The Collectors' Society

by Heather Lyons

  We wander into a kitchen that looks drastically unlike any I’ve ever seen before. Everything gleams, all sleek metals and white-marble counters, and it makes me think back to my last kitchen and of the smoking stove that was left better unused. “How long do catalyst retrievals typically take?”

  She lifts a silver lever and water pours from the faucet. “It depends, really. Some go incredibly fast. Others can take days, weeks. Very rarely, they can take months.” The water is turned off before Mary turns toward an icebox. “They stocked the fridge with some basics. And I believe there’s some tea in one of the cupboards.” Her smile is wistful. “No matter how many years I am out of my Timeline, or work for the Society, the English in me refuses to let go of tea.”

  I want to talk about the Society; Mary wants to talk about tea. “How long have you worked here?”

  “I’m one of the newer recruits, so . . . Officially ten years. Goodness. Has it really been that long?”

  Which must mean there’s precious little turnover.

  Minutes later, I’ve toured the entire flat. Mary points out a stack of magazines on a dining table. While there are what she calls basics in the closet in my new bedroom, I’m encouraged to sift through the periodicals and select a new wardrobe to be ordered. Furniture can also be selected, if I do so choose to change what’s already here. “After Sara retired,” she tells me, “her apartment was left pretty much alone so there’d be a furnished place for the next recruit—barring it was a female, of course. But obviously not everybody has Sara’s,” Mary pretends to gag, “personal style preferences. Feel free to change what you want. If you desire the walls painted, just let Brom know and he’ll have a team in here to change things for you.” She picks up a small porcelain doll off of a vanity and grimaces. “I never got why she loved these so much. Or, for that matter, didn’t take them when she left.”

  That doll, and all the others littering the apartment, will definitely be the first things to go. “Is the hope that I’ll take this Sara’s place?”

  “Haven’t you already?”

  “Why did she . . .” I think back to the peculiar word Mary used, the one that indicated she must have been Finn’s old partner. “Retire?”

  “Sara is an incredibly sweet girl, the sort that always has a kind word for everyone that she meets. But . . .” she trails off meaningfully.

  I’m blunt. “But sweet doesn’t always cut it, not when lives are on the line.”

  She’s pleased I’ve caught her drift. “No, it doesn’t.”

  The room we’re standing in is soft. A soft decor, as I’ve learned, does not represent a soft personality, though. Sometimes, it can be the delicate lure into insidiousness.

  “The Society must not view me as sweet, do they?” I keep my words light, but I’m most keen to see how she responds. “Or is it they just see me as the only in they have to Wonderland?”

  “If it’s any consolation,” she says matter-of-factly, “they don’t see me as sweet, either.”

  Ah. She chooses to ignore my second question. “Why Mary,” I ask, “were you not a good girl in your book?”

  “I was a wretched bitch when I was younger,” she says cheerfully. “And I can still be so as an adult. My filter is close to none. But, let us not be fully defined by what some people scribbled down centuries before, right? Books don’t tell every detail, nor can they fully represent us as living, breathing individuals.”

  She doesn’t sound the least bit bitter about her representation, and I respect her for that. “Do you know my story well?”

  “I think everyone knows your story well.”

  “How was I portrayed?”

  Her shrewd eyes study for me a long moment, but I do not cower under their weight. “Does it really matter? Would it change how you see yourself or your experiences? It’s not as if you could go back and alter those words or memories, you know.”

  I tell her the truth, one I’d heard enough times that I’ve committed it to memory. “Knowledge is always one of the fiercest of advantages, and can be the difference between failure and achievement of purposes.”

  A slim finger taps against her lips as she considers this. And then, finally, plainly, “You pursued the truth, no matter how absurd it may have been.”

  I can live with that.

  A knock sounds on the door, and for a moment, neither of us do anything. But then Mary says, “Aren’t you going to answer that?”

  Right. Of course. It’s now my door, after all.

