The Hidden Library

by Heather Lyons

  I do so, and it immediately slashes me so strong, blood drips down upon Alice’s body. And then the Cat calmly licks the remnants off its paw like it’s nothing more than spilt milk.

  The King grabs my hand and squeezes more than a fair amount of blood into the bowl. “I do not know if our tulgey leaves are fresh enough,” he murmurs to his advisor. “I fear they are not.”

  “Make them be, if you must.”

  Two velvety, dried leaves are crushed into the mixture. “Part of the problem with boojum infestations is that it took the blood of a monarch for the poultices,” he tells me quietly. “Many monarchs were not willing to provide their life blood to save those who were of lesser means in these early stages.” He holds his hand out for the Cat to slash him just as deeply as it had me. He doesn’t even flinch or seem grossed out that his advisor is lapping up his stray blood, either. “As I said, boojums, once adult, must be burned. In its larvae stage, it can carefully be removed and a poultice applied to the site of its infection.”

  Alice’s screams turn hoarse, muffled by her new position. Grymsdyke, sitting on the pillow next to her head coughs that weird cough of his. “I do not like the way her eyes look, Your Majesty. You must hurry.”

  The King adds a crushed flower to the mixture and then mashes it together with a pedestal stone. The Cat growls. “Now, Dr. Frankenstein. Make sure you do not cut the boojum’s body. If its blood spills inside the Queen, all will be lost.”

  Victor does exactly as asked. A thin line is cut over the mass until a silvery, mottled body appears. Two tiny eyes shift our way and stare up at us. Incredibly, the little fucker hisses.

  The King shoves the bowl into my hands. He leaps onto the bed, straddling Alice’s legs as he bends down to face the beastie. In between two fingers is a thimble.

  What the hell? He’s going to fight that thing with a . . . a thimble?!

  The boojum’s scream matches Alice’s in strength despite being no larger than two, three inches across. It scampers out of her back, recoiling at the sight of the thimble. The King shoves the jar that Victor brought in over its body. Once upright, he tosses the thimble inside and screws the lid on.

  He climbs back off the bed. “Quickly, Finn. Spread the poultice upon her back. Make it thick, and if possible, spread it below the edges, across every spot you think the boojum could have touched or infected. Use your finger, the one the Cat cut.”

  I do exactly as he asks. In my cut, the poultice burns like a motherfucker. But I spread and spread some more, even digging my finger underneath the flap of skin until the entire area is one large, right mess. And then, miraculously, Alice stops screaming. Her body goes limp beneath my hands.

  “Her eyes have closed, Sire,” Grymsdyke reports. And I think it’s the first time Victor has really taken notice of the enormous spider, because he takes a giant step away from the bed.

  “You must sew her up now,” the Cat tells me. “Make each stitch count.” It nods its head toward the King. In his hands are a needle and golden thread.

  I have no idea how to sew. None. But this is Alice, and if I had to lay my life down for her right now to live, I would.

  I climb onto the bed and straddle her just as the King did, ensuring my weight does not bear down upon her legs. The King and Cat chant something in a language I cannot understand, but the tones they use leave the hairs on my arms standing on end. Slowly, slowly, I lace the needle in and out, in and out, making the ugliest set of stitches ever across her beautiful back. But, by the end, the hole is closed nice and tight.

  “Now,” the King says softly, “apply the rest of the poultice.”

  I glob it on until it forms a mound on her skin. From there I’m instructed on how to place the bandages over it, covering the entire area.

  “We’ll need to make more poultice, enough for several days’ worth of treatments. Just in case.”

  I crawl off the bed. The King is holding the boojum up for me to see. It has either passed out or died of fright, its body pressed up against the side of the jar and as far away from the thimble as it could possibly get.

  Its face looks almost like one of those cats with a smushed-in nose. Pretty, my ass. This is the stuff of nightmares. Ones apparently terrified of thimbles, though.

  “What happens now?”

  “Now,” the Cheshire-Cat says, “we wait. If the treatment takes, Her Majesty will recover fully within a few hours. If not . . .”

