The Collectors' Society

by Heather Lyons

  I watch a couple nearby laugh over something on one of their phones. Goodness, does anyone go anywhere without theirs? “During that time, he adopted you?”

  “He and his wife, yes.”

  But the flat yet anguished look on Finn’s face books no room for further questioning on that subject, no matter how much they burn inside me. Is Brom married? What name had he mentioned? Katrina? In that vein, hadn’t Finn mentioned his mother was dead? And oh bloody hell, how could I have forgotten the mention of a brother?

  “Victor came here even younger.” He stares off into the distance. “I think he was like three or four. And Mary came when she was a teen, too. The A.D. was also young. A lot of members come as kids.”

  “Like a sweatshop,” I say with mock solemnity.

  His laugh is a puff of surprise. “Or a child army.”

  “Are they your siblings, then? Has Van Brunt adopted the lot of you?”

  “Victor, yes,” he admits. “But not the others.”

  Aha! And also, really? “Victor’s last name is . . .” I search around in my memory for the distinctive surname. “Frankenstein. Correct?”

  Finn rocks back on his heels, like he’s unsure if he’s telling secrets that are better left to others. But then he says, “It’s his birth name. Legally, he’s now Victor Van Brunt.”

  “Would people recognize his name, like they would yours?”

  A small, glowing man appears in the black box across the street at the same time the light above turns green. The crowd surges forward. Green means go. “Worse. Way worse.”

  “But he goes by Frankenstein at the Institute.”

  A pair of young women strolling near us whisper furtively to one another, their eyes hot upon us. Have I spoken too loudly?

  Luckily, Finn blocks their stares with his body. “It’s complicated. Honestly? I’m surprised he told you that name at all. It’s an extremely touchy subject.”

  I’m glad when the women turn down a different street than us. “Some woman was the first to say it. At that first meeting.”

  I wait for the man next to me to explain the discrepancy between Frankenstein and Van Brunt, but he doesn’t. So I say, instead, “I should have liked to have continued my education. Like I told you, my father was a learned man.”

  “Didn’t Wonderland have schools of higher learning?”

  He sounds genuinely curious. “You all don’t know much about Wonderland, do you?”

  “No,” he admits. “There are those Timelines that are still mysteries to us thanks to the fantastical elements of their stories.”

  “Is there no magic in your original Timeline?”

  He pulls in a deep breath. “None.” And then, more gently, “I’m fascinated by those that do, though. And even though I go in, knowing it will happen, I’m still amazed by what I see.”

  I’m quiet for a long moment. “There are many amazing things in Wonderland.”

  His head briefly tilts toward me before we reach another intersection.

  My fingers curl inward, nails digging into my palm. “To answer your question, yes, there are schools of higher learning in Wonderland. But I never attended any.” My smile is tight. “I suppose you must think me uneducated or ignorant, having spent so much of my formative years running mad amongst Wonderlanders.”

  “Not at all. And I’d be the last person who could judge such things.”

  There’s bitterness there, and hints of intriguing resentment. But this, too, is made clear to be a closed subject, so I prompt, “You said the Society recruited you when you were fifteen? Why then? Why not when you were younger, like Victor?”

  Silence settles between us on the busy street for several seconds. “That was shortly after the last official book I was in ended. Nobody can leave a Timeline until that happens.”

  It’s weird how much I enjoy these tiny morsels of information he’s reluctantly doling out to me. “How many books were you a subject of?”

  The question embarrasses him, because his tan cheeks color ever so slightly. “Four. Although . . .” He sighs, running a hand through his sandy hair. “I’m told there were more, but they were unfinished. So, I guess they don’t count, thank God.”

  It’s a sobering thought. “And I was in two.”

  He motions toward a shop several doors down, nodding. Suddenly, a woman wearing sky-high shoes falls to the ground a few feet away, knocked down by a man paying more attention on his phone than on the sights before him. Finn is immediately there to help her up when the man refuses to give her a single glance, and gently holds onto her until he’s assured she’s okay. And then, once that’s done, he obtains her a cab and pays the driver to take her wherever it is she’s going.