  When I turn the knob and open it, I find the beautiful man I’d talked to hours before, his hands stuffed into his pockets. His hair is just a bit wet, his shirt and pants different from earlier. I’m given a smile that very nearly knocks the wind right out of my chest. “I wasn’t sure if you were here or not.”

  I’m thrown by this reaction, unnerved that it could even be possible. “And yet you knocked anyway.”

  I watch how his lower lip is tugged between his teeth for the briefest of moments, like he’s surprised I’ve said this. Goodness, he’s got a beautiful mouth. “I’m reckless like that. I wanted to see how you were doing, especially after talking to Brom.”

  If I’m not mistaken, there’s genuine curiosity and concern in his blue-gray eyes.

  “Finn!” Mary calls out from inside the apartment. “Come in and see all the crap Sara left behind.”

  When he doesn’t move, it takes me a few seconds to realize he’s waiting for my permission to enter, not hers. And that leaves my stomach lurching, even if by just a tiny bit.

  I step to the side. “Please, come in.”

  When he passes me, I get a faint whiff of his delicious scent. It’s now tempered with a hint of stronger soap, and if I thought he’d smelled wonderful before, it’s nothing like now.

  They want me to work with this man? Oh, God. My determination to keep promises so freshly made to myself quadruples.

  All work and no play makes Alice a good girl. Do you want to be a good girl, Alice?

  I trail Finn into the sitting room. Mary has the couch filled with porcelain dolls in dresses. “I don’t think I’ve scratched the surface on Sara’s collection.” Her hands fall to her hips. “For all I know, we’ll hear poor Alice screaming in the middle of the night when she trips over one on her way to the kitchen. Or, god forbid, open a cupboard and have it fall out without warning. Christ, just thinking about these things popping up out of nowhere has given me the heebie jeebies. I may have to sleep with the light on tonight.”

  Finn peers down at the offending toys. “And to think you grew up in a place that was most likely haunted.”

  The sound that comes from Mary is almost audible sunshine. “Not by dolls, it wasn’t.”

  “Maybe Alice likes dolls?”

  I start at Finn’s use of my name. But then, under the weight of both sets of eyes, I say smoothly, “I’m afraid I’m not much into such things.”

  “Of course you’re not. You’re an adult,” Mary says. “Finn, call the A.D. and have him send some boxes up so we can pack away these nightmares-in-waiting.” She reaches out and squeezes my arm. “And anything else you want gone. I’ll be happy to help, unless you’d prefer to purge solo?”

  When Finn tugs out what I think is a cell phone, I ask instead, “Who or what is the A.D.?”

  “Oh, sorry. Brom’s assistant—Jack Dawkins? People have called him the Artful Dodger because of his pickpocketing skills. I’d never say it to his face, as his ego is massive, but he’s probably the best thief around. Every so often, one of us has to break into his apartment just to reclaim items he’s nicked from fellow members. Just be warned—he likes booby traps, so there is that. And he’s a bit of a skeevy perv, so you’ll want to watch for that, too.”

  “Boxes are on their way up,” Finn tells us.

  Mary picks up one of the dolls and shakes it before him. “Why didn’t Sara take these hideous things?”

  “I’m positive she took a few.” He takes it from her and stares down at the
white face with heavily rouged cheeks. Something passes over his own face, fleeting emotions I can’t quite decode.

  “Seriously, though,” Mary is saying. “I don’t get why Sara never quite grew up.”

  Finn’s sigh is filled with irritation. “We’re not doing this again, especially as Sara’s not here to defend herself.”

  Mary’s a dog with a bone, though. “You’ve always had too many excuses for her. She—”

  “Was adequate at her job,” he says. “Not to mention, a genuinely nice person.” And it’s like he’s daring her to say something further, because his eyes harden as he tosses the doll back onto the couch.

  This makes Mary laugh. “See?” She nudges my shoulder. “I told you people think I’m a bitch.”

  I’m not touching that one. “Could we possibly deliver them to her? Perhaps she’d like them now.” I glance around the flat. “Perhaps she’d like a lot of these things.” All of them, if I’m being honest with myself.

