The Hidden Library

by Heather Lyons

  I am mortified to admit the hairs on the back of my neck rise at her throwaway comment, but I refuse to glance around me to verify whether or not the Librarian is telling the truth.

  “I have another assignment for you today.”

  I temper my impatience. “I intended on spending my day further questioning Rosemary and Jenkins.”

  “Unfortunately, Henry Flemming misjudged how much truth serum to administer to F.K. Jenkins,” she says, “and our stock is depleted. I sent word to Victor and Mary. They will be en route to obtain more by morning. Until then, I have an assignment for you.”

  Frabjous.

  “I’ll need you to go to the New York Public Library and fetch several books for me.”

  Fetch, as if I am a canine?!

  “They’ll be waiting with a young but enthusiastic librarian named Bianca Jones. She is a local contact of ours, and a valuable one, to boot. Please ensure you show her your best side.” The infuriating woman wraps the locket in a clean cloth from her desk. “You need to get out more, after all.”

  So people keep saying to me. I know they mean well, but honestly, nearly a year in modern-day New York City has not found me as acclimatized as one might assume. Everything is so fast and big and loud. Cars race by, people shout into their phones, planes roar overhead, and everyone is in a hurry. There is little leisure remaining in today’s society, it seems. And rather than the embracing the sensation of a breath of fresh air on my outings, I am more apt to wonder if I’m in a fishbowl, trapped by tall buildings and choking on polluted air.

  “Your consideration toward my welfare is much appreciated.” My words are cool, though.

  “Also, I need you and Finn to head upstate to purchase a pair of books for me tomorrow, ones associated with stories mentioned upon the Ex Libris wall. I mentioned the acquisition to Finn a few weeks back, but . . .” Her lips press together ruefully. “Things have been chaotic around here. He may have forgotten. I’ll have all the details sent to you within the hour so you can better acquaint yourself with them.”

  I stifle the urge to curtsy in the most mocking of ways. I’ve gone from Queen to page, apparently. “I am sure there are much more imperative things to be done here in the pursuit of Todd and the mysterious boss or bosses behind the Timeline deletions.”

  “We have people working on it.” Her tone remains friendly, although now laced with steel. “These matters are crucial to the workings of the Society. I would not send you and Finn if I did not think it essential.”

  She’s utterly maddening.

  Minutes later, we have woven our way through rows of catalysts until we reach the locket’s latest resting place. The glass-faced security box is already open and waiting, its golden light focused on a small velvet-covered necklace display situated in the middle. As she arranges the chain around the stand, she says lightly, “Ghosts are not always white-robbed specters, howling or weeping in misery. And yet, all of us are haunted by ghosts, Alice. Even you.”

  She says this like I am not painfully aware of how my past haunts me on a daily basis. “What or who are your ghosts?” I challenge.

  When she shuts the door to the case and locks it with both metal key and key card, it appears as if she might answer my query. There is sadness on her lovely face, regret that I’ve not seen before. But like the ghosts we are discussing, the emotion vanishes quickly without lingering trace. “I hope, in the coming weeks, you will trust your instincts. Ghosts cannot always be rationalized with, unfortunately.”

  Her about face is most peculiar and exasperating all at once.

  “Be careful on the way out.” She taps the side of her chin thoughtfully. “One might worry we’ve roused the dead with all of our talk.”

  Midway through an uncouth eye roll, a hint of gut-wrenching crying surfaces somewhere deep within the Museum, followed by a few notes of giggles that rise slightly above the strain of the Librarian’s beloved elevator music.

  I stare at the woman in front of me. She simply studies me in return.

  I turn and leave without another word.

  Immense and beautiful, the New York Public Library stretches wide and lovingly down its street. Lions guard the stairs leading up to the doors and people mill about. It is a stately structure, one that cannot help but demand notice on a day as fine as this one.

  Inside, I make my way through a gleaming hall to the main reading room. Chandeliers dangle over rows of tables with brass lamps lining the sides. Above soars a painted cloud ceiling surrounded by gilded, carved designs. The walls are lined in marble and books, and rather than the room feeling small and crowded, I’m left in awe of its expansive nature. Dozens of people are reading and circulating about in the quiet yet warm atmosphere.