  She lowers her window as the cab pulls away. She’s as enchanted with this man as I apparently am.

  “Sorry,” he tells me.

  “What are you sorry for now?”

  “We were in the middle of a conversation, and I—”

  He needs to stop this. I won’t ever be able to resist him if he doesn’t. I promptly cut him off and ask, “Have you ever read your books?”

  “One,” he admits. “The first one. After Brom explained the truth to me, I went to the Librarian, curious. She cautioned me about reading them, though—as I’m sure she cautioned you. It sat on my dresser for months before I touched it.”

  “That must have been . . .” I search for the right word. “Unnerving to read about people you know in such a way.”

  He opens a glass front door for me, and a blast of strong aromas tantalizes my nose. So this is a coffee shop. It’s crowded and loud, just like he cautioned, and filled with people drinking and talking and playing on their phones or computers. Some people are dressed elegantly, some in barely anything at all.

  I am enraptured by what I see.

  “I wish now that I hadn’t, to be honest,” Finn says in a low voice once the door closes behind us. “What made it worse was being around other people who’d read those books, too. Other kids in school. Adults I knew. Miniseries or movies shown on TV or in classroom. References made in passing that were like little jabs coming out of nowhere. Lots of talk around Banned Books Week. People thinking they knew me—” He shakes his head. “They don’t know shit. Authors can only allow readers to learn so much about their characters. As much as they try to build someone three dimensionally on a page, words are still limited and subject to imagination and interpretation.”

  He leads us over to one of the few unoccupied tables, in the back by a large window. The woman at the next table looks up at Finn, her eyes widening in appreciation before she spots me.

  I ask him, “I take it your stories are popular?”

  A hard breath is blown out. “I guess you could say that.” He’s contemplative. “Nothing like yours, though.”

  I swallow my unease. “Reading them, though . . . Was that as unnerving as having to listen to people talking about them?”

  “It was a complete mindfuck. What would you like to drink?”

  I blink up at him, startled by how easily he switched subjects. “A hot cocoa, please.”

  One of his impish grins graces his handsome face. “Not tea? But, you’re English!”

  “What can I say? I’m a contradiction.”

  “Your words, not mine.” He leans down, a palm planted on the table, another on the back of my chair. “It’s hot as hell outside, or didn’t you notice?”

  It’s suddenly hot in here, too. But I tell him primly, “Aren’t you going to be drinking something hot, too? Or is coffee served cold nowadays?”

  He leans in closer, leaving me wondering if I’d only imagined the cool air. “Yes, coffee is served cold. It’s called . . .” He lowers his voice to a mere whisper. “Wait for it. Iced coffee.”

  I shove him away. Prat.

  That’s not entirely fair, though, because right now? This teasing? It feels good. It feels . . . hopeful.

  “Your wish is my command, though. If the lady wants hot cocoa
, she will have hot cocoa.” He wanders back to the front of the shop to stand in a line fifteen people deep. I watch as he tugs his phone out of his pocket and stares down at it just like nearly every other person in the shop. Like a sheep, I pull the one Wendy gave me and wrestle with it until I find what she called the search function in the browser.

  Curiosity burns like wildfire through my veins.

  I type slowly: Huckleberry Finn.

  A million and a half responses come back. In addition to . . . What did Wendy call them? Links? In addition to plenty of those, none of which I select, there are also illustrations of a young, mischievous, yet dirty boy wearing a ragged hat and holding a gun. The same child that was in the drawing in Van Brunt’s office.

  This is my partner? This child?

  I can’t help but glance back and forth, between the beautiful man I’ve just recently come to know and the pictures. My attention is quickly drawn to the person at the front of the line digging through their wallet, though. The elderly fellow is dirty, his hair bedraggled and his clothes in poor condition; it’s obvious they don’t have enough money to pay for their drink. People behind him are furious, saying disrespectful things, but Finn steps out of line so he can go up to the front and give the flustered man several bills from his own wallet.

