“You’re holding up quite well.”
I turn away from the wall of pictures. Van Brunt is tugging off his tie as he studies me. Does he expect me to turn to the hysteria he cautioned me against? Or perhaps weep openly over things so foreign that I can’t help but suspect I’ve stepped into yet another Wonderland?
He’s sure to be disappointed, as I am not that helpless, intimidated woman. “Does my lack of hysteria disappoint?”
“Not at all. I’ve studied quite a bit about you, Ms. Reeve. I know that, despite your experiences in Wonderland, you are a staunch realist.”
If only he knew how painfully right he was about that.
The tie is tossed onto a nearby table so he can motion toward the doorway Dawkins so recently departed from. “You must have a dozen questions for me, but for now, I’m afraid you are set for a baptism by fire. We’ve got a situation on hand that requires immediate attention.”
We enter a bright hallway with lights illuminating the ceiling and walls to various other rooms made of glass. This is New York City?
“I thought you brought me here to save Wonderland.”
“Yes, of course,” Van Brunt is saying. “Although, I’m hoping that, once you hear our plight, you’ll want to help save millions of other souls, too.”
A woman exits one of the glass rooms, her hair bright green and her ears filled with silver loops. “I’ll have the report in the conference room in three minutes,” she tells Van Brunt.
“Excellent. Are Finn and Victor back yet?”
The woman shakes her head. “I expect them any minute.” Her pale eyes find me. “Is this her?”
New York, it appears, is a very rude place.
Van Brunt nods distractedly, and she murmurs, “Thank god.” She looks me up and down. “Would you like me to get you some new clothes?”
Ah. Now she’ll address me.
The green-haired woman is wearing the same type of bluish trousers Jack was sporting as well as a sleeveless tight, thin top. While my blouse and shirt aren’t the height of fashion—and why would they be, as I’ve been lounging around the Pleasance for months—I’m certainly more properly attired than she is. “Do you find fault with what I’m wearing?”
“I got rid of my corset the moment I could.” Hands riddled with at least a dozen rings span her waist. “I’m assuming that, even though you came from a sanitarium, you’re still wearing yours.”
“An asylum,” I correct. And then, because I can’t help myself, “For the insane.”
If this fazes her, she does not let on.
“Tick-tock, Ms. Darling,” Van Brunt says.
Ms. Darling lets out a ringing peal of a laugh. “Oh, Brom,” she says as she sashays away, “you are really too much sometimes.”
“Brom?” I ask once she’s turned a corner.
He shrugs. “A nickname for Abraham.”
As we head down the hall and around a bend, I ask, “You claim you are part of an organization. Does it have a name?”
“We are currently within the headquarters for the Collectors’ Society.”
“What is it you collect, sir? Children’s canes? Or catalysts?”
He’s impressed. “We collect catalysts amongst other things.”
Why do I get the impression he’s just collected me? “Unless I am mistaken, a catalyst is an item or event that is the cause of important events.”
“Indeed it is.”
We arrive at a door bearing a plaque that reads: Conference Room. He pushes it open and ushers me inside. While the wall facing the doorway is all glass, so is the wall facing outside—windows stretch from floor to ceiling, allowing me to view a skyline unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
I side skirt a large table occupying the bulk of the room, ignoring the chattering from the few people already seated until I reach the glass. I am apparently in a building that soars high into the sky, as what lies below is tiny. There are roads filled with fast-moving objects and other vehicles of sorts buzzing in the air nearby as they circle similar tall buildings. My hands press against the cool panes as I stare out, agog at what I’m seeing.
London is a busy, majestic city. The four Courts in Wonderland are massive, elaborate architectural masterpieces. And yet nothing I’ve seen before comes close to the sights before me.
I quietly clear my throat and embrace the fortitude that has served me well in the past. “I have seen photographs of New York City, Mr. Van Brunt. None resemble this."
