Minutes later, once we’re back in the hallway, I ask Finn, “Shall I pack some weapons?”
Some of the heat leaves his eyes. “What?”
“You’d asked me earlier if I was familiar with weapons. I was inquiring if I ought to track some down to take with us. It sounds as if you might need defending.”
For a moment, I wonder if rage will once more overtake him. But then he laughs. It’s soft, almost a mere puff of breath, but a fraction of the tension eases from his body. “I’m afraid it would be like shooting fish in a barrel. There would be no sport in it for you at all.”
Unwelcome warmth spreads throughout me at his voiced confidence in an ability he has yet to witness so far. “Will there be swooning? Shall I prepare myself to witness the vapors in full effect?”
“No swooning.” His lips twitch. “And no vapors. They’re a sturdy bunch, but they’re gentry, so there is that.”
“Are you gentry, Huckleberry Finn?”
He blinks at my use of his first name, an uneasiness once more tightening his shoulders. “No.”
I have to jog to catch up with his sudden long strides. He doesn’t look at me when he says, “I’d prefer you not use that name.”
It’s a beautiful name, I think. A unique one. And it saddens me to hear he does not favor it.
We’ve just reached the elevator when he says, “I apologize for snapping. It’s just, I haven’t gone by Huck in a very long time, and I’d prefer not to restart anytime soon.”
The doors slide open and we step inside. “Van Brunt introduced you as such.”
“Brom,” he murmurs, “is a sentimentalist.”
“Why the change?”
He’s quiet for a long moment before answering. “Most people know that name. It would stand out like a sore thumb.”
Interesting. “What name do you give them instead?”
Not a single muscle on his face ticks, not a knuckle whitens when he tells me flatly, “Legally, my name now is Finn Van Brunt.”
I don’t know why, but that bit of news has my mouth falling open.
“And before you ask, yes. Brom is my adopted father.”
I stupidly say, “He doesn’t look old enough to be a guardian.”
“Apparently, the Van Brunts age well. He’s in his mid-fifties, by the way.”
I don’t know how to keep my mouth shut, because I compound my rudeness by asking, “And your mother? Is she here in the Society, too?”
He won’t meet my eyes. “Dead.”
Frabjous. I keep wedging that foot of mine deeper into my mouth.
“A lot of people at the Institute don’t go by their original names. It’s not like I’m the odd duck around here.”
“Would people recognize my name?”
His head tilts just enough so that our eyes finally meet. “Not if you keep going by Reeve, they won’t.”
He’s shared something with me, so I decide to share something with him. “For years, surnames were irrelevant. They’re not common in Wonderland at all.”
It’s enough to pique his interest. “You were just Alice there?”
I lie and tell him yes.
“WE DID NOT KNOW you would be bringing a guest with you.”
Finn gives the distinguished man before us a neat bow. “I apologize if there’s been any miscommunication. May I present my partner, Ms. Alice Reeve.”
The women all curtsey, the men bow. I’ve enough manners left in me to return the favor.
Shortly after meeting with Van Brunt, I found myself in a whirlwind that left my head spinning. Proper clothing had to be located for both Finn and myself in a vast closet organized by time periods. Wendy requested an hour of my time to go over the little machines she made for me.
“Pens,” she intoned as I discreetly glanced about her white yet messy laboratory, “are tailored specifically for their user. It’s a way to safeguard people from illegally moving between Timelines.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Believe it or not, it happens more than you think it would. While most of us personally need the pens, there are those who can slip through Timelines naturally. The grass is always greener on the other side, right?”
It was wrong of me, but that made me glance at her brightly colored hair.
“Stick out your finger.”
I did as asked, and regretted it seconds later after she poked me with a sharp needle. Finn, who was across the room talking with the A.D., looked up at the sound of my gasp of surprise.
I wanted to kick myself. That was going to be the last bit of weakness I was going to let them see. And honestly, a prick? I’ve borne wounds much, much worse.
“The pens are coded with their user’s DNA,” Wendy explained. “Thus, the need for blood.”
I called out to Finn, “You could have warned me about this.”
He shrugged, mouthing: I’m sorry.
My finger was held over a small glass vial and then milked until I nearly kicked her from beneath the table we were at.
“I’ll get to work on getting the coding completed.” She turned away to put the vial in a large white and black machine. “You probably ought to go get ready to leave.”
“Are partners able to use one another’s pens?”
It was enough to bring Wendy’s attention back around. “Huh?”
“If something were to happen on one of these missions, would the pens work for other members present?”
“No.” Wendy was already back at work doing whatever it was with my blood. “Nobody but you.”
Shortly afterward, I stood in a quiet room alongside Brom and Finn, the newly, mysteriously coded pen in my hand. “Promise me it doesn’t write with blood.”
Van Brunt surprised me by laughing. I stared at him then, at that formal, serious man, and wondered how it was he became a young father to a man such as Finn.
“No,” Finn quickly assured me. “It doesn’t have any ink in it at all.”
I didn’t feel like telling them I’d seen too many letters written in blood.
