The Forbidden Library

by Django Wexler

  “It’ll be some time,” he said. “I’m sorry, Alice. I wish there was another way.”

  Something was wrong, very wrong. Alice fought a growing thickness in her throat.

  “Perhaps I should come with you,” she said. Ordinarily she wouldn’t have dreamed of offering such a suggestion unbidden, but desperate times called for desperate measures. “You’ve always said I need more experience in the practical side of business—”

  “No,” he said, a little too quickly. “Not this trip. When I get back . . .” He forced a smile. “Maybe then it’ll be time for you to start making the rounds with me. But I’ll make sure to send you a postcard from every stop.”

  The following day, Miss Juniper moved into one of the guest rooms and added looking after Alice to her tutoring duties, although in truth Alice didn’t take much looking after. She worked on her French, and her algebra, and completed everything she was assigned on time. When Miss Juniper asked her what she wanted to do for her day off, Alice told her that she wanted to go to the Carnegie Library. She spent eight solid hours there, a solemn girl alone at one of the great wooden reading desks, working her way through a stack of books that represented everything the library had on the subject of fairies.

  Her father needed her help, she was certain of it. She wasn’t sure why, or how, but the brief glimpse of the fairy in the kitchen was all she had to go on. She took home a notebook full of references and scribbles, and as many books as the librarian would let her have. She stayed up late reading that night, and the night afterward as well. Alice was not a girl who believed in half measures.

  Two days later, Cooper brought her the Times with breakfast. The front page told her that President Hoover had given another speech promising that the worst was over, that the stock market had taken another tumble, and, below the fold, that the steamer Gideon had gone down in a freak storm off Hatteras, with all hands.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MR. PALLWORTHY

  AFTER THE STORM OF telegrams—the messenger boy kept bringing stacks of them, and Alice piled them unread inside the door to her father’s study—came an inundation of relations. They were mostly cousins, none of whom Alice had ever seen before and none of whom paid her more than perfunctory attention. They trooped through the big old house like visitors to a museum, offering her halfhearted pats on the head while giving the furniture appraising looks.

  After the cousins came the accountants, who were more open in their appraisals and didn’t bother with Alice at all, and after the accountants, like a Biblical plague building up to a big finish, came the lawyers. They belonged to several different firms and seemed to have come to argue with one another, and for the most part they paid no attention to Alice either. She stood grimly in the dining room, in her short-sleeved black dress, feeling like an overlooked decoration.

  Eventually, one of the lawyers came and told her they were going to have a chat. She wondered if he was their leader. He was certainly the largest, his coal-gray suit straining to contain his girth, and he had an enormous gray mustache that drooped past the corners of his mouth, the ends stained nicotine-yellow. When he came to fetch her, he affected a jolly, avuncular manner that made it clear it had been years since he’d dealt with anyone under the age of thirty.

  She followed him up to her father’s study, and seethed quietly as he seated himself behind the desk in her father’s chair. It creaked alarmingly beneath his bulk. Alice stood in front of the desk, as she had so many times before, and fought the illusion that her father had somehow transformed into this smoke-stinking whale of a man.

  “So, my girl,” he said, “you have my sincerest condolences. Terrible business. A terrible business. You understand what’s happened, don’t you?”

  I’m twelve, Alice thought, not five. She made herself nod. “I understand.”

  “My name is Mr. Pallworthy. I’m here to look after things on behalf of your father’s business partners, that sort of thing.”

  Alice, feeling that a response was called for, nodded again.

  “I don’t imagine you know very much about your father’s business”—his deep-set eyes flicked to her, as though to confirm this—“but that’s fine. We’ll take care of everything, don’t you worry.” He reached under the desk and brought up a heavy briefcase, from which he extracted a thick sheaf of paper. “Now, your father’s primary interests had suffered, unfortunately, from our current market conditions—”

  He went on, his tone changing from the jolly talking-to-children voice to a going-through-the-motions drone. Alice could follow what he was reading, possibly better than Mr. Pallworthy himself could—his voice faltered when he came to some of the more arcane financial terms—but the gist was clear from the outset. There was nothing left, nothing at all, and it was only by the extreme generosity of the creditors represented by Mr. Pallworthy that Alice would be allowed to leave the building with the clothes on her back.

  Under other circumstances, she would have taken some pleasure in going through the paperwork herself to figure out how he was cheating her—he was, of course, cheating her, that was what lawyers were for—but at that moment she couldn’t bring herself to care. When he’d wound down, he asked her if she had any questions.

  “What is to happen to me?” she said.

  “Eh?” Mr. Pallworthy frowned, his mustache bouncing. “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t stay here, I assume,” Alice said.

  “No, of course not,” the lawyer said. “The house will be sold at auction, the arrangements are already being made.” He seemed to remember he was speaking to a child, and put on his jolly-old-boy face again while he rummaged through the stack of papers. “Arrangements have been made for you too, of course. You’re to stay with family, I believe. One moment.” He found the paper he was looking for and peered at it. “Ah, yes. I see you’ll be moving in with your uncle Jerry.”

  Alice blinked. “I haven’t got an uncle Jerry.”

