Van Brunt turns to the woman standing next to him. “Ms. Darling? Please continue.”
Wendy clears her throat. “We’ve been scanning various databases to see if anyone has claimed responsibility, but, like with the last two deletions, all is quiet. My department isn’t giving up hope, though. There might still be some clues we’ve yet to uncover.”
Mary’s incensed. “It’s maddening that whoever this is isn’t behaving properly.”
“And how should a proper villain act?” One of Van Brunt’s dark eyebrows arches upward. “Should he announce himself to the world with a soliloquy? Perhaps write a note about his intentions?” What in definition is a smile appears anything but. “Come now, Ms. Lennox. You of all people should know about the injustices of stereotypes. Unfortunately, this is no story with an easily guessed-at plot we’re reading. We have no ability to flip to the last page in order to assure ourselves of certainty.”
Splotches grow on Mary’s cheeks. Farther down the table, Victor calls out, “I think what Mary was saying was—”
Van Brunt holds a hand up. “I know exactly what she was saying. I was merely reminding Ms. Lennox that this particular story is not as familiar as those we hold close to our hearts. We cannot simply expect that whomever is doing this will offer up an announcement that could easily bring about their apprehension. If that had been the case, we would have done so before.”
Mollified (or perhaps mortified), Victor nods once before slumping back into his seat. The woman next to him leans over and says, “Dr. Frankenstein? Can I talk to you after the meeting?”
It’s interesting that he winces when he hears the name. She immediately apologizes, her cheeks ruddy and splotched.
“What can be said is that the current pattern of attacks has a deletion at approximately every three to four months,” Wendy is saying. “And that the last three targets have been substantial Timelines.”
“Any common denominators between them?” someone on the other side of the table asks.
“Other than popularity?” Wendy shakes her head. “None that I can see yet. One was French, one was British, and another was Russian.”
“All European,” Holgrave murmurs.
“And yet, the one before that was American,” Wendy argues.
Van Brunt extracts a small white and silver rectangle out of his pocket. “Nonetheless, I want your department scouring the Internet once more to see if a pattern does exist, Ms. Darling.” He taps on the box of metal and glass. “Perhaps there are hints found in forums or the like. As for the rest of you, Mr. Dawkins will send out assignments within the hour.”
The box that held the moving pictures snaps shut and is tucked into Wendy’s arms. The rest of the audience rises when she does, and there is much murmuring as they file toward the exit. The object in Van Brunt’s hands beeps, but he tucks it into a pocket. He turns to me, just a hint of an apologetic smile on his rugged face. “This must be much to take in all at once.”
Unfortunately, it is. But before the first question I have passes my lips, he calls out, “Finn? A moment?”
Mary touches my elbow, and I start. I didn’t even see her round the table.
“I need to go debrief with Victor, but I’ll catch up with you in a little bit. Okay?”
She says this like we’re old friends, ones who have reunited after years of life lived out between us. My spine stiffens, even though I know she means well.
Her fingers curl around my forearm and squeeze gently before she gifts me with a smile. Across the room, Victor shouts her name. “We need to go! I’m starving. The food was shite there!”
Once she’s gone, she’s replaced with the man who came in with Victor in the middle of the meeting. For a moment, the breath in my chest stills as I take him in.
He’s beautiful. Handsome is probably a more dignified term, but the golden-brown hair, light blue-gray eyes, and tanned skin really do come across as more beautiful than anything else. He’s tired, yes, but that does nothing to detract from his allure.
My fingernails curl inward into my palm, digging deep. I pull air in through my nose and then slowly out through my barely parted lips. But this small action, which normally focuses me, leaves me even more confused because rather than gifting me clarity, I just got a whole noseful of his scent. It’s a bit warm, a bit minty, with hints of sweat and soap.
Oh, bloody hell. I do not need this.
Just as the door shuts behind Victor and Mary, Van Brunt asks, “Is there anything I need to know about?”