  A buzzing fills my ears, a sickening drop lands in the bottom of my stomach. My heart hammers hard, like I’m betraying his confidence by staring at such secrets, so I go back and change the wording at the top. One much more acceptably selfish.

  Sixteen million hits come back for Alice in Wonderland, leaving me confident I very well may lose the contents of my stomach all over this coffee shop.

  There are images here, too, of girls and women all with blonde hair and blue dresses, some dressed modestly, some dressed so scantily that I’m blushing once more. There are rabbits and pocket watches and cats with grins and men with silly, tall hats. There are tea parties and rageful women with crowns.

  My hands shake so hard I drop the phone once more.

  A man at a nearby table reaches down and claims it for me. “You okay?”

  I take it from him. “Fine. Thank you.”

  He has a twangy accent I can’t place. “Want me to go get you some water?”

  There’s the trusty water will save you when you’re upset bit again. A smudge of hysterical laughter climbs up my throat. “No, thank you.”

  “You’re white as a sheet. Should I go get your boyfriend?”

  A fist reaches inside my chest and tries to squeeze what’s already been wrung dry. But then I realize he means Finn. Of course. Finn. The man I came in with. The one who now has his phone pressed up against his ear and his back facing me.

  “No. I’m fine. Thank you for your concern, though.”

  He’s dubious, but the man finally leaves me alone and goes back to his computer.

  I stuff my phone back into a handbag I’d found in Sara’s room and spend the rest of my wait people watching. Truth be told, it makes me homesick. And when I catch a fleeting flash of pale skin and dark hair outside of my window, the homesickness trebles until I fear all the joints in my body might disappear.

  “I will keep searching. I won’t give up. There’s always a loophole.”

  But there wasn’t. And there isn’t.

  Black hair fades to golden brown as Finn returns to the table. “Careful,” he tells me as he sets a paper cup down. “It’s hot.”

  I blink a few times, praying my eyes have stayed dry. And then I pull the drink toward me, grateful for the distraction. “It wouldn’t be called hot cocoa if it wasn’t hot, would it? It would be warm cocoa, or perhaps lukewarm cocoa, or even room temperature cocoa.”

  He mutters, “Smartass,” before sipping his own drink.

  “You were telling me about reading your own story.” And telling me his secrets.

  A sigh precedes his cup finding its way back to the table. “I think the best advice I can give you concerning that is to not give into temptation and read yours. That’s what this is about, right?” He bites his lower lip, and my fingers have to curl around the cup in order to not reach out and gently tug it loose. “You’re naturally curious. You want to see what some man wrote about you well over a century ago, but don’t do it. I wish now that I hadn’t read mine. And I really wish I hadn’t said anything to you earlier, either. It’s pointless. It means nothing.”

  “Were they unflattering? Is that what soured you on them?”

  “No—well, yeah, in a way. Our stories are told from somebody else’s perspective, so that colors how you come out. But that wasn’t what got to me. I think it was just . . .” He blows out a soft breath. “It’s an existential thing, I guess. Knowing that my life could have come about thanks to some man I don’t know, and that all of my problems did, too, is a hell of a lot to swallow.”

  A small, dirty boy, in threadbare clothes and a straw hat—with a gun, no less. My curiosity nearly blazes, it’s so strong.

  “Do you resent this Mark Twain, then?”

  “Actually,” he says softly, “I do.”

  The look in his eyes is so intense I’m forced to glance down at my drink. “Have you read my stories?”

  I hear, rather than see, his sigh. “Brom asked a few of us to read up on you before tracking you down.”

  “So you’ll read others, but resent your own.”