  “Of course you do.” Mr. Pallworthy tapped the paper. “It says so right here.”

  “But—” She bit back her protest. It was no good to say that her father had had only one brother, and that his name had been Arnold and he’d died in the War before Alice had been born. Her mother’s family she’d never known at all. Mr. Pallworthy wouldn’t particularly care, and he would believe his piece of paper. “I see. Uncle Jerry.”

  “He lives in Pittsburgh, it says. Or near Pittsburgh. Arrangements are being made to get you there.” He seemed to like the phrase. “Taking the train all the way to Pennsylvania, all by yourself! Won’t that be an adventure.”

  “I suppose,” Alice answered politely.

  “Did you have any other questions?”

  Alice just shook her head. Something about her expression must have finally registered with him, and the lawyer’s face clouded as he dredged his memory for something to reassure grieving children. “Chin up, you know. I’m sure things seem awful, but . . .” He faltered, then brightened up. “Just remember, it’s all part of God’s plan!”

  Courtesy of the extreme restraint of the creditors represented by Mr. Pallworthy, Alice was allowed to pack two trunks full of her clothes, books, and a few odds and ends, after one of the lawyers had looked them over to make sure there was nothing too expensive among them. She tucked the threadbare rabbits deep inside the trunk, underneath her nightshirts. She knew it was childish, but it made her feel better; and anyway, she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving them for Mr. Pallworthy to toss in the trash. The picture of her grandmother stayed—it had been taken by someone famous, apparently, and would have to be auctioned—so Alice stared at her for a few moments in silent farewell before letting a lawyer escort her to the door.

  A footman in a big black Ford delivered her to Penn Station, and handed her an envelope containing a one-way, coach-class ticket to Pittsburgh, a local ticket to a station called North Landing, and two
ten-dollar bills. She had to break one of these almost immediately, at the station ticket window, in order make change to tip the porters who dragged her trunks down to the side of the track.

  The long ride on the train barely registered. She spent it with her chin in her hands, staring blindly out the window as endless farms and pastures rolled past and the sun crossed overhead and sank behind the western horizon. The other passengers in her compartment, as though by common agreement, struck up a lively conversation and completely ignored the gloomy girl in the mourning dress.

  Alice’s father had taught her that when she had problems, she ought to list them carefully, one by one, and see what could be done about them. She did this now, using an imaginary pencil and the endless Pennsylvania farmland as a sketchpad.

  The first problem was, Alice felt like she was living in a dream. Ever since the night in the kitchen, when she’d watched her father arguing with a fairy, the world had acquired a dangerously thin quality, as though it were only as substantial as a soap bubble.

  The second problem was, Alice hadn’t cried when she’d read the newspaper. She hadn’t cried when the telegrams had arrived, or all the way through the funeral. She hadn’t cried when Miss Juniper hugged her good-bye, though the tutor’s eyes had been brimful of tears. She certainly hadn’t cried while the flocks of vultures picked through the house. She kept expecting to, but she hadn’t.

  She supposed this was because of the third problem, which was that she didn’t really believe it had happened. In a sane, normal world, when the Times reported that a ship had gone down, it had almost certainly gone down. The Times had ways of checking on these things. Sane, normal Alice would have accepted it as fact, and cried (quietly, alone, and in the dead of night, but cried nonetheless) and then squared her shoulders and tried to deal with whatever life offered her next, because that was the kind of girl she was.

  But something had gone wrong. If fairies were real, then the world was not sane and normal anymore. If magic was real, then what she read in the Times didn’t have to be true. Her father might not be drowned after all. He could be—she cast through her limited repertoire of fantastic fiction—a castaway, on an enchanted island. Or spirited away to a crystal palace to be entertained by an elfin court. Or anything. That was the point. If fairies were real, then anything could happen.

  Alice realized, as the sun was setting, that she would never be able to leave things where they were. It was as though she had hold of a loose thread at the end of a sweater. She had to give it a tug, and find out if the whole garment unraveled, and if so, what was underneath.

  The last problem, in this case, was that she had no idea what to do next. But that was all right. The difficult part was usually deciding where you were headed. After that, in Alice’s experience, getting there was just a matter of hard work.

  Not that I have very much choice where I’m headed, Alice thought, for the moment. She leaned back in her seat, eyes closed, and listened to the rails clicking endlessly past.

  The two-car local pulled into North Landing station, which turned out to be little more than a wooden platform, a sign, and a gravel lot. A sullen attendant lugged Alice’s trunks off the train, frowned at the nickel she gave him, and climbed back aboard the train without a word.

  It was long after dark, and without the city lights to interfere, the sky was a riot of stars. Alice, who had never spent more than a fortnight outside the confines of New York City, looked up at them and felt very small and very alone. To the south, across the river, the city of Pittsburgh proper gave off a muted red-and-yellow glow, but to the north there was nothing but darkness.

  She was just feeling the chill and wondering what she would do if no one arrived to meet her when she heard the rattle of an engine and the crunch of tires on gravel. A pair of headlamps blazed, and then an ancient car—a Model T that looked like it was older than Alice—circled around the lot and pulled to a stop in front of the platform. The driver got out, leaving the engine idling, and came up the short steps to meet her.