The man runs his fingers through his short hair; itty bitty chunks stand on end in unorganized, careless ways. “You mean, why are we so late?”
I’m now the awkward third stool leg. I take a discreet step back, pretending my focus is on the vista beyond the wide glass windows.
Van Brunt coughs. Says carefully, “I’m not accustomed to you being anything less than prompt.”
Finn shrugs. “Shit happens, unfortunately. I wish we could predict how every mission goes, but you know we can’t.”
“Did the pen truly malfunction?”
I’m surprised by the distrust in Van Brunt’s voice—and that he would say such things in my presence.
“Yeah, it did,” Finn says. He’s annoyed, I think. “It fell out of his pocket during our exit. Let’s just say that pens and cars don’t go well together.” Out of the corner of my eye, I watch his head tilt toward me, like he knows I’m listening.
Van Brunt grunts. “Ensure that he gets it fixed. I don’t want it used until we can ascertain it is in working order. Where was yours?”
“Wendy has been working on it, remember?”
Outside the window, birds swoop by. And for a moment, the crazed yet beautiful face flashes in the pane before me, sour judgment darkening its eyes.
I did the right thing. I did the right thing.
I did the right thing.
I did.
Don’t do this. We will find a way.
I resist the childish urge to cover my ears with my hands.
“Ms. Reeve?”
I blink before turning around. Both men are regarding me as if I’ve done something crazy. And the sad thing is, I very well might have.
A cold sweat settles at the base of my hairline. Like they had for the first month and a half back in England, my fingers twitch so strongly I’m forced to lace them together. “My apologies. Did you ask something?”
The corners of Van Brunt’s mouth tug downward, and Finn’s eyes widen ever so slightly. Son of a jabberwocky. I did do something crazy, didn’t I? But then Van Brunt says smoothly, “I would like to introduce you to one of your colleagues here at the Society, as you’ll be working together. Ms. Reeve, this is Huckleberry Finn. Finn, this is Alice Reeve.”
My knuckles turn white as my fingers tighten around one another. I force a polite smile on my face. “It is a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
I’m unsurprised yet unnerved when he sticks his hand out. My fingers reluctantly disentangle from other another so I can proffer mine as well. When our skin touches, I realize my palm is damp.
Frabjous.
Thankfully, the connection lasts only a few seconds. I wait for him to discreetly wipe his hand across his pants, but he doesn’t. There’s a genuine yet surprised interest in his eyes as his lips gently curve upward. “The pleasure is all mine.”
The sensation of his skin pressed against mine continues to linger.
Something trills in Van Brunt’s pocket. He sighs deeply and extracts the small white and silver rectangle from before. “I’ve got to take this. Finn, will you stay with Ms. Reeve?”
When Finn nods, Van Brunt brings the box up to his ear. “Please tell me you have some good news.”
As Finn doesn’t answer, I open my mouth to offer something—anything, but Van Brunt turns on his heels and stalks out of the room. I nearly jump when the door slams shut, and then once more when an unseen Van Brunt bellows angrily in the distance, “That is not acceptable!”
Discomfort crawls along my limbs as I stare up at the man who just asked me this question. He’s got a good nose and full lips. I hate that I notice these things. My heels dig in and I clamor for control. Little details, the Caterpillar used to tell me, make all the difference. Focus on them when everything else is wild. “Huckleberry is an interesting name. A bit unconventional, no?”
That knocks the smile right off his face. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
How puzzling. “It is a family name?”
He lets out an annoyed puff that smacks strongly of bitter humor. “I tend to go by Finn.”
My hands lace together once more, the knots tighter than ever. I focus on the blue and red plaid of his shirt, and on how his sleeves are rolled up to just below his elbows. While I have seen many a man in a shirt, I’ve never quite seen one like this. And his pants. Goodness, do they fit him well. “Tell me, Mr. Finn—”
“Just Finn,” he corrects. “It’s more like a first name than anything else nowadays. Besides, I’m not as into as the whole formality bit as Brom is. Actually—nobody is. It’s just one of his quirks.”