The door opens and brings with it a freckled woman with an indistinguishable hair color. Is it blonde? Red? Brunette? Honestly, it’s a combination of all three in a muddied mixture that can best be described as light. “They’re still not back?” She lets out a dramatic sigh. “I thought for sure they would be.”
Van Brunt acknowledges her with a quick nod before telling me, “I can assure you that this is New York City, Ms. Reeve. Your questions lead to where you are. Perhaps you are best served asking me when.”
Surely, I’ve misheard him. “Are you indicating we’ve time traveled?”
“You’ve journeyed to Wonderland and returned to tell the tale. Are you so sure time travel does not exist, either?”
The freckled woman rounds the table. “Brom, I see you’ve done yet another poor job at bringing your latest charges up to speed.” She sticks her hand out. “I’m Mary Lennox.”
I take her hand; unlike Jack Dawkins’ before, her grip is firm from start to finish. “I’m Alice Reeve.”
Papers rustle. Somebody at the other end of the room sputters, “But . . . I thought her name was Liddell?”
“Don’t be daft,” somebody else mutters. “That’s Carrollean, not text.”
What in the bloody hell is Carrollean? And how in the world would they know my father’s name, when all I’ve used since my return has been my mother’s surname?
“Oh, believe me,” Mary is saying, “I know exactly who you are. I’m pleased to finally make your acquaintance.”
Unlike the woman in the hallway, Mary is wearing a dress, albeit a short one that barely grazes her knees. It’s black with sleeves halfway down her arms, and her shoes have heels several inches tall decorated with leopard spots. She’s British, though, her accent similar to mine, if not a bit dulled.
“I’d hoped to have more time to ease Ms. Reeve in,” Van Brunt says, “but I received word of the attack.”
“Has Wendy brought in the details yet?”
Van Brunt pulls a chair out for me just to the side of his at the head of the table. “She will be with us momentarily.”
Mary sits directly across from where I am, depositing a satchel covered in flowers on the table. As she digs through it, she snaps, her words filled with heat, “We cannot allow this continue!”
“A fact I am well aware of, Ms. Lennox.”
The person next to me, a man of indistinguishable age, pounds his fist against the table. “That makes the third Timeline in a year! We must find this madman before it’s too late!”
“Believe me,” Van Brunt says, “you will find there is none in this room or indeed in the Society more dedicated to just such a purpose, Mr. Holgrave.”
“Every day I live in fear,” the man cries. “I wonder if it will be my Timeline next. My family that—”
Van Brunt smoothly cuts him off. “I do not think there is a single soul within the Society who feels differently, least of all myself.”
Holgrave slumps in his chair, chastised. “My apologies, old friend.”
The woman with green hair—Wendy Darling, is it?—materializes in the doorway whilst carrying a slim, silver rectangle. “Sorry for the delay, but my fricking computer crashed again. We really need to upgrade the network, Brom.”
“Do what you must, Ms. Darling.”
As Wendy comes to the front of the table with her metal box, Mary taps her writing instrument against the table. “Part of the problem is it’s becoming increasingly more difficult to identify catalysts, let alone targets. If only ther
e was a pattern to track.”
Wendy flips open the box she’s carrying; a lid, attached, shows photographs while the bottom portion of the inside box resembles a typewriter.
Curiouser and curiouser.
Van Brunt scoots his chair to the side, making more room for Wendy’s box. “Nobody ever said madmen are reasonable.” An apologetic glance is thrown my way, as if I might take offense to his characterizations of the insane.
I give him a cool smile. “Have no fear about speaking ill of those who attack innocents, if this is indeed what we are discussing. But I would like to know more about what kind of madman you are referring to. Is it a Wonderlander?”
It’s Mary who answers. “Tell me, do you read much?”
I ignore how the hairs on my arms bristle at her inappropriately timed question. “I do, but I am afraid that is a pleasure I have not had much time to indulge in over the past few years.”
“But you did once, no?”
I keep my answers as impersonal as possible. “I believe most children enjoy stories.”
