not hesitate to cut off my head.