“Mr. Van Brunt indicated earlier that we are in New York City.”
Faint lines appear in his forehead. “That’s correct.”
“But he said I ought to be focused more on the when rather than the where. Would you perhaps clarify his statement?”
Finn’s eyelids shut briefly as he shakes his head, but then roll toward the ceiling once open. And I’m a bit more certain I should not have left Dr. Featheringstone’s office today—or even gotten out of bed for that matter.
“What has Brom told you so far?”
I’m annoyed everyone seems to have this same reaction. “He claimed I am required to help save Wonderland. But before he could tell me more, a situation arose that required his attention.”
Finn bites his lip as he glances toward the door. A sigh heaves out of him. “This is going to be a lot to take in, so you may want to sit down.”
“I’d prefer to stand, thank you.”
He scans the room once more before holding up a finger. I watch as he crosses the room to where a black waste bin sits by the door. A newspaper is extracted and then shaken before he returns to where I am. “I’m not always the best at explaining things,” Finn says. “Mary says I’m a bit like a bull in a china shop. But if you want to know today’s date, it’ll be on this.”
I take the paper from him and stare down at it. The New York Times, it reads across the top. Just below that, in smaller letters, reads a date that cannot be. I shake my head and blink rapidly before holding the paper up to eye level. Once more, my stomach drops as I take in the date Finn claims to be this day’s.
It’s approximately one hundred and forty years later than the date I woke up on.
I carefully fold the newspaper, painfully aware of how strongly my hands are trembling. I clear my throat, but it doesn’t help how raspy my voice is when I speak. “I see.” And then, after another cough, “How curious it is that Van Brunt can produce a time-traveling doorway.”
A warm hand cups the back of my elbow and leads me the scant distance it takes to reach a chair. “You should sit down. Let me get you some water.”
Yes, because drinking water makes it all the better.
As he strides across the room toward a small side desk, my attention reverts to the windows before me. Tall glass buildings reflecting hazy sunlight stare back, taunting me in their alien construction. Memories of Wonderland’s architecture surface, and while I’d marveled at how radically different the intricate gold-adorned buildings in the Courts looked compared to England’s, they now seem positively antiquated compared to what I’m seeing right now.
A glass of so-called calming water is set on the table. “Are you okay?”
It’s the second time he’s asked me this question in less than a quarter of an hour. Hysterical laughter bubbles up my throat in response, but I swallow it back as he drops into the chair next to me. There’s concern in those blue-gray eyes of his, concern that has no right to be there.
He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know my experiences. If he did, the concern would go running into the distance.
I haven’t been okay in nearly a year.
I sip the water slowly. It’s icy cold, allowing me to trace its path down into my stomach. “I am fine, thank you.”
Finn leans back into the chair. “Are you a reader?”
I slide the glass back onto the table. “I feel as if my day is looping, because Mary asked the same of me less than an hour prior. It leaves me to assume I’ve been brought to the future to discuss literature rather than save Wonderland.”
He lifts a hand to scratch his forehead. “Actually, as weird as it may seem, you are here to do both.”
It’s enough to give me pause, and for the door to open and bring with it Van Brunt. “My apologies.” No doubt taking in what must surely be my pale countenance, he asks Finn, “What all have you told her?”
Finn rises from his seat. “Not much. We’d only just begun.” He taps on the newspaper lying between us. “But I’ll leave it to you to finish the rest.” He turns to me, and once more I spy concern shining out from his eyes. “If you need anything, I’m in 1510.”
Van Brunt lowers himself into the chair so recently vacated. “The Librarian awaits your field paperwork, Finn. I’d hate to think of what she’ll be like if it isn’t filed within the hour.”
How interesting it is that this man’s name is familiar to Van Brunt’s lips. Along with Victor’s, they are the only one so far to be so.