  In a world riddled with technology, it does my heart good to see value still placed in words and pages. Although, I might not inform the Librarian of this, considering she might just lord it over me in that supercilious yet cryptic way of hers.

  I wander throughout the library until I locate an information desk. A helpful man sends me back into the main reading room, toward the far end. There, with a cart of books at her side, is the person I’m looking for.

  I stroll up to her and clear my throat. “Forgive me for interrupting your work, Ms. Jones, but my name is Alice Reeve. I’ve been sent on behalf of—”

  The petite, lovely woman before me, her hair a gorgeous riot that stands tall and wide around her head, drops the book she’s holding. She whispers, “Oh. My. God.” And then, faster, “Ohmygod.”

  I glance around us to see if there is a commotion I am unaware of.

  One of her slim, brown hands latches onto my arm, startling me. “I am your biggest fan. Seriously.”

  I have no idea what is happening right now.

  She lets go, as if she’s just realized she’s possibly left bruises, she was holding onto me so tightly. The book on the floor is quickly reclaimed and shoved onto a shelf. And then, whispering, “I’ve probably read your stories like a hundred times apiece. I’ve seen all the movies. Was first in line to see the last one—you know, the one that was all crazy and dark and featured the Mad Hatter as the hero?”

  Well, now I’ve heard it all. The Hatter a hero? What utter rubbish.

  Nonetheless, she’s still talking. “I was totally hoping you two would hook up in the movie—”

  As I’ve finally learned what hooking up means, I’m appropriately and fully disgusted.

  “I’m babbling, aren’t I? I am so sorry. It’s just . . . I’m obsessed with all things Wonderland. You are—” Her hands flap between us. “God, you’re like a thousand times more beautiful than the girl who played you in the movie.” She points to her flat belly. “My husband and I want to name our baby Alice.”

  I am speechless. How in the bloody hell does she know who I am?

  “Here, let’s go to my office. I have what you need.” And then, as I trail after her, completely oblivious as to what in the blazes is happening right now, she adds, “I hope you don’t mind, but . . . I’d love it if you could sign one of my books for me. And maybe take a selfie?”

  I clear my throat again. “I’m sorry, Miss Jones—”

  “Please call me Bianca.”

  More gently, “Bianca, I’m afraid I haven’t the foggiest idea what a selfie is.”

  She finds this hilarious.

  Minutes later, we are ensconced within her small office. Before I can ask about the volumes I’ve been send for, she’s digging through her desk, prattling on about a series based on Wonderland she’d read a few years back that were apparently awesome in their reimaginings. “The Mad Hatter was an assassin!”

  I nearly choke on this absurd bit of information.

  “Your love interest in that series was . . .” Bianca extracts a book out of the bottom drawer of the desk. “Some guy. I remember wishing it were the Mad Hatter, though. He was hot in that one. All gritty and manly.”

  Honestly, now. Gritty? What is with the modern yet absurd r
omanticizing of the Hatter?

  It’s then I notice she’s got a framed picture above her desk of a girl sitting at a long table with a man in a hat, a hare wearing clothes, and a mouse peeping out of a teapot. A sinking feeling tells me that this is supposed to me.

  The book is laid open on the desk. A pen is offered. I’m even more perplexed.

  “You said you’d sign my copy?”

  I stare down at the abhorrent text in horror. Did I agree to such a thing?

  “Obviously I promise not to show it to anyone! Or sell it.” She titters nervously. “You can just sign it with your first name. Ohmygod. Alice in Wonderland is sitting in my office.”

  Oh, for goodness’ sake. Has anyone else from the Society had to go through such a surreal event as this?

  The book is removed once my name is hastily scrawled within. Bianca sidles up behind me, leaning down and placing her head next to mine. Her phone is stuck out in front of us, a picture is taken.

  As she made it so we could see the screen during the process, I can attest she looks as she’s about to scream in joy. I appear as if I am, as Mary would say, confused as all hell.

  “Okay. Now that we’ve gotten my fangirling out of the way, let’s get down to business.” She drops into the chair behind her desk. “The Librarian has requested five books, but I was only able to track down three. The other two were checked out a few weeks back and have yet to be returned.”