  Several seconds of silence pass by before Finn answers me. “Sara’s dead.”

  I feel like a fool with her foot in her mouth, even though there was no way for me to know ahead of time. “I’m sorry to hear this. I’d thought she merely retired?”

  “What he means is, technically, if you look at the time period she returned to and the one we currently inhabit, yes, Sara has been dead for quite some time now.” Mary plops down in one of the velvet Queen Anne chairs and crosses her legs. “Around a hundred years, give or take.”

  I stare down at the dolls, loathing that confusion has been my constant state of mind for nearly the entirety of the day. “I thought you all could time travel?”

  Thankfully, this doesn’t amuse her. “We can edit into Timelines at different periods of time—although typically, it’s only for member recruiting. It’s Society policy to stick to the present as we don’t like to mess around with possibly altering events and setting off the Butterfly Effect. Time moves differently in different Timelines, though.”

  Frustration over so many unfamiliar phrases and words being uttered is a bitter taste in my mouth. Butterfly Effect? “But surely, if she is a member of the Society, and these were hers in the first place, you could just pop in and give them to her. That couldn’t possibly change the future, would it?”

  “The thing is,” Mary says, “some people, when they retire from the Society, are still active. They become liaisons or just members that occasionally interact with the Society. Then there are the rare people who, once they leave, choose to have nothing more to do with us. Sara was like that. She asked to be placed back into her Timeline at the exact moment she once left, and then basically washed her hands of us. We were too much for her.”

  “It’s not fair to judge her for choosing a path that’s different from ours.” Finn’s voice is low but firm.

  Mary’s mouth opens, but the look Finn gives her then has her lips snapping shut and her skin paling and then flushing considerably. Thankfully, another knock sounds at the door. Before I can move, Finn tells us he’ll get it.

  Once he’s gone, Mary leans forward and whispers, “They were tight.” She holds out two fingers twisted together. “Like, super tight. God forbid anybody have a negative thing to say about Princess Sara.” She rolls her eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised to find out they once had a thing, you know? Although I hope not. God, I can’t imagine. She probably laid there like one of her dolls.”

  Does she mean an attachment? “I take it you two weren’t tight.”

  “Fuck, no. She was incredibly annoying. Always had to be little Miss Sunshine. Sorry, I’m being bitchy again. And on your first day, too. Normally I hide such thing for at least a week or so before letting this side show.”

  She’s smiling, though. As bizarre as it may sound, I actually appreciate her honesty. And as I don’t know this Sara, and it appears I never will, her words really have little bearing on me.

  “Well, well,” somebody drawls. “We meet again. I knew you couldn’t stay away from me.”

  I turn around to find Jack Dawkins pushing a small cart with thick, brown sheets that look to be some kind of paper, a crooked grin on his rubbery face. He’s winking seductively at me.

  Finn comes up from behind and smacks him on the back of his head. “Nobody finds that shit charming.”

  Dawkins laughs. “Plenty of ladies find me irresistible.”

  “Blind and deaf ones, perhaps,” Mary muses. “Or ones with head trauma that have left them with lowered IQs.”

  Dawkins ignores this. “Although things have soured between us, I would truly appreciate you not messing with my game. Just because we didn’t find our happy ending doesn’t mean Alice and I won’t.”

  A little bit of vomit surges up my throat, alongside an urge to find a sword and show him exactly what I think of that.

  Finn picks up one of the large sheets and expands it until it forms a square. “Thanks for the boxes.” When Dawkins doesn’t move, he adds, “Leave the cart. We might need it to send things down into the basement.”

  Dawkins rubs the back of his head. “I can stay an’ help.”

  Mary stands up. “You can go through the boxes afterward. Get moving.”

  Van Brunt’s assistant places his hands over his heart, wincing. “You wound me, Mary. After all we’ve been through, how can you treat me like this?” To me, he says mournfully, “Love is so fleeting. Ours won’t be, will it?”