Finn slides the newspaper underneath his arm. “I’m on my way to do it right now.” When he makes his way to the door, I steal another glance just in time to watch him throw the paper away.
“Well now,” Van Brunt says. “It’s time for those explanations, isn’t it?”
THERE ARE MOMENTS IN one’s life that always leave a person wondering if they’re dreaming. I’ve had plenty of those moments—years of them, actually. In Wonderland, the amazing became mundane, and yet, the entire time I was there, I often speculated if I was in fact in England, asleep in my childhood bed. That perhaps I was riddled with fever, even close to my final sleep because I no longer questioned the extraordinary I lived through. Day after day, year after year, my existence devolved into one dream state after another until it was all I knew, all that I hoped for. All that I expected. When I was forced to leave it behind, and after I practically bargained my soul to do so, the promise of quiet, mundane events held me together when the urge to shatter into mindless grief and insanity proved nearly irresistible. For weeks, I was willingly restrained in a special coat that kept me from tearing my hair out, and lived in a room with soft walls that refused to allow self-harm. I howled, I raved, I frothed at the mouth. I tried to bite nurses who came to close, and I threatened to unleash an army against them more than once if they dared touch me.
I plotted how I could go back. Prayed I could find an answer, that perhaps now I had the clarity to find what I could not then. And then I despaired when I accepted I couldn’t, shouldn’t, and wouldn’t.
Slowly, but surely, I acclimated to my new existence. My days morphed into the regulated and predictable. People who surrounded me became reliable and steady. I was in an asylum, yes, but hope sprung that I could put that foot in front of the other and move on whether it was my wish or not.
And now, here I am, a hundred and forty years in the future, with a man who possesses more secrets than any person I ever met in Wonderland, and I’m fearful I am once more trapped within a vicious cycle of unrealistic dreams.
He wants to send me back. Is it even possible? And if it is, could I even allow it?
“The Collectors’ Society,” Van Brunt says as he leans back in his chair, “has been in existence for really only a very short time—approximately a century, give or take.” Strong fingers tap on the table beside us. “There are multiple ways to label peopl
e, as you may well know. In the literate world, we can simplify this in that there are readers and non-readers. Within the readers category, we can further label people by how passionate they are with the books they choose. Some people escape into the stories they read. Some read for purpose or information. Some read out of resentment or necessity. But let us, in this moment, focus on those who find books to be an escape or an extension of their imagination. These readers see, within their mind’s eye, the characters and settings in the pages below their fingers. They feel the emotions woven between the words. They live through every heartache, every embrace, every terror. Books, to these people, become tangible, living things. The characters they read become genuine souls.” A half smile curves his lips. “People like this are often accused of living within their fantasies. They’re said to have their noses stuck in books. But the reality is that some of these people actually do escape into books.”
My fingers streak through the condensation on the glass. “Are you inferring that . . .” I don’t even know how to properly verbalize what I think he’s telling me, it’s so ludicrous.
“I’m not inferring anything. I’m telling you there are people who have the natural ability to lose themselves in a book.”
“You are surely speaking of imagination.”
The corners of his lips tick upward as he slowly shakes his head. “Not at all. There are people who literally enter books.” Another hand is held up. “Let me clarify that. They are people who enter the worlds associated with books. We call them Timelines.”
There’s that word again: Timeline.
“To make a long story short . . .” He pauses, his mouth twitching at the inadvertent pun. “Every time a book is published and embraced by a large population, a Timeline is created—or at least made visible to the rest of us. Timelines are worlds filled with people who are living out their lives just like you or me. There are countless worlds in existence right now, and more being created every year. Our scope of the universe is not as small as we once imagined, Ms. Reeve.”
For a long moment, nothing more is said between us as his words sink into me. What he’s saying is madness. “You’re telling me that . . . authors . . . actually breathe life to their characters?”
The Collectors' Society Page 4