  The woman in front of me is a librarian, and yet she still refers to my colleague by the title and not name?

  “That said,” Bianca continues, “I will let her know as soon as they’re in.” She tugs over a tote bag. “I’ve placed these on an extended checkout, considering I don’t know how long you all will need them. If you need to renew, please make sure you either call or come to me directly rather than do it online or at the desk.”

  She passes over the cloth bag. Inside are three books, just as she said.

  I thank her and stand up. She’s immediately on her feet, rushing for the door. “Do you like working for the Society?”

  She really is all over the place, isn’t she? “I do.”

  “I have to be honest, I would kill to work with you guys. I mean, outside of what I’m asked to do here and all. I know I’ve only been affiliated with the organization a few years now, but I’ve put in an application. Did you have to apply?”

  “No,” I say simply. “Miss Jones, I thank you for obtaining these books for me. But I’m afraid I must depart now.”

  “Oh!” Her face falls but she quickly pastes on a smile. “Of course. You have worlds to save, after all.”

  A telephone in her room chirps, preventing her from following me. Telling myself it isn’t cowardly at all, I make a break for it whilst she is distracted.

  I’ve just exited the library when a nearby voice exclaims, “Well, well. If it isn’t the elusive Alice who is new to New York.”

  Standing next to one of the lions guarding the stairs is a man I never expected to see again. A number of months back, I’d met him at a dance club Mary had taken me to. We’d danced together, and at the end of the night, he’d asked to see me again.

  I’d politely declined. The evening concluded on several more important notes—that of a Rosemary sighting and of a quarrel between Victor and Mary. My dance partner was quickly forgotten.

  Yet now here he is, in the bright sunlight gracing the steps to the library, grinning at me as if he’s discovered something he’s lost. Tall, raven-haired, and distinguished, he’s dressed in a smart suit. A gold and cobalt ring glitters on his pinky finger.

  “Hello, Mr.—”

  “Gabe.” He smiles even wider and takes a few steps toward me. “Gabe Lygari.”

  Ah. That’s right.

  He sticks out a hand. I offer mine, but rather than indulging in a quick handshake, he flips my hand over and kisses the back of my knuckles. I bristle at this inappropriate sense of unearned familiarity. One night at a club and drinks shared does not equate an attachment, let alone a friendship.

  “I have to admit, I’ve been searching for you. I was worried you might have tumbled down another rabbit hole.”

  I lift my eyebrows up, unamused at both his tenacity and poor joking.

  He chuckles quietly. “Sorry. I’d forgotten you weren’t into the typical Alice in Wonderland jokes.”

  “It was nice seeing you again,” I murmur, taking a step down on the stairs, but he comes to stand before me.

  “Let’s go get some coffee. My treat. We can catch up.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Lygari, but—”

  “Gabe, remember?” He flashes another smile, like we are old friends. He really is quite handsome, but looks are never enough.

  “I’m sorry, Gabe, but I must be getting home now.”

  He slips on a pair of mirrored sunglasses, but does not move out of my way. “I’m surprised to see you here, to be honest.”

  “At the library?”

  “I suppose,” he says, “I didn’t take you as a reader. No—don’t take that the wrong way. I meant no offense. You just struck me as more of a take action woman rather than a reader.”

  I ask coolly, “Who says a woman can’t be both?”

  He chuckles again. “Let’s go get that coffee. Or, hell, an early dinner. You can explain to me how you are one of those take-action-readers.”

  I step around him. “My apologies, Mr. Lygari, but I really must be going. Good day to you.”

  This time, he does not stop me. But when I slip into a cab at the base of the library, I discover he is still watching me. A hand is raised in farewell as I drive away.

  I do not raise mine in return.

  I CLICK OFF THE recorder and lean back in my chair, sighing.

  “He’s a right prick,” Victor says. “I thought Mary was going to bloody castrate him right before my very eyes the last time we went in to ask him some questions.”

  Apparently, that is not an uncommon reaction from women toward F.K. Jenkins. I can’t blame them, though. He’s pretty much the standard definition of a misogynistic dick. “Would you have stopped the bleeding?”