  “I try not to read up on coworkers, no. At least, fully read their books. I’ll skim instead. But you weren’t easy to find. We couldn’t just edit a Timeline and locate you. You disappeared into Wonderland again several years after the end of your second story. We needed clues. None of our trips to England found any traces of your presence.” He takes another sip. “Truth be told, we almost gave up. It wasn’t until Brom’s friend sent him a message about some woman mentioning Wonderland.”

  “Dr. Featheringstone.”

  He nods as he takes another drink.

  “Did you go to England looking for me?”

  “I did,” he says. “Twice.”

  I tug on my long braid. “When I first came to the Society, Victor said—”

  “Christ. Do not put stock in whatever Victor had to say. If you haven’t already noticed, he loves to talk out of his ass.” I’m given a smile, though. “He’s English, for the record.”

  Does everyone find this man as ridiculously charming as I do? “Victor said,” I continue, “that I did not look the way I should have. Do you feel that way, too? Especially as I apparently don’t look like the other one?”

  “Alice—”

  My eyes hover somewhere over his shoulder, focusing indirectly on a man with orange hair standing straight up. “I suppose it shouldn’t matter. But I’m curious. Are there pictures in my story?”

  I know there must be. When I searched for my name, little drawn images of a blonde girl in a blue dress popped up.

  Another sigh fills the space between us. “Of course you were different. The books have you as a child. You’re an adult now. It would have been weird had there not been differences.”

  My fingers drum against the table. “It bothers me, knowing you all have an idea about my past and I’m blind to yours.”

  “Only your childhood,” he corrects. “And only the part that the author chose to talk about. It’s not like I had a play-by-play of every second of your life. And there are your later years in Wonderland that none of us know about.”

  Thank goodness. Cocoa burns my tongue when I finally take a sip, but I refuse to flinch or ease up on my gulps. “Do you ever wish you were back in your Timeline?”

  There is no hesitation. “No. I’m where I belong. This place . . .” He gestures around the coffee shop. “This is who I am. This is where my family is. When I think about the stories I’m from, they no longer seem real to me. The years I’ve spent here do.”

  It’s nearly identical to what his father said.

  I envy him, this feeling of belonging and rightness. Because, as alien and fresh as this all fe
els, my history weighs down nearly every breath I take. I didn’t belong in Wonderland. I didn’t fit in in England. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel at home in New York.

  “Do you ever wish you could go back to yours?”

  I hide behind my cup, sipping the stinging chocolate as I try to piece my answer together. Yes, God, yes is there. I can’t is equally strong. I’m confused and Even if I wanted to, I shouldn’t are right there as well. I eventually tell him, “Until Van Brunt found me, I never planned on going back to Wonderland.”

  His blue-gray eyes study me in the amber light coming from a pendant fixture overhead. “Do you mind if I ask why you left?”

  “There is no room for misinterpretation. There is nothing unclear about the meaning. Your head, or your departure. Are you really so selfish you would put yourself above Wonderland?”

  I clear my throat. Focus on ensuring my words remain steady. “I found myself not wanting to allow madness to dictate my life.” My smile is thin. Brittle. “There was no future for me there.” No matter what I had hoped or believed.

  “And at the Pleasance?”

  “Are you asking if I felt I had a future in an asylum?” I love that his grin is sheepish, so I take pity on him. “As bizarre as it sounds, there was more of one for me there than where I’d been.”

  “Do you miss it, though?”

  “The asylum? Not really. It wasn’t as bad as you might think, though. My brain wasn’t drilled into, so there is that.”

  “You know that’s not what I meant.”

  I lift an eyebrow. “Do you?”

  There’s no hesitation. “No.”

  OVER THE COURSE OF the next fortnight, I am immersed in all things Society and Twenty-First Century. I learn what televisions are, which wars have occurred, how man has flown into space and to the moon. I discover how music has changed and of how women’s and civil rights have advanced. I’m finally coerced into choosing a new wardrobe (Mary can be relentless until she gets her way) but am relieved to find out the items previously hanging in my closet were not Sara’s.