The Golden Specific

by S. E. Grove

  The woman seemed familiar. She had to be a neighbor, but which one? The woman placed her hand on her heart and then lifted her palm toward Sophia’s window: a gentle gesture of affection.

  It struck Sophia like a blow. For a moment she stared, unmoving. Then she bolted from her room, throwing herself down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out into the street. The woman was still there, pale and uncertain, by the gate. Sophia stepped haltingly toward her, hardly daring to breathe. “Mother?” she whispered. Then the figure vanished.

  The following evening, she appeared again. Sophia had partly persuaded herself over the course of the long day that her mind was playing tricks on her and that the figure she had seen was conjured by exhaustion and misplaced hope. Still, she waited by the window. When she saw Minna by the gate, silent and hesitant, Sophia rose shakily and rushed out of the house.

  This time, Minna waited. She took a step backward onto the sidewalk and another onto the street. Sophia opened the gate and stepped after her. Minna moved silently over the cobblestones. “Wait, please,” Sophia pleaded.

  Minna stopped. As Sophia approached, her footsteps loud in the silence, she could see her mother’s face: pallid and insubstantial, but still discernible in the dusk light. There was something odd about her that Sophia could not place until she had closed the distance between them: the figure appeared to be made of paper. She seemed a perfect rendering of Minna Tims brought to life. She reached her hand out plaintively as Sophia neared, and then she spoke: “Missing but not lost, absent but not gone, unseen but not unheard. Find us while we still draw breath.” The last words seemed to prove the substance of the riddle, for they sounded after Minna had, once again, disappeared.

  But Sophia did not care. She felt as if she had just taken air into her lungs for the first time in months, as if she had been drowning and the words spoken at dusk by Minna’s semblance had pulled her from the deep. She was still in those dark waters, but now, at least, she could breathe. The paralyzing sadness that had gripped her all winter was something she could look at: she could see how vast it was; she could see how far she had to swim.

  The next day, the second sign appeared: the Nihilismian pamphlet. Sophia told herself, as she read the handwritten note over and over, that the Fates could not have spoken more clearly.

  She had not mentioned seeing Minna or receiving the pamphlet to Shadrack.

  There are some things that only keep their enchantment, their full promise, when they remain unspoken. Sophia knew the pale figure she had seen at dusk was improbable, and when she imagined speaking of it, she felt the power of Minna’s presence dissipate like fog. The wonder of it, the potency of the whispered words, were uncommunicable. Indeed, even in her own mind she could not approach the thought of what she had seen and heard too closely, for the moment she did a flurry of troubling questions rushed forward: What is she? Is she real? What does it mean that I can see and hear her? Sophia turned away from these questions resolutely, and she did not contemplate the vision too closely. She accepted a simpler and, to her, undeniable pair of truths: her mother was asking for her help, and the Fates were sending her a sign.

  Shadrack did not believe in the Fates. Even if she could somehow convey the sense of desperation in Minna’s message, the sense of clarity from the pamphlet, Shadrack would not see their guiding hand at work. He would see something else, and Sophia wanted to see what she saw now: an unmistakable urgency, a clear way forward. Instead of telling him, she thought about it for two days. And then she made a decision.

  • • •

  STANDING NOW BEFORE the soaring iron gates, Sophia took a deep breath. She pushed, and they swung soundlessly inward. Her boots crunched on the gravel path as she walked slowly uphill, bringing the great house into closer view. Here and there the curtains hung open. A groundskeeper near the mansion’s entrance was carefully raking the gravel, making a perfect set of concentric circles. Other than the sound of the rake combing the fine stones, the air was still.

  The groundskeeper ignored Sophia as she walked toward the granite steps. On the roof above the open doorway, the blindfolded gargoyle depicted on the pamphlet perched comfortably, its stone tongue impossibly long.

  A crimson runner beyond the open doors led across the marble floor to a tall wooden desk. Sophia held her head high and walked steadily toward it. The man behind the desk looked up as she approached and put down the book he was holding. He nodded. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” Sophia said. She forced herself to look the attendant in the eye. He was bald, with blue eyes so pale they seemed almost colorless. Sophia swallowed. “I am here to consult the archive.”