“Yet, you are familiar with the basic tenants of most books, are you not? There is typically a villain, or at least somebody or something that thwarts the main character’s journey or growth.”
“I thought we were here to discuss an attack,” I say. “Or to even, as per Mr. Van Brunt, bring me up to speed on whatever it is the Collectors’ Society does. And yet, you wish to waste time discussing the finer parts of storybooks?”
Her eyes, filled with amusement and surprise, flick toward Brom.
I am sorely tempted to remind this woman that I am sitting here, and if she has any further comments concerning my character, they ought to be voiced to me and not Van Brunt. But Mary doggedly continues her book lecture before I am given a chance to follow through. “I promise that the two are related. The point I was trying to get at was that in books you are often led to know who the villain is early on. Unfortunately, we do not know the name or identity of the ultimate villain in this situation is yet. But I can almost guarantee it is not someone from your Timeline.”
This is the third time the term Timeline has been used.
At the front of the room, Wendy says, “We’re all set up. Should we wait for Finn and Victor?”
“No.” Van Brunt rolls his chair to the side. “They will be able to catch up. Ms. Darling, I’ll let you run the presentation.”
The lights in the room dim and then disappear; behind me, dark shades are lowering across the windows. An image flashes on a screen behind the head of the table, one of a book. There is what appears to be a windmill on the cover, and a thin man mounted upon a horse.
“At approximately five-thirty a.m., Greenwich Mean Time, communication with the Timeline associated with Don Quixote was severed.” Wendy points what I can best describe as a small black clicker in her hand toward the picture; the screen changes from the image of book to a listing of facts. What magic is this? “As many of you know, Don Quixote has been one of the strongest, oldest Timelines in existence, so naturally, we were alarmed at the lack of contact.”
I stare up at the screen. It says:
Nickname: Don Quixote
Official title: The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha
Author: Miguel de Cervantes
Timeline origin: 1605, with modifications in 1615
Designation: 1605CER-DQ
First contact: 15 June 1951
Current liaison(s): Mateo Serrano / 23 February 2011
Catalyst: Unknown
Status: DELETED
“Repeated attempts were made to edit,” Wendy continues, “but all failed. An emergency signal was triggered, but no response followed.”
Questions tickle the tip of my tongue, but I bite them back. For now, I will observe and glean what I can. After all, isn’t that a lesson the Caterpillar taught me well?
The picture on the wall changes again. A colored photograph of a serious man with matching dark hair and eyes stares down from above. In his hands is a book that bears the title from the previous pictures.
“Last contact with Serrano was approximately two-and-a-half weeks ago during a routine check-in. Here is his last communique.”
The picture changes once more. Instead of a still photograph, the man on the wall moves. He leans back, but quickly glances to the side. “This is Mateo Serrano from 1605CER-DQ.” His words, although in English, are weighed down by a thick accent. “Attempts to locate the local catalyst have been so far unsuccessful. My team is still researching, though. Thanks to the Librarian’s notes, we have narrowed down several locations. If all goes as planned, we ought to be able to retrieve it shortly.” Something in the background beeps, drawing his attention briefly away once more. “Spain is in the midst of the beginnings of a civil war, so that may slow us down a bit. Keep your fingers crossed for us. Serrano over and out.”
The picture stops moving, but I am on unsteady legs. The ground below me is now one I cannot begin to predict.
The lights in the room flare bright; the shades protecting the windows pull upward. There are sober faces in the room, sad ones, too.
“After the prerequisite attempts at both editing and establishing communication were deemed impossible,” Wendy says, “we had no other choice than to accept that Timeline 1605CER-DQ has been deleted.”
The door opens, and the sound is an explosion in the hush. Several people startle; others quickly wipe their faces as two tall men enter the room.
“It’s about time you two showed up,” Van Brunt says.
“OUR APOLOGIES.” A HAT is tugged off the head of one of the men, tossed onto the table before he runs a hand through his dark yet impeccably styled hair. He is tall and thin and quite good looking. “We’d have been here sooner, but unfortunately ran into a bit of trouble during transition just prior to editing.”