I was passed two slim books: one that said Mansfield Park on the cover and another that had pictures of the Institute in it. I was told to put the Society book in my traveling bag but to keep out the other. Finn stepped behind me, his heat immediately mingling with mine.
I was a statue, flooded by far too many memories and sensations.
“It’s easier if I help you through it the first few times,” he was saying while I fought against things better left in the past. “Intent is key when we’re editing into a Timeline.”
There was that word again. Intent.
His arms looped around me, his hands curving around mine so that he and I both held the book in one pair of hands and the pen in the others. Despite my best efforts, I lost my breath when his thumb slid past mine to wrangle the book open.
I hated that this happened. Hated that, after all I’ve been through, my body allowed such foolishness. He doesn’t deserve it. I don’t even know him.
“First, you find a page that mentions the place you want to go. For example, we’re heading to an estate in England called Mansfield Park. Here is a scene that is just beyond an outward door. That’ll be a good place for us to go, especially since they’re expecting us.”
A shudder fought its way out of me at the touch of his breath against my cheek.
“There is a button on the side of the pen. It’s very small, and not visible.” The thumb on his right hand shifted one of my fingers to a spot in the middle of the pen and gently pressed against my skin. “There won’t be a sound. Wendy’s got this latest model of pen nearly impossible to distinguish from others. It’s all by memory. Do you think you can remember this spot?”
When I nodded, it was done confidently, not jerkily like I feared it might be.
“Like I said, editing is all about intent. You—”
“Are these magic?”
He told me, “I don’t know how they work, to be honest. None of us do.”
>
“Not even Wendy?”
“Not even her. She was taught by another member who is now dead.”
I also hated that confusion got the better of me. “But, she makes these.”
“Sometimes,” he told me, “you can have something, hold it in your hands or feel it in your bones, and still never understand the working mechanisms behind it.”
Isn’t that the brutal truth.
I was glad when he turned back toward the matter at hand. “Editing is subjective, and everybody does it a little differently, but I find that the simplest lines are the most effective. My intent right now is for us to arrive at the front doors of Mansfield Park on a specific date, although that is not always necessary during editing. So, I—we—will write, ‘Arrive at front doors of Mansfield Park, 15 July 1821 at six o’clock in the evening.’”
“I thought it was not desirable to time travel?”
His chuckle is soft. “It’s not. Some of the Janeites were contacted concerning membership over the last decade, but most refused to become active participants due to obligations at home. But they insisted on keeping in touch, so even though their lines have continued on for centuries, it feels as if we’re always reaching into the past when it comes to their Timelines. Not to mention, time moves differently in their Timelines.”
“Make sure you give Mrs. Bertram my letter.”
My head snapped up, nearly colliding into Finn’s nose. For several foolish minutes, I’d forgotten Van Brunt was still in the room with us.
Once Finn reassured his father he wouldn’t forget, he asked me, “Are you ready?”
I was, surprisingly so. Together, we wrote his sentence—and although he assured me no ink was to be used, glowing, golden words appeared on the page anyway, warming our hands until they buzzed. And then, in a burst of golden light, a door.
And now here we are, standing in front of what appears to be a rather large family whilst dressed in clothes considered to be vintage even by my standards, and curious eyes practically trace each step I take.
Introductions are made. We are surrounded by a horde of Bertrams and a lone Price who can’t seem to take her eyes off of Finn. “It is good of you to come,” one of the gentlemen says to my partner. He’s a clergyman in possession of what appears to be a gentle countenance. “After Fanny got back from her meeting, we were all most eager to get matters dealt with as swiftly as possible.”
None of Finn’s earlier anger is at all visible when he tells them it is our pleasure, and I’m grudgingly impressed by it. Experience has shown me that people who can’t control their emotions are not valuable allies in battle.
The woman standing next to the clergyman takes a step forward. “I have brought the volume requested. I thought it best to get it out of the way so the rest of the evening may not be spoiled.”
I’m the one to take the book from her. Lovers’ Vows, it says on front. It’s a playbook. There is nothing remarkable about it at all—just worn pages and words like any other well-read book.
“It is hard to believe that this is a catalyst.” Fanny Bertram’s voice is soft as she stares down at the object in my hands. “It’s hard to believe, if this were to be destroyed, so would we all.”
“What my sister is saying is that it is much consolation to know that we will no longer have anything to fear, at least when it comes to this,” another of the ladies says. I root around in the names so freshly given to find Susan Price. But it turns out she isn’t talking to me—no, her attention is still squarely on Finn. And she’s smiling a bit shyly, a demure blush stealing across her porcelain cheeks.
He nods politely, but doesn’t say anything in return. Doesn’t even look her directly in the face, which is blatantly rude of him and radically unlike the man I’ve known for the last two days. The poor girl blushes even harder as the conversation progresses, Finn chooses to ignore her even more, and it occurs to me that this, here—this woman and her blushing—very well may be the product of whatever speed dating may be. Eventually, she sidles up to him and refuses to leave for the remainder of our talk. It’s only when he spies children peeking around a corner is he able to shake her off.