  My brother spins his empty paper coffee cup like a top, much to the displeasure of our father. “Shite, no. That said, I don’t like where this is all going.”

  That makes two of us. Or, three, considering Brom is just as baffled as the rest of us. I rub my throbbing temples and wonder what in the hell we’re going to do. “I find it hard to believe that both Jenkins and Rosemary don’t seem to know the name of who they’re working for.” Except, they genuinely don’t, or at least that’s what they claim under the influence of truth serum. During his interrogation, Jenkins mentioned all of his correspondence with said mysterious boss was done via email and the occasional courier package containing books that served as targets. Wendy is doing her best to determine where the email address originated from, but claims she’s getting stonewalled at every turn. The address is heavily encrypted and sent through a variety of servers across the world, so it could really be coming from just about anyone, anywhere, as far as we know. Our tech guru hasn’t given up, though. She’s still hammering away at it and swearing up a storm while doing so.

  These fools had no phone calls with whatever psychopath was sending these order. No face-to-faces, at least with Jenkins and Rosemary. They took their orders blindly and killed without second thoughts. Well, Rosemary killed. Jenkins told them where to find people and catalysts.

  It makes me crazy.

  “Look,” Victor is saying, “people are scared. They thought that Todd was the big get, you know? And we don’t even have that sonofabitch yet.”

  I’m going to have to see a dentist, I’ve been grinding my teeth together so much lately. “I know.”

  “You have to promise me something. No matter what, we’re still going to get that arsehole. We’re still going to make him pay for what he’s done to our family and countless others.” He slams a fist down against the table. “They all will.�
�

  “You think I don’t want that too?” I lean forward, dropping my elbows against the wood spanning the length between us. “You think—”

  “No, I know you do,” he says quickly. Brom reaches over and lays a hand on his shoulder, and my brother smiles sheepishly. “We all do, obviously. I’m just saying, none of us can lose that objective. Someday, I want to be the one to shoot his bloody bollocks off.”

  Brom sighs meaningfully.

  I think that, given the chance after such a shooting, my brother would happily use Todd, Rosemary, and Jenkins for parts to reenact his birth father’s experiments in a bloody blaze of vengeance. Truth is, I wouldn’t stand in his way. Hell, I would happily pass him whatever limb he wanted.

  Suddenly, I’m reminded of a time long ago, one I haven’t thought of in ages.

  The book was big and heavy and seemed to take up the width of the love seat we were crammed onto, two teenagers and their mother, but Katrina didn’t mind. For such a beautiful, fragile-looking woman, she was strong. Brom would tease her about it, but that’s all it was—teasing. Everyone at the Institute knew that Katrina was the backbone of everything. Katrina had nerves of steel, and a stare that could cut down the densest forest. Her heart was massive and her belief in doing the right thing was astounding. She was strong, both physically and emotionally, and it was one of the things that I loved best about my mother.

  She tried so hard with me. So, so hard. She never let me run, and the truth was, because of her, I eventually stopped wanting to. She’s the one who taught me that settling down was an okay thing. She’s the one who taught me I could let my defenses go and rely upon family. That opening up my heart didn’t mean losing myself like I once feared.

  “Why is this book important?” she asked us that afternoon.

  Victor looked across the space and met my eyes. He rolled his and I fought back the urge to laugh. I liked Victor. He was smart—smarter than Sawyer, but he never lorded it over me. He sounded so smart, too, and for the first few weeks I was at the Institute, I was too embarrassed to speak around him. Some of the kids in the neighborhood told me I spoke like some hillbilly hick on TV, one that should have all their teeth missing and live in the swamps with gators or have fleas or something equally horrifying and yet all too painfully realistic. I nearly got my ass kicked a number of times and a few black eyes when I did talk to those kids because language changed over the years. Attitudes and society had changed for the better. Words I grew up with were no longer okay to use, and it scared the shit out of me that I never knew that before coming to New York. I wasn’t smart like any of the rest of them. I didn’t have the schooling or upbringing they all did. It didn’t take long to realize I was that hick they said I was. But Victor, smart, clean, cultured Victor, never got on me about any of those things. Granted, Katrina would have verbally tanned his hide had he, but still.