Wendy’s immediately alarmed. “What kind of trouble?”
As the now hatless man sits down, his companion quietly rounds the table and chooses himself a seat, too. I’m struck by how tired he looks, as if he could fall asleep at any second. Dark, purplish smudges color the skin beneath his eyes and his hair, shortish and golden brown, has probably seen better days.
These must be the aforementioned duo of Victor and Finn.
“My pen glitched,” the first man is saying. He’s also British, and his accent is even softer than Mary’s. It’s then I notice there is a small streak of dried blood across the white of his collar. He’s dressed in a sharp suit with a long coat and smart tie, and it saddens me that the contrast of sophistication and horror no longer shocks me. “It took some finesse to get it in proper working order again.”
When Van Brunt asks, “Were you successful?” in the same mild voice he’s used throughout the entirety of the day, I can’t help but wonder what in his past has made him so guarded with his emotions.
“Yes. We ran into the A.D. upon arrival, so the catalyst is with the Librarian right now or will be shortly.”
I discreetly crane my neck so I can glance down the length of the table at the man whose quiet words were just spoken. For appearing so tired, his tone is firm and steady. He’s American. It’s quite a mix they have here, isn’t it?
“Good.” Van Brunt leans back in his chair. “Ms. Darling, you may continue.”
But before she can, the well-dressed man exclaims, “I’ll be damned! You found her after all.”
All eyes rotate back toward me. Tiny hairs stiffen on the back of my neck, but I resist the impulse to do anything other than coolly meet his curious gaze.
Mary sighs deeply, muttering something beneath her breath. He isn’t paying attention to her, though. He’s still staring at me like I’m the most fascinating, shiny object in the room.
It makes me want to slap the impertinence right out of him.
“You do go by Alice, right?”
I loathe that he knows my name but I don’t know his.
“You look a bit different from what I expected.” A
hand thoughtfully strokes his smooth chin. “Not nearly as blonde as you’re made out to be. And much older too, aren’t you?”
Mary’s latest sigh could probably be heard outside the walls, it’s so loud. “Tact,” she mutters. “Try using it for once in your life.”
As for me, I say evenly, “Do I disappoint?”
He blinks once, twice at my quiet words before laughing. For a moment I’m sucked back into the past, during a time the Hatter and I stood on a table in the garden, soaked to the bone as we laughed and screamed maniacally up into the void. Stripped naked and covered in melting paint and frosting, the others carved deep grooves in the mud around us as they ran laps, chortling until they were hoarse.
“Do you hear that, Alice?” The Hatter’s arms were thrown wide, his head tilting so far back that his hat had disappeared behind us. “Do you feel it?”
I had, unfortunately. All too well.
A tiny spasm twitches underneath my left eye as I contemplate if I ought to climb upon this table and charge him. But no—I’ve left that all behind. My blade is elsewhere, too far out of reach.
The man he walked in with says, “Victor, listen to Mary for once, will you?”
Which must means he’s Finn.
“Sorry, it’s just, how fascinating is it how she looks nothing like how she’s portrayed?” Victor leans against the table, his head cocked to the side, as his eyes run up and down the visible length of me.
The urge to bring him down to size is strong, but stronger still is a memory of sitting upon a mushroom while being reminded that those whose words are stingier are those who survive. So I ask lightly, “Exactly who is portraying me?”
His eyes go wide; before he breaks Van Brunt says, “Enough. As 1605CER-DQ has just been deleted, I’m afraid the opportunity to fully debrief Ms. Reeve has not yet arisen. Let her be until I can talk in private with her.”
That wipes the mirth right off this Victor’s face. His whisper is strangled. “1605CERT-DQ is gone? Nobody told us. When did this happen?”
“We are in the midst of hearing the details just now,” Mary snaps.
Bleakness fills Victor’s once-amused eyes.
The Collectors' Society Page 3