  He was a huge man, tall and muscular, dressed in a leather motoring jacket. His beard, sideburns, mustache, and hair all merged into a wiry black mane that completely surrounded his head and hid his face, apart from a small patch around dark, sunken eyes and a protruding, scabby knob of a nose. If this was “Uncle Jerry,” Alice decided, he was certainly not any relation of her father’s.

  “You’ll be Miss Creighton,” the man said. His voice rumbled deeper than the car’s engine, and Alice half expected the same coal-black smoke to leak from his mouth.

  She drew herself up and nodded. He stared at her for a moment, and managed to give the strong impression that he didn’t like what he saw.

  “Right,” he said eventually. “Get in.”

  “You—” Alice began, then reconsidered and spoke more politely. “Have you been sent to bring me to my uncle?”

  For some reason this made the huge man smile, flashing discolored teeth through the bristling hedge of beard and mustache. “That’s right.”

  If she’d hoped for more information than that, she was disappointed. Alice stepped down from the platform toward the car, and the big man followed closely behind. Halfway there, she stopped and looked back at her two trunks, which were now sitting unattended on the platform’s edge.

  The man halted, followed her gaze, then looked down at her. Something in his hairy face twitched, but he turned around with exaggerated care and climbed back up to the platform. He gathered the handles to her trunks in one hand—a hand, Alice couldn’t help but notice, that was broad enough to wrap around a coconut—and lifted them without even a hint of effort. She stepped aside as he brushed past her and affixed her things to the car’s luggage rack.

  “Thank you,” Alice said, and received only a grunt in return. “Can I ask your name?”

  “You can call me Mr. Black,” the big man said. “Now get in. Your uncle wants to see you.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  GERYON

  MR. BLACK SAID NOTHING further, but anything he might have had to say would have been lost anyway in the putter of the Ford’s engine and the rush of the wind. He drove the old car at a pace that struck Alice as distinctly unsafe, especially on the unpaved road, roaring down the straightaways and sending up sprays of gravel and dirt on the corners. She gripped the door handle so hard, her knuckles went white, although she was well aware that if Mr. Black lost control and went careening off the road, holding on wouldn’t make the slightest bit of difference.

  The winding road was hemmed in on either side by trees, only occasionally opening out to reveal the distant glow of house lights. Each building was set well back from the road on considerable grounds, and separated by a fair distance from its neighbors.

  She caught a blurred glimpse of a pair of mammoth stone beasts, lounging on tall plinths, as Mr. Black wrenched the car through a nearly right-angle turn and onto a long gravel drive, not slowing until the bulk of a building came into sight. Then, mercifully, he let the car coast to a halt, leaving the engine pinging softly and Alice’s heart hammering like a tom-tom. It took an effort to pry herself from the handle, and her fingers went tingly as blood flowed back into them.

  “The Library,” Mr. Black announced, as though that was supposed to explain something. Alice heard gravel crunch, and someone opened the door on her side. She got out, legs as wobbly as a newborn fawn. Mr. Black got out as well and started crunching away toward the building.

  “Come on,” he said, when Alice took a moment too long to follow. “Emma, take her things.”

  A girl of about Alice’s age in a plain brown dress, standing by the car door, bobbed her head obediently. Alice glanced back at the heavy trunks and gave her a doubtful look, but she presumed that Mr. Black knew his business. Several deep breaths, cool and pine-scented, had gone a long way toward calming her, and she looked up at the building Mr. Black had called “The Li
brary.” It was mostly dark, a black blotch against the starlit sky, but she got the sense of a long, multi-story structure. Directly in front of her, a pair of massive wooden doors stood half-open, set into a stone façade that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a medieval church. Tall, multi-paned windows flanked the doors, and a pair of gaslights at head height provided a flickering illumination.

  Once she’d regained control of her legs, Alice climbed the stone steps up to the entrance, and found herself in a long hall. A faded red carpet ran into the middle distance, and on either hand the walls were adorned with odd statuary, interspersed with more gaslights.

  At the end of the hall, a staircase led up to a second floor, and an old man was picking his way down it. His hair was pure white, long gone from the crown of his head but sticking up in wild tufts around his ears and along the back of skull. His chin was clean-shaven, but he sported massive gray side whiskers, of the sort that had gone out of fashion sometime around the end of the Civil War. His face was wrinkled and jowly, with deep-set eyes with lines around them that might have come from smiles or just from a lifetime of squinting. He wore dark trousers and a gray waistcoat over a white shirt, whose sleeves were black with splotchy stains.

  “I thought I heard that awful machine screeching,” the old man said. “You’ll be Miss Creighton. Any problems, Mr. Black?”

  “No problems, sir,” Mr. Black rumbled.

  “Good, good.” The old man reached the bottom of the steps. “Well, come on, girl. Let’s have a look at you.”

  Alice walked the length of the hall. She would have liked to examine the statues more closely—they were marble, sitting on oaken stands, and each one seemed to depict a fantastic beast of some sort—but the old man was tapping the banister impatiently. Alice curtsied as best she could—it had never been her strong suit—and met his level glare.