“While that point is debatable, the rest are not. There are countless worlds associated with books, Ms. Reeve.” His voice, his words, are gentle but insistent. “I know this is a lot to take in, but—”
“Are you saying that authors are gods?”
At first, Van Brunt is startled by my question. And then he laughs, albeit quietly, briefly. “No. But there is something to be said about the power of stories. While not all in the Society possess the ability to naturally escape into Timelines, we have found technological ways around this roadblock.”
I fly up, my feet clambering for solid ground. Water sloshes out of my glass as it skids across the table. “This is insanity.” The chair I’ve abandoned skitters behind me on its rolling feet. “Until this moment, I would have said I’d become something of an expert in insanity, but this exceeds anything ever experienced in Wonderland.”
He also rises until he towers over me. “Ms. Reeve—”
Confusion swirls throughout my mind so strongly I fear that this is yet another dream, and that I am back in my bed in the tulgey woods.
His large hand is surprisingly gentle on my shoulder. “How about we take a tour of the Institute, and we can continue our discussion as you get a feel for our work—or even table it until a later time, one in which you feel more ready to hear the truths we toil beneath.”
A beep sounds once more in his pocket. Van Brunt sighs and tugs the small rectangle back out of his pocket. As he stares down at it, I choose to do so this time, too.
The glass on the front of the box glows with words: Wendy Darling / V’s pen unusable, will have to build a new one.
Van Brunt angles the box toward me. “It’s called a cell phone. In the Twenty-First Century, people are able to easily communicate with anyone they wish with small devices such as these. It allows you to send messages or speak to and listen in return to others.”
I watch in uneasy silence as he taps on the front of the cell phone. Words magically appear: Estimated completion?
Just a few seconds pass before new words materialize. 1-2 weeks, tops.
My voice is hoarse. “Is somebody communicating with you right now?”
He nods. “Ms. Darling. She’s down in the tech lab.” And then, no doubt after he sees the confusion on my face, he adds a bit more clarification. “The Collectors’ Society is housed in a multi-purpose building we refer to as the Institute. It includes office spaces such as these,”—he gestures around the room before motioning me toward the door—“laboratories, an extensive library, common rooms, a gym, a restaurant, storage, and living quarters for members. One such laboratory is for the building of machines and devices. Ms. Darling is the head of our technology department, and she—”
These are facts. I like facts. Facts are solid. One can hold onto a fact when everything else is soft and muddled. And yet, right now, as the bigger picture both expands and contracts around me, I could not care less about whether or not Wendy Darling builds machines that apparently allow people to communicate across vast distances. There’s only one thing I need to know.
“Am I from a story?”
His mouth snaps shut as he tucks the cell phone back into his pocket. I’ve stopped short of the door, my feet weighed down by invisible lead. I’m undeterred, though. If I’m going to sink once more into madness, I might as well get as many answers as I can before doing so. “We came through time and a magical door from the Pleasance to here. Am I from a story?”
For a moment, I wonder if he’s going to ignore my question. But then he says quietly, firmly, “Yes.”
I’m reminded of a time that I stood before the Courts, a bloody sword in my hand and my existence on the line, and I no longer knew if there were shins below knees or feet attached to ankles. But, damn if I didn’t ensure my voice was steady when I addressed them. “Are you?”
He turns to fully face me. “Yes.”
A breath is pulled in through my nose, out through my mouth. “What about the rest of the Society?”
“Some, but not all. We are an eclectic mix here.”
“Are we real?”
Deep lines of confusion groove his forehead. “Pardon?”
“You claim we are from stories. Made up . . .” I swallow hard. “In somebody else’s imagination. Are we real? Am I?”
Understanding fills the blue of his eyes, and something more. Something like . . . sympathy. “Do you feel real?”
I do not want sympathy, though. So, I tell him the truth. I tell him, “Not always.” Not anymore.