  The bald man nodded again without taking his eyes from her. “Patrons wishing to consult the archive may apply for an investigator’s card, which will allow them unlimited access to the depository. However,” he paused, “access is only permitted to Nihilismians.”

  “Yes, I understand,” she replied. “I am Nihilismian.”

  2

  The Nihilismian Apocrypha

  —1892, May 31: 9-Hour 09—

  The Nihilismians began sending missions to other Ages in the 1850s. The missions are intended to encourage past Ages to unfold as they did in New Occident’s past. The practical and philosophical obstacles are myriad. Imagine, for example, the folly of ensuring that explorers from the Papal States sail east to “discover” the Western Hemisphere. Nonetheless, the missions continue, and Boston alone sends dozens of missionaries to the Papal States, the Closed Empire, and the Early Pharaohs every year.

  —From Shadrack Elli’s History of New Occident

  AT FIRST, SOPHIA thought the Nihilismian pamphlet might have been sent by someone at the Boston Public Library who had been helping with her search for so many months. Perhaps one of them was secretly Nihilismian.

  Then it occurred to her that it might have come from a friend of Shadrack’s who believed, quite rightly, that he would balk at the idea of consulting a Nihilismian archive himself. Shadrack was not closed-minded, but the events of the previous summer had set him decidedly against Nihilismians. He had always believed their ideas misconceived; now, he also believed them to be dangerous.

  Then Sophia considered that the anonymous sender might be someone who actually worked at the archive: someone who knew for certain that the collection contained something of value for her search. Unlikely as it seemed that a strange Nihilismian would want to help her, the idea that some real clue existed and had already been spotted made her tremble with anticipation.

  Perhaps, she thought, as she stared at the attendant on the other side of the desk, this very man was the ally who had sent her the message. Though his persistently unblinking stare made it seem unlikely. Sophia reached to clasp the pendant that hung around her neck, clearing her throat quietly. The Nihilismian’s attention obligingly drifted to the circular amulet. Then he turned slowly and opened a drawer in his desk. He drew out a piece of paper and handed it across to Sophia with a pen. “Here is the application for an investigator’s card.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I am required to emphasize,” he said quietly, indicating the signature line, “that this application functions as a legal contract. If you sign the form and anything written there is discovered to be untrue, it will be considered fraud.”

  “I understand.” Sophia paused, but went on despite herself. “What happens when it is considered fraud?”

  The bald man gazed at her without expression. “It depends on whether the archive pursues the matter in court. The archive pursued three such fraud cases last year and won them all.” He cocked his head slightly to one side, as if considering an unspoken question. “The only thing these ‘investigators’ will be reading for some time is the mail they receive in prison.”

  Sophia nodded briskly. “I see. Thank you.” She took the pen and the form to one of the ample burgundy armchairs that made
up the sitting area in the foyer. Her hands were trembling. She sat quietly for a moment, collecting herself; then she reached into her pocket and clasped the spool of silver thread for encouragement.

  She took her notebook from her satchel and placed it under the form, filling out each portion as quickly as possible.

  Name? Every Tims. Date of birth? January 28, 1878. Address? 34 East Ending Street, Boston. Was she a citizen of New Occident? Yes. Did she hereby swear that she was of the Nihilismian faith? Sophia hesitated for the barest instant. Yes. Had she been Nihilismian from birth or was she a convert? A convert. If the latter, what was the name and address of the Nihilismian who had officiated at her conversion? Seeking Montfort, 290 Commonwealth Avenue, Boston.

  Sophia signed at the bottom, slipped her notebook back into the satchel, and rose to hand the form back to the attendant.

  “We will be in touch with Seeking Montfort to confirm,” he said quietly, without looking up.

  “Of course.”

  “‘Every,’” he said thoughtfully. “March twenty-fifth. ‘Every vision around you is false, every object an illusion, every sentiment as false as a dream. You live in the Age of the apocryphal.’” He looked up at Sophia, waiting.