  “The day you genuinely fall in love will be the signal of the End of Days,” Mary mutters.

  I watch Finn rip strips off a roll and use them to seal the flaps of the box shut. “Jack? Just one more thing before you leave.” He straightens up. “If you ever go running your mouth to Brom again like you did this afternoon, especially before you have any facts to back up your claims, I’m going to have to kick your ass.”

  This makes Dawkins laugh. But it also has him finally on his way.

  Mary grabs one of the folded boxes and sets about opening it. “Just to clarify, the A.D. and I never had a thing.” She shudders.

  “But . . . the chemistry between you two was undeniable. I could have sworn . . .?”

  Both heads jerk up in surprise. I hide my smile by dipping my head while I claim one of the newly constructed boxes.

  We spend the next hour packing up the bulk of Sara’s things. While I appreciate the gesture behind not originally leaving the flat empty for me, it feels far too awkward to live amongst this Sara’s things. All of her dolls, all of her flowery wall art and embroidered pillows, all of her little porcelain figurines are put into boxes. During this time, I listen more than talk as Finn and Mary chat about a variety of subjects both related to Society matters and not. Despite their prior disagreements over the flat’s previous inhabitant, there’s an ease between the two that I envy in a way.

  Mary leaves to go help Victor with one of his experiments. I know I ought to ignore him, or keep him at arm’s length, but there’s something about Huckleberry Finn that idiotically, impossibly draws me in like a moth to a flame.

  So I talk to him.

  I like his voice. It’s got just a hint of a rasp and is warm and alluring. I like how he talks with his hands, too, and how he’s all too aware of such actions and tries to combat them by stuffing them far too often into his pockets. I like how his eyes are so expressive and yet guarded all at once. I like that when he moves, it’s done with confidence.

  He tells me about the building, and of many of the people who live here. I ask about views beyond my window, and he’s patient with his explanations.

  My knees weaken when he asks if there’s anything he can get for me, because he’s been in my shoes. It shakes me, these sudden, inconvenient feelings. I don’t want nor need them. Thankfully, though, Mary reappears with Victor in tow. They’ve brought wine, beer, cheese, and crackers, and we all sit down in my emptied living room and share the treats. They ask me questions, but I always manage to divert them back toward things I wish to know about them.

&n
bsp; When memories creep up upon me, ones of ease I’ve shared with others, I force them back. There’s no use in reliving these memories, no point in wondering what if or what once was no matter how desperately I wish things differently. For now, I need to focus on the people before me, the ones I’m supposedly to work with. I need to take in every little detail I can, because what I told Mary earlier is all too valid.

  Knowledge is always one of the fiercest of advantages a lady can have.

  I WAKE UP TO sirens.

  I’m out of bed, disoriented and stumbling toward the closet in this new, unfamiliar bedroom. The ear-blistering wail seems to be coming from both inside and outside my apartment, leaving my bones rattling as I fumble for a sweater or robe to wrap around myself.

  Beyond the main door to the apartment, I find a shirtless Victor, his arm around a tiny satin-robed Mary. He’s shouting into one of those hand-held phones. The moment they notice me, though, Mary disentangles herself and comes over to where I am.

  I raise my voice to lift above the din. “What’s happening?”

  Before she can answer, Finn’s door wrenches open. He stumbles out, hopping on one foot as he yanks a shoe on. I try not to stare at how his shirt is not pulled all the way down, or how the last few buttons of his well-fitting trousers are undone, too, but I fail miserably.

  One would think surreptitiously staring at him for hours as he helped pack up dolls would have been enough, but it appears I’ve yet to learn my lesson about beautiful men. And it’s patently ridiculous, because I don’t know him, he doesn’t know me, and chances are I’ll be leaving once we find the catalyst for my Timeline anyway.

  Suddenly, the building goes silent, leaving Victor’s last few words echoing down the hallway. There are a few other people in their pajamas or robes, milling about outside their doors.