A hand goes to the small of my back; I flinch at the light pressure. But Van Brunt has his way, because we finally exit the conference room. “Let us take that tour, Ms. Reeve.”
Over the next half hour, Van Brunt takes me from floor to floor, showing me labs and offices and introducing me to people whose names I fear I will never remember. Everyone is polite, although some more voraciously friendly than others. There’s a sense of recognition on their behalves upon introduction that I do not share, and my unease grows exponentially.
They know me. I do not know them.
To be fair, my focus isn’t on any of these people and spaces, anyway. I’m too focused on what Van Brunt told me about before. This isn’t the first existential crisis I’ve suffered through. One might even say this is old hat for me. It’s just . . . this time feels differently.
Van Brunt is mid-way through the physical history of the building when I cut him off once more. “What book am I from?”
I give him credit that he does not look surprised in the least I’ve asked this. “There are two, actually, which combine to create a singular Timeline. The first is Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, and the second is Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There.”
My mouth goes dry. “Who . . .” I desperately try to smash down the panic rising in my chest. Anxiety such as this, the Caterpillar used to tell me, was an ugly, pointless emotion. “Who is the author?”
Van Brunt steers us toward a staircase. “His real name is Charles Dodgson, but he wrote under the pseudonym Lewis Carroll.”
The way he says this is all so matter of fact, like it is commonplace to be discussing the name of a stranger who supposedly created you out of the vastness of their imagination.
I’m a cruel woman, because my next question is spiteful. “What book are you from?”
There’s no pause. “The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. by a man named Washington Irving.”
“You are not Geoffrey Crayon.”
A ghost of a smile touches his full lips. “No. I am not.”
Midway up the stairs, my feet refuse to move farther. “Explain this to me. Explain how I can be from a book, that somebody made me up, and yet . . .” I pound a fist on my chest. “My heart beats. I feel pain. Pleasure. Love. Hate. I sleep. Eat. Grow. Age.” But before he can say anything, I blurt out, “I’m real. I’m a person. I have memories—I’ve lived, Van Brunt. Lived. Are you telling me that my actions, my life . . . everything I’ve ever said or done is due to the words written down of some man who couldn’t decide upon a name?”
My words ring throughout the stairwell and rattle the nearby windows, but Van Brunt acts if we’re discussing the weather. “Not everything, Ms. Reeve.”
I’m finding it difficult to find air to pull into my lungs, because I’m clawing for my breath. “This is absurd. It cannot be true. It cannot.”
“All over the world,” he says calmly, like I haven’t been the first to rave to him about such existential fears, “there are people who believe in a higher power, one who created them, one who influences their actions and lives. Sometimes, when it all gets to be a bit much, I remind myself of this. Really, there is no difference in our existences and theirs. Ours just happen to be chronicled in enduring books.”
“But—”
“Let us go to the library and find a cup of tea, Ms. Reeve.” He gingerly offers me an arm. “It’s not far now, just the next floor.”
I am in t
he midst of a panic attack that would infuriate the Caterpillar if he were here, and Van Brunt wants to have tea. Laughter burbles out of me until I’m close to doubling over, but I take his arm anyway.
“THIS,” VAN BRUNT TELLS me, “is the heart of the Collectors’ Society.”
I wander through the mazes before me, grateful for the distraction. The splendid library Van Brunt brings me to spans two entire floors of the building we’re in. Books line the walls and ornately carved wooden shelves are scattered throughout the room without rhyme or reason. Twisting, dark wooden staircases pepper the library like thin funnel clouds, while tables and upholstered, overstuffed chairs jut out between bookshelves. Stained-glass lamps litter the room alongside glass cases filled with various objects.
I lean in to examine the one closest to me. To my surprise, it’s a threadbare carpetbag.
“Please don’t touch the glass,” Van Brunt says, and I’m startled back a few steps. “The attached alarms are deafening.”
A glance around the glass case shows no wires, no bells. “Why is it protected?”