  “Truth of Amitto,” she murmured, pressing the amulet around her neck. Since Nihilismians adopted new names from the Book of Amitto when they converted, Sophia had chosen the name that seemed least objectionable, avoiding ones like “Purity,” “Lament,” and “Beneath.”

  The attendant cocked his head to the side again. “Please have a seat. I will call one of the archivists. Your card will be ready to pick up when you leave the archive today.”

  “Thank you.” Sophia began to turn away.

  “Every,” the attendant remarked. “Your amulet is very unusual.” Sophia raised her eyebrows. “Did you make it yourself?”

  “Yes, I did.” She held his gaze while she clasped the circular pillow of midnight blue embroidered in silver thread with a small hand, open-palmed, fingers outstretched.

  “We see that in many cases where families don’t approve. The faithful find a way.” He nodded his own approval.

  Sophia watched as he left the foyer, his heels echoing on the marble floor. Then she took a deep breath and sank back into the burgundy armchair.

  • • •

  SEEKING MONTFORT WAS, in fact, a genuine Nihilismian. But he had not officiated at any ceremony for Sophia’s conversion, and he no longer resided at 290 Commonwealth Avenue. He had passed away the previous year, leaving only his widow and an aging pair of lapdogs. Sophia calculated that she had at least three days and perhaps as many as six before the Nihilismians of the Boston Depository discovered the truth. It all depended on the zealousness of their inquiry and the cooperation of Mrs. Montfort.

  A letter sent today would arrive tomorrow. Montfort’s widow would take at least a day to reply. Sophia had visited her, in the cramped rooms made pungent by the spoiled lapdogs, with a question about a made-up relative who had converted to Nihilismianism and left on a mission to the Closed Empire. She had seen the formidable wooden cabinet where Seeking Montfort’s records resided, and she had watched as Mrs. Montfort searched rather carelessly for the imaginary document. After a few minutes, the woman had given up; she was much more interested in her yapping dogs than the history of her husband’s legal practice. If the Fates smiled upon her, Sophia figured that Mrs. Montfort might take several days to search fruitlessly through the cabinet and reply.

  Or, on the other hand, she might reply immediately.

  Sophia rose from the chair as the attendant returned, now accompanied by a tall man with a gray mustache. The man made a slight bow toward her. “Whether Moreau,” he said, extending his hand.

  “Every Tims,” Sophia replied, taking it.

  “It is a pleasure to welcome you to the Boston Depository.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Please follow me.” Walking toward the archive’s main corridor, Whether Moreau left Sophia to hurry after him. Despite the warm spring weather, the building was silent and uncommonly cold. Crimson carpeting muffled their footsteps. Sophia caught a glimpse of several rooms as they passed: high ceilings, oak bookshelves, dark wallpaper, and spherical flame lamps. Dark curtains over the windows prevented sunlight from reaching the documents.

  They arrived at a marble staircase. As they climbed, Sophia determined, glancing at him sideways, that Whether was no secret ally. He stared ahead, eyes withdrawn, almost as if he had already forgotten Sophia’s presence beside him. The dark suit he wore was pressed with a precision that bordered on ferocious, and its darkness was reflected in his well-polished shoes.

  On the second floor, they followed another corridor, finally stopping at one of its many open doorways. Sophia peered past him into a room much like the ones she had seen below.

  “Are you familiar with the structure of the Nihilismian Archive?” Whether asked, looking over her head at a point on the wall.

  “I know only what is explained in the informational pamphlet.”

  “Let me explain our organizational system before I ask about your line of inquiry.” He paused. “The archive contains forty-eight rooms,” Whether said, gesturing down the hallway. “Rooms one through thirteen are dedicated to the Age of Verity—Veritas, as we call it here. Meaning ‘truth,’ of course. These are where chronicles of time before the Great Disruption, as well as texts produced during that time, are stored. The Apocrypha rooms contain the chronicles of the Age of Delusion—the time elapsed since the Great Disruption—and, as you may note from the number of rooms, fourteen through forty-eight, that collection is larger. This would seem counterintuitive,” he continued, “as less time has elapsed since the Disruption than before it. But you will discover that documents and texts from before the Disruption are exceedingly rare. Each room has its own curator. I am the curator of room forty-five.” He indicated the open doorway.