Finn wanders over to where they are and extracts several objects out of his pockets. He’s brought them toys. Simple wooden ones that fit their time, but at the sight of the gifts, the children could not be more delighted. And I am reluctantly enchanted as I watch him squat down before them and explain how they work. One of the children, a little girl with brown ringlets, throws her arms around him and he allows it. There are cultured adults here and he’s spending his time instead making children happy.
Finn Van Brunt has manners. He’s kind to children.
I hate the tingling that spreads in the pit of my belly.
Once we’re upstairs, and I’m tucking the playbook in my bag I’ve brought, I attempt to dispel the warm feelings brought on by watching his generosity by teasing him. “One of the women down there seems to be quite taken with you. Have you two had a romantic entanglement in the past?”
He shuts my bedroom door, which is surprising as decorum insists unmarried men and ladies behind closed doors is a firm no-no. “One of the Janeites has made it her mission to make as many matches as she can because apparently she has nothing better to do. A Mrs. Emma Knightley. We met a year ago, and she was horrified and then delighted I’m single. That poor girl has probably been told I’m her perfect match.” Another attractive flush steals up his neck as he perches on the edge of my bed, picking at a loose thread on the waistcoat he’s borrowed from the Society’s archives.
I come to sit next to him. “I shudder to think what might happen once this Mrs. Knightley finds I’m unwed.”
“Oh, there’s no doubt about it. You’d be her latest obsession. I’m sure she’s got a long list of ‘quality husbands’ just waiting to be passed out.”
I laugh, and in turn, he smiles. There is an easiness between us that shouldn’t be there. One that hasn’t been earned yet. One I can’t afford to allow. One I don’t even know if I want to allow.
An hour later, we are all seated at a vast table in a room lit by dozens of candles. Finn and I are separated by nearly the entire length of the table—he, to sit in between Fanny and her infatuated sister Susan, I to sit in between the clergyman and his baronet brother. As the men next to me ask inane, polite questions, I spend more of my time absorbing the distinct discomfort that’s plaguing Finn. All of the amusement we shared in my room is lost, all of the joy he showed the children vanished without a trace, and in its place is annoyance he is clearly desperate to contain. Thankfully, he’s never rude to Susan, but the one time she touches him, he jerks away as if her fingers are filled with fire.
Honestly, I’m enthralled. I’ve only known him a short time, but so far, Finn Van Brunt has struck me as a confident man who can hold his own. So to see him so grossly uncomfortable leaves me wondering what the story here is.
I refocus on the men sitting by me. “Do you mind me inquiring if either of you knows a Mrs. Knightley?”
Both of the men surrounding me set their spoons down on their plates. The clergyman says, “If you are speaking of the Mrs. Knightley I think you are, a Mrs. Emma Knightley, she is a member of the Janeite council alongside Fanny.”
“She’s a bloody nuisance, it what she is,” the baronet mutters. His wife, seated farther on down the table, shoots a glance weighed heavily in disapproval. He, in turn, scowls even harder.
“I would have thought that you might know Mrs. Knightley,” the clergyman says. “Being that you are part of the Collectors’ Society and all.”
There is no good answer to that that would be pleasant conversation, so I merely lift a full spoonful of soup to my mouth.
“Mrs. Knightley is a busy body,” the baronet says loudly, clearly goading his wife. “Nothing pleases her more than the blasted act of matchmaking.”
Susan Price gasps and blushes. Finn goes stock still. So I was right. Speed dating has something to
do with matchmaking.
“She is charming nearly to a fault,” the clergyman argues.
The baronet scowls but says nothing further.
At the end of dinner, the men are to retire to a separate room, with none so much relieved to do so than Finn. The ladies present invite me to join them in a card game, but the truth is, all I can think about is a soft bed and good sleep, especially considering I’d had very little sleep the night before. I think they’re disappointed in me leaving, but I’m realistic enough to know when I’d be poor company. I relent and allow Finn to escort me as far as the stairs, and when I stumble up the first few steps, he’s right there to catch me.
It’s an unbearably sweet gesture that has me fumbling to reinsert an arm’s distance. I jerk away from his touch more strongly than I ought to.
“Are you feeling okay?”
My eyes widen in confusion.
“I ask because you’re flushed.”
Well, now I am.
“If you don’t feel good, we should leave.” He’s on the step below me, and I still have to look up at him. “You can be in your own bed tonight and then sleep in as long as you like in the morning.”
Too many complicated emotions ping throughout my chest. There’s that concern again, and the easiness that ought not be there yet. I met this man two days ago. He’s a stranger. An attractive stranger, a kind one, but one all the same.
Besides, the bed he’s talking about doesn’t feel like mine. It feels like Sara’s, and I am a momentary interloper who is wearing her clothes, surrounded by her things, and working with her partner. My bed, my real bed, the one that holds the most meaning to me, is elsewhere.
Sadness threatens to crush me.
Somebody calls out Finn’s name, to let him know a card game is about to begin. And yet, rather than going like he ought, he waits for my answer. Part of me wants to tell this man yes, but all-too-familiar yet necessary defenses go up once more. “Don’t we have a meeting in the morning to attend?”
“Screw the meeting.”
The Collectors' Society Page 10