“It’s a catalyst.” He motions to a nearby pair of chairs. “Let me order us some refreshments.” The cell phone is extracted once more just before he sits. “Do you have a preference? Chamomile? Darjeeling? Earl Grey?”
I wonder what he would think if I told him that I prefer a special blend that the Hatter makes. “Black tea, please.”
I circle the chairs and rest my arms against the green velvet back of one facing Van Brunt.
After a moment of tapping on the phone, he leans back in the chair. “Some sandwiches will be brought up, too. Now. You had a question for me in the hallway. You wanted to know how you could be real. The answer is . . . I have no idea.”
It isn’t what I expected to hear.
“Nobody knows how Timelines are created, Ms. Reeve—except that they first start once a book has been published and embraced by readers. Or at least, that’s when we first become aware of them. Time moves differently in each Timeline, so it’s nearly impossible to pinpoint a true moment of birth. Is it magic?” He shakes his head. “I cannot say. This world we are in right now, though, holds no true magic. Not like some of the Timelines do.” A wry smile curves one side of his mouth. “Such as yours, for example. Wonderland appears to be filled with much magic and mystery.”
I lick my lips. “England does not.”
“England in your Timeline does, though. It allowed you to move between what you thought was one world to another, but in reality are connected.”
“And your original one? Does it have magic?”
“Debatable.” And then, “You inquired about your actions, whether or not they are dictated by some intangible author. This is a much more complex question to answer. For the time period in which your origin story is told . . . we are not sure if the author fully dictates the moments of life captured on a page or somehow senses them and writes them down. Is there a higher being dictating these histories to authors? I’m not sure if we’ll ever have such an answer. What we do know is that the span of a book is set and cannot be changed. Once published and embraced, though . . .” He shrugs lightly. “Life does as life does.”
So many questions clamor for escape, but I need to control the burgeoning anxiety crawling through my veins. One question at a time, was one of the Caterpillar’s favorite lectures. Ask too many and articulation and comprehension will dwindle. In the time it takes to come round the chair and sit, two deep breaths and two slow exhales are savored. I choose to systematically start at the top and work my way down. “What is the purpose of the Collectors’ Society?”
He’s surprised, I think, at the sudden change of direction, but his answer is just as smooth as the rest. “While we have many goals, the umbrella under which we work is the preservation and protection of Timelines. In that vein, we also promote establishing diplomatic ties between Timelines.”
“How many Timelines are there?”
Another light shrug. “That is a question I often ask myself in the dead of night, Ms. Reeve.”
“Are you the head of this Society?”
This one amuses him. “Currently, yes. But I have not always been so.”
“How did you learn about such things?”
“Much in the same way as you did,” he says evenly. “I was recruited by my predecessor and have spent the subsequent years working in various positions within the organization.”
It can’t be helped; a sly smile emerges. “Are you my predecessor?”
A bit of genuine laughter rumbles out of him. “Ms. Reeve, my reasons for recruiting you were honestly given. Have no fear—I have not targeted you as the heir to my position.”
“How many people work for the Society?”
“It varies, but right now, there are . . .” He rubs his chin. “I’m almost ashamed to admit I do know the exact number offhand. We have at least one liaison within each Timeline we have made contact with. Over the years, some have retired and others have taken their places. Here at the Institute, there are approximately fifty full-time employees that reside within our dwelling at any one time.”
A ding rings nearby, and a set of doors slide open. Dawkins appears, pushing a rolling cart rattling with clinking teacups, a teapot, and plates full of food. “Thought you’d want to know that somebody without credentials tried to access the back elevator,” he tells Van Brunt.
From the little I know of him, I’d have placed a wager on very little evoking anything other than mild interest out of Van Brunt, but this bit of information has a thunderous expression darkening his face. “When was this? Why wasn’t I notified? Did the alarms fail?”
Dawkins stops the cart a few feet away from where we’re sitting. “Just about a half hour ago. Alarms were only triggered on the main floor. Wendy’s already on the warpath and Finn’s looking into the rest.”