  “So the archive is organized chronologically?”

  Whether nodded. “That is correct. We arrange all the chronicles and texts sequentially, since this method lies at the heart of the archive’s mission: to demonstrate the great abyss that separates our world from that world we lost more than ninety years ago.” He led Sophia into room 45. “We pursue this mission by contrasting and comparing the recorded differences between occurrences in the Age of Verity and the Age of Delusion.”

  Whether took Sophia to a mahogany reading table. “Please have a seat. I’ll demonstrate more clearly what I mean.”

  As Whether headed toward the back of the room, Sophia studied the space around her. Room 45 had high windows that overlooked the gardens at the rear of the building, but the curtains were again drawn, and flame lamps illuminated every corner. Bookshelves filled the walls from floor to ceiling, separated halfway up by an iron balcony that connected to a spiral staircase. Along the carpeted floor near the reading table, freestanding shelves bore the weight of row after row of precisely labeled volumes and document boxes. A young woman wearing unusual clothes—loose pants and a man’s dress shirt—was putting books from a cart onto one of the shelves. She glanced at Sophia and paused for a moment.

  Perhaps this is my secret ally, Sophia thought. She gave a slight nod. The young woman did not acknowledge her, but turned back to her task.

  Sophia swallowed. She sat up straighter in her chair, determined not to be undone by the chilliness of the Nihilismian archivists.

  A moment later, Whether returned with a large box. He spread its contents out across the table, placing side by side before Sophia two items: a folded newspaper that looked quite new and a torn single page of newspaper that looked quite old. He tapped the first with long, white fingers. “This paper, as you can see, was printed earlier this month.” The copy of The New-York Times was dated May 1, 1892. Sophia leaned forward to glance at the headlines, which included a story about the deportation of a
major financier who had been discovered to be an unnaturalized native of the Baldlands, a short report about pirate raids near Seminole, and a long article about the ongoing dispute with the Indian Territories. “This, however,” Whether said, framing the older fragment of newspaper with his thumb and forefinger, “was also printed on May 1, 1892.” He leaned back and waited.

  At first glance, the paper looked identical. It was labeled New-York Times in the familiar font, and the date said “New-York, Sunday, May 1, 1892.” But then, as she examined the headlines, Sophia realized that the stories were very different. “Is Sherman’s Eye Upon It,” the page said near the middle. “The Ohio Senator declines to answer a hypothetical question,” declared the subtitle. “A Return to Barbarism,” read another headline at the far right, and below it, “Europe trembles before the Anarchist bombs. Paris and Brussels fear May Day—Foreign ignorance of the Chicago Bomb Throwing.” “Minnesota Still Wants Blaine,” said a smaller headline farther down.

  “It’s a different paper,” Sophia said, intrigued. “I don’t recognize most of these people and places.”

  “They belong to the Age of Verity,” Whether assented. “This is the 1892 that we should be living, that we lost—the 1892 that would have been without the Great Disruption.”

  “So this document survived the Disruption?”

  “Precisely. It was found in an old cabinet in the western Baldlands. Someone had used the newspaper to line a drawer. The cabinet was sold to a collector of curiosities, and the paper was recognized only then as something of value. The collector passed it on to a rare-book dealer, who in turn brought it to our attention. It is immensely illuminating—an invaluable find.”

  “Is there any overlap between the two papers?”

  “You have asked the very question that the archive strives to answer. How much does our Age of Delusion coincide, if at all, with the Age of Verity? How much of this false world can we consider true? This is what we labor continually to find, study, and prove. In this case,” he said grimly, “it seems that we have strayed very far from our intended route. Indeed, New Occident as a whole has deviated terribly. Between these two papers, there are no two stories that are alike. The Age of Verity paper mentions—as you rightly pointed out—many places and people that seem not even to exist in our world.”