  I wait, but he does not finish. Instead, he licks the area around the bandaging on Alice’s back.

  I round the bed and sit next to Alice, my chair so close my knees bump up against the bed. A tiny snore wrinkles her nose, and for some dumbass reason, it makes me want to both laugh and cry. She’s snoring, just like normal.

  Victor touches my shoulder. “I’m going to go call Dad to tell him what’s happened. Would you like me to take a look at those cuts you two got?”

  I shake my head. It doesn’t even hurt that much anymore. The White King does the same.

  “Call me if you need me.” And then, my brother lays it true. “You look like shite, Finn.”

  I let out a small laugh.

  “I’m probably talking to a wall here, but get some rest. You’ll be of no use to Alice when she wakes up if you’re on the brink of passing out.”

  The Cat jumps off the bed and follows Victor out the door, vanishing as it passes the Five of Diamonds in the hallway.

  I take hold of Alice’s hand. It’s warm, thank God. I want to kiss her so badly, even just right here on her forehead, but I hold myself back.

  I look up at the White King of Wonderland. “Thank you for believing me and for coming.”

  He rounds the bed to the other side, choosing to sit down in Marianne’s chair. Now that the excitement and immediacy has passed, I can see the fear he’s been carrying with him. “Finn . . .” He leans back and stares up at the ceiling. “You must understand that my heart will always desire the Queen of Diamonds. Always.”

  “I know.” My words are just as quiet as his.

  “When we learned of the prophecy, it felt as if all of my dreams died.” His head drops so his eyes can meet mine. “Rather—all of our dreams died. It is a painful thing, having to let go of dreams and loved ones that are so cherished.”

  I can only imagine.

  “The shared path we traveled came to an abrupt end.” A bittersweet smile tugs up one corner of his mouth. “Her direction leads this way,” a hand angles to the left, “and mine this way.” The other hand angles right. “You know this, though. Even still, I feel it is important to impart upon you that you must never hesitate if you need my assistance. I will always believe you, Finn, because Alice believes in you.”

  All I can do is thank him again.

  “Now, there is one more thing we must do before I insist upon you resting. Give me several minutes to arrange it. Grymsdyke, perhaps you could accompany me out the door, so that Sir Finn may have a moment alone with the Queen?”

  The spider scuttles off the pillow. The King holds out an arm, and it makes its way to his shoulder.

  When the door closes behind them, I can’t help myself. I’m fucking exhausted. It’s been two—three?—straight days of hell and insanity.

  I cry.

  Okay, not cry. Because, hell no. But my eyes definitely blur when I lean my forehead down against her cheek. “You’re going to be okay.” I press that kiss I wanted to give her earlier against her exposed cheek and then her lips. “Everything is going to be okay now.”

  The corners of her mouth tilt upward—just a little, but enough that it feels like somebody just punched a hole into my chest. And then her fingers curl around mine as a soft sigh of contentment is breathed out.

  The door opens. I’m surprised to find Mary there. “I’m going to sit with Alice, okay? You’re needed in the lab for a few minutes.”

  “I’m not leaving.”

  “Don’t be a baby. Besides, His Royal Hotness has requested you.”

&n
bsp; When I brush past her, she says, “You look like shit.”

  “So people keep saying.” I turn to the Five of Diamonds, still stationed at the entrance. “Don’t leave this spot.”

  Grymsdyke pops its head out from the pikeman’s shoulder. “I will go inside and guard the Queen, Sir Finn.”

  “Don’t bite Mary,” I warn it. “Not even if she tries to persuade you to live here forever.”

  “She does not have to convince me. The Cheshire-Cat and I have discussed this already. The Queen will see reason when I inform her of my decision to remain as her personal guard.”

  Well, then.

  Down the hall, in Mary’s lab, I find my brother taking blood samples from the White King. He doesn’t look up when I come in. “Have a seat. I’ll get your IV port ready in a minute.”

  “What the hell for?”

  Victor pulls the last needle out of the King. “It is for a small bit of Wonderlandian blood magic. That is all.”