Van Brunt yanks his communication device out once more. “Who was it? Did you catch them on the security footage?”
Dawkins pulls the lid off the teapot and stares down into the liquid for a brief moment. “Well, that’s the funny thing. The footage shows nothing at all. But Wendy swears the system indicates an unauthorized card was swiped.”
A grunt escapes Van Brunt as he taps more fervently on the phone in his hands. “Could it be a glitch?”
“You know Wendy.” Dawkins replaces the lid and pours a cup of tea. “She’s insistent it’s not, but unless it’s a ghost, it’s got to be, right?” A nervous titter follows before he passes me the cup. “Do you like sugar? Honey? Milk? I wasn’t sure, and your story didn’t really tell me, just said you drank tea, or at least, you know, were around tea, or helped yourself to some . . .” His face flames scarlet.
I’m positive mine turns ashen. “You’ve read whatever . . .” I force the word out. “Book I’m in?”
“Well, no, not really—not read it, per se, but more like scanned it when we prepped for your arrival. It’s just, I couldn’t help myself, see? I needed to know what the famous Alice was all about and—”
Fingers still flying across the surface, Van Brunt doesn’t even look up when he addresses the young man. “That’s enough, Mr. Dawkins. There is no need for further playacting. Ms. Reeve will know your character in due time, and will undoubtedly find games such as these as tiring as the rest of us.”
An impish smile surfaces on the formerly stammering, awkward man in front of me. “Got to keep my game sharp and all, boss man.”
My words are tart. “Are you from a book?”
He staggers back a step, a hand covering his heart. “You don’t know of me?”
“Contrary to what you believe,” Van Brunt mutters, “not everybody is as enamored with your legend as you are.”
The naughty smile turns crooked. “Au contraire, boss man. Plenty of people find me irresistible.”
Van Brunt is unimpressed, though. “Fellow thieves, perhaps. It’s a good thing you were recruited when you were, Mr. Dawkins. I shudder to think what
might have happened had you not been given a proper education and a legitimate reason to utilize your unique set of skills.”
“The Society was lucky I agreed to come.” Dawkins’ grin spreads wide as he runs a hand through his hair. “I could have said no, and then where would you be?”
Van Brunt sets the phone down just long enough for a pair of chimes to sound from it. “The simple truth is we would be here all the same, and you would have lived the rest of your days out in a penal colony, stealing food and fighting for survival.”
Dawkins’ laugh is high-pitched and more than a little bit wicked. “And now I steal catalysts for you. One could argue I’m still fighting for survival, though. Right, boss man?”
“That’ll do, Mr. Dawkins. Go see if you can find anything out of the ordinary in the sector indicated.”
Dawkins salutes Van Brunt. To me, he offers a flourished bow. “Until next time, sweet Alice.” When he leaves, his swagger is hampered by the slightest bowing of his gangly legs.
“A bit of advice, Ms. Reeve. Do not leave valuables on your person that can be easily accessed, at least in Mr. Dawkins’ presence.” He leans forward to pour himself a cup of tea. “He does so love a good challenge.”
I watch as he slowly sips his tea. “You chose a thief to be your assistant?”
“Believe it or not, Mr. Dawkins’ unique skill sets make him invaluable to our goals more often than not.” He selects a small biscuit from the table. “Are you hungry, Ms. Reeve? I imagine you should be, as all you’ve had today is tea and treats. I can have the kitchen send up a more substantial meal for you, if you like. Dinner still isn’t for a few more hours now.”
I ignore the question, as the thought of eating right now is about as pleasurable as pulling nails off my toes. “Interesting how this is called the Collectors’ Society,” I murmur over the rim of my cup, “and not the Thieves’ Society, as you apparently steal catalysts.”
“Theft is such a nasty connotation, with nefarious undertones. While we,” his lips twitch, “collect objects from Timelines, it is done so with the very best of intentions.”
The Collectors' Society Page 5