  That is all?

  “The Queen is a monarch in her own right,” the King says to me, “but it wasn’t until her last visit did I come to realize she is not . . . protected, for lack of a better word, against some of the Wonderlandian ailments the way a native might be.”

  “I thought monarchs weren’t dynastic. That they could be anyone from anywhere, as long as Wonderland chooses them.”

  The King smiles wryly at my observation. “While this is true, from what I can tell, she is still our first and only non-native monarch. She is susceptible to our land in ways that I am not, just as you are. Do not think I had not noticed how you munched on your native foods during our travels.”

  To be fair, I’d offered him an energy bar, only to have him tell me it tasted like the worst kind of frumious he’d ever put in his mouth.

  Whatever that meant.

  “So you think that by, what? Injecting your blood into our bloodstreams, we’ll be less susceptible?”

  The King lets out a voiced breath of relief. “Exactly. This is the best protection for the two of you we have come up with. Now that I am here, I cannot let the chance go by, especially as Alice will want her revenge against Hearts.”

  I’m shocked, to be honest. Not that he would want to protect Alice from any future trips to Wonderland, but that he’d think to include me. Especially me.

  “I cannot know for sure that this will work.” He picks at the cotton ball and tape Victor places over the puncture site. “It is my hope, though. The Cheshire seems to think it will. I have provided your brother several vials for the both of you, but they are to be staggered out over the course of the coming weeks. If, by any means, you do return, we will do another round there. Tonight, you can start with your first dose. Be rest assured that I am perfectly healthy right now and my blood is clean.”

  In minutes, Victor has an IV port in my arm. I watch as the White King’s blood sluices through the tiny plastic tubing, wondering just what in the hell I’m going to say to any of this.

  I can see why she loves him. His heart is just as big as hers.

  “I will go and sit with her, if that is all right.”

  I look up at the King. He is . . . not asking. He’s more telling. Gently, though.

  “I hazard to guess that, if we were to compare our hours of lack of sleep, you might win. Dr. Frankenstein is right. You will be of no use to Alice if you have not first taken care of yourself. Rest for the next hour or so. It cannot hurt and chances are, Her Majesty will sleep throughout it all. I imagine boojum extractions are taxing to a body.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Listen to him, Finn,” Victor says. “Besides. You know she’ll see you looking the right mess you are, and she’ll order you back to bed herself. Get the rest in now. Don’t forget we have the New York Public Library fundraiser gala tomorrow night.”

  I’d completely forgotten about all of that. “I’m not going.” Is he nuts? A fundraiser? When Alice is recuperating, Todd is here in the Institute, there’s the Queen of Hearts to track down, and we need to figure out if Peter Pan is infiltrating the Society?

  “You’re going to go,” Victor says calmly, “just as I am. Just as the Van Brunts have gone every single year, because of Society ties. You, as the incumbent leader, will be required.”

  “I’m—”

  “Going. Besides, don’t you remember? Mary says Alice was looking forward to it.”

  “Alice,” I point out angrily, “is in a bed down the hall, having just had some kind of weird-ass bug cut out of her back!”

  He ignores my protestations. “Get the sleep. Two hours. What can it hurt?”

  “But—”

  “He’s already gone, Finn.”

  I look toward the door. The White King is no longer standing there.

  Victor also glances toward the door. “The King was saying all these weird things I couldn’t understand when I was taking his blood.” His voice lowers. “And that talking cat creeps me out. He appeared out of nowhere and asked if he could have a look inside me. What the hell does that even mean?” Before I can answer him, he adds, “And you brought that wanker back with you, too. Did you see the look the Five of Diamonds gave me? I wouldn’t be surprised if we woke up and everyone was dead.”

  “You’re being overly dramatic,” I say tiredly. But he’s totally right. The Five of Diamonds is a loose cannon if there ever was one.

  “Tell you what. Mary’s got a bed in back for the nights she’s working overtime. Sleep in there. I’ll be out here working, anyway. I swear, little brother, I’ll wake you the first minute I hear she’s even moved her head to the other side. Although, you may want to shower before going back in there, too. Bloody hell, Finn. You smell like hell.”

  And the compliments keep rolling in. “Did you try the healing spray?”

  Victor unties the rubber band around my bicep. “What for?”

  “You know what for.”

  He sighs. “No. I have no reason to think it’ll work on me, Finn.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t have a cut or a broken bone.”

  “Victor—”

  His smile is grim as he removes the port. “There’s nothing physically wrong with me. I’m just crazy. Perhaps I ought to go back with them to Wonderland. I’d fit right in.”

  “You are not crazy. Stop saying that.”

  His chair rolls back. “Fine. I have a mental illness. Scratch that—I have two.” He clears his throat. “Victor Frankenstein Van Brunt has,” and here he gets that clinical sound crap voice that sounds far too close to our childhood shrink for my comfort—“moderate to severe bipolar disorder coupled with borderline schizophrenia, which, when put together, makes him a giant fucking mess.” He mock salutes. “Thanks, bio-dad.”

  Victor has been on special protocols and medicines from various Timelines more advanced than ours for years to combat these disorders. Therapy has helped, too, but my brother’s demons always seem to come home to roost. Successful, witty, intelligent, loyal, and loving, he cannot seem to get past these genetic markers. Fear grips him at the very thought of passing such disorders on to future children, so he continues to muck up his relationship with Mary on a regular basis, thinking somehow it will be better in the long run than her pain over a potentially so-called screwed-up kid.

  Reasoning with him does nothing. We just stay on him about his protocols and keep hoping that someday, he realizes he is enough. He is not his illness.

  I stand up and go over to my brother and hug the crap out of him. He doesn’t even question me. He just hugs me back. And then I take his advice and go take that nap.

  I DREAM OF STARS.

  When I open my eyes, soft morning light filters through the window in the room. I’m . . . apparently on my stomach, despite never being one much for sleeping in such a position. My face is squished against a fluffy pillow and fuzzy blankets are pulled up to my shoulders.

  Asleep next to me, in a chair, is Jace.

  I blink several
times, shifting on the bed. And—shifting! I can move! And move enough, because now I am aware of a horrid crick in my neck from the position I’m in. All my rustling about wakes the White King of Wonderland. He scoots his chair closer, and strokes a familiar hand through my hair.

  “Hallo, Alice,” he murmurs. “How do you feel?”

  “Like bloody hell,” I whisper. I can talk! Callou, callay!

  “I can only imagine.” His hand drifts away, back to his lap. “It should not last long, though.”

  “A few hours at the most,” comes another voice—a dear one, one I feared I would never hear again.

  “Cheshire!”

  Soft padding across the mattress brings the King’s advisor into sight. He appears fine, thank goodness. His coat is thick and shiny, his eyes bright, his tongue just as rough as always as it flicks against my hand. “Good morning, Your Majesty.”

  And then, if that was not enough, a large spider I have known for years, one whose loyalty has meant much to me, lowers himself from the ceiling. “It does my heart good to see you awake, Your Majesty.”

  I fear I am dreaming. So many loved ones, long thought left behind, are here with me? “May I have help sitting up? This is a dreadfully uncomfortable position.”

  Jace has me out of the bed and into the chair he’s vacated. “Do not lean back to far,” the Cheshire-Cat warns. “You do not want to undo all that has been done.”

  “And what has been done?”

  Once I am settled, Jace brings a chair from the other side of the bed round so he may face me. “That is a story I may start, but another must finish. Would you like to hear it?”

  “Most assuredly. But first, are you truly sitting here with me right now?”

  His smile is bittersweet. “Indeed.”

  “Are we in Wonderland?”

  “We have journeyed to New York City. And this is part of my tale. But let me start at the beginning and go to where I may stop, and from there, as I said, you must find completion elsewhere.”

  I curl my fingers around the chair’s arms, delighting in how achy they feel. The Cheshire jumps into my lap, shrinking to the right size. He promptly begins to groom himself, purring.