The woman blinks several times, as if she snaps out of a daze. “Right. Of course! Please come this way.” Whilst we wander through the labyrinth to her office, she chatters nonstop. “I love The Secret Garden. Like, seriously love it. I don’t think there’s a girl out there who hasn’t wished for her own garden to find and tend once she’s read it, you know?”
“Hmmm . . .” is all Mary offers.
“I loved all the symbolism in it. When I was younger, I found it quite romantic!”
As I haven’t read Mary’s story, I ask, “How so?”
Mary kindly jabs a pointy elbow into my ribs.
“Well, it was a bit like a young love triangle, really—”
Mary is so startled I have a very hard time not giggling.
“And obviously, I had my favorite—”
Now Mary’s eyes narrow dangerously.
“And of course, I can’t think of a little girl who wouldn’t want the attention of two dreamy boys like that.” She stops before her office. Splotches of pink stain her dark cheeks when she motions toward Mary. “Listen to me, babbling like that. To you of all people, no less! I’m so sorry.”
“I find it delightful,” I say drolly. “Who was your pick for Mary’s childhood beau?”
Bianca unlocks her door and switches on the light before ushering us in. “I know everyone always says Dickon. And I do love how symbolic he was, how he stood for the story’s heart and love of nature. But I really loved the relationship between Mary and Colin. How he inspired your kindness and eventually, through friendship and the garden, he overcame his illness and was able to walk again.”
Mary’s response is swift and tight. “He is my cousin, and a brat to boot!”
Bianca’s eyes widen significantly. “Oh, I mean—yes, I knew that. Of course. Well, not the brat part. I mean, yes, he was demanding, but . . . your personalities were really alike, and it’s just . . .” More timidly, “A lot of stories have cousins becoming romantically involved and all.”
As much as I find her needling of Mary a fine turn of events, considering Mary’s proclivity toward doing the same to others, there are still questions that must be answered. “We appreciate your willingness toward meeting with us today, Bianca.”
With Mary’s cold gaze frosting the room, the librarian’s voice is more subdued. “I’m more than happy to help the Society in any way I can.”
Mary pulls out her tube of lip rouge Marianne provided. “Do you mind if we record the conversation?”
Bianca eagerly eyes the sophisticated piece of technology. “Go right ahead. I have nothing to hide.”
“Obviously,” Mary mutters beneath her breath.
Bianca’s face falls even further. I discreetly kick Mary’s ankle, and she has grace enough to cease her complaining.
“Do you know of a Mr. Gabriel Pfeifer?”
There is no pause. “Oh yes. Mr. Pfeifer donates quite a bit of money to the library, as well as gifting us copies for our rare books collection. He is a godsend for us.”
I cannot help but bristle at such a description, even though Bianca Jones clearly does not know the man’s true character. Pfeifer obviously sees himself as a godlike figure, considering he has taken it upon himself to decide whether or not worlds exist or are to be destroyed. “Have you personally interacted with him much?”
“Well, not a ton. I mean, probably a handful of times, and most of those at social functions for donors. If there’s anyone who he would talk to on a regular basis, it’d be our rare book specialist.”
“Who would that be?” I inquire.
“Her name is Jenn Ammer.” Bianca scratches a pen across a small slip of paper. “Here’s her phone number, just in case.” She passes me the note. “She’s in today if you want to go see her. Or I can call her up.”
The paper has a drawing of an absurd-looking man holding a teacup and wearing a tall hat with a label that says: In this style 10/6. Again, with the romanticism of the Hatter! What utter nonsense.
I fold the note neatly and tuck it with my bag. “Please, do not bother. We will simply visit her once we’re done here.”
Bianca glances at the watch strapped to her wrist. “Just to let you know, her shift ends at six. If you’re going to go down there, I’ll need to send word. She’ll be in the Brooke Russell Astor Reading Room, and you’ll be required to show proper ID to be granted access.” Her fingers dance across the keyboard on her desk. “I really shouldn’t be doing this, but I’ll add you into the database so you’ll be able to go in with little problem.”
Before I can tell her her actions are much appreciated, Mary demands to know what Bianca knows about Gabriel Pfeifer.
The librarian leans back in her chair, her face thoughtful. “Well, he’s always very polite. Charming, too. Dresses well and is very attentive to detail. His knowledge of books is astounding, really, and outshines even a lot of us here in the library. He and Jenn have worked together quite a bit toward efforts to bolster the rare book collection.”
This is not enough for Mary, though. “Do you see him often?”
“At least once every few months,” Bianca admits. “Some months more, some months less. He’s a busy man.”
Mary leans forward. “Does anyone ever accompany him?”
“Outside of Jenn?” She’s thoughtful once more. “Maybe. I really haven’t noticed, though.”
How very interesting it is that this Jenn Ammer and Lygari seem to be so close.
“How long has he been associated with the museum?” I ask.
Bianca’s brows furrow. “At least as long as I have. Hold on. Let me check.” Her fingers clack away at the keyboard once more on her desk. “It says here in his file that his first donation came approximately twenty years ago. Huh. He’s aging pretty well, isn’t he?” Her eyes widen before squinting at the screen.
“Have you discovered something else?” I prompt.
“Do you remember the books you came in here for the other month?”
The Society’s Librarian had sent me here to fetch a number of books. It was also the day Lygari found me upon the steps out front.
“I wasn’t able to give you several of them. It turns out it was Gabriel Pfeifer who checked them out ahead of time. What a funny coincidence!”
Funny, no. Interesting, oh, yes.
“May we have a printout of his file?” When the librarian hesitates, I add, “It would help us very much, Bianca.”
She bites her lip. “We’re not normally allowed to do this. I mean, yes, I fudged and allowed you access into the rare books division, but . . . to give you printed, confidential information on our donors?” More quietly, “Has Mr. Pfeifer done something wrong? Because, he’s always been so good to the library. I can’t imagine that he—”
“You’ve applied to work at the Society, have you not?”
Bianca’s attention turns to Mary. “Yes, I’ve—”
“Then I would think you, of all people, would understand the importance of our work.”
The woman flinches, as if she’s been stung.
“All we’re asking is that you give us a file on a donor. Nothing else.”
After a moment, Bianca returns to her computer and types in a command. With her attention focused elsewhere, I mouth the words tact and then asset to Mary. The whirl of a printer starts shortly after.
Mary huffs out a tiny, exasperated sigh. “I apologize if I am coming off as short. Works has been . . . stressful lately.”
That is putting it kindly. Work has been devastating.
“I get it. You guys do important work.” Bianca’s smile is tremulous but genuine. “I hope someday I’ll be able to help, too.”
“You are helping us greatly today.” I rise to my feet, proffering my hand, but Bianca Jones leaves it untouched as she rounds her desk. Once more, she throws her arms around me, hugging me until I very nearly squeak. A moment later, she offers the same to a bewildered Mary.
“You guys are awesome,” she whispers. “Ohmy
god. Alice in Wonderland and Mary Lennox in my office! Can we do a selfie before you leave?”
Bianca’s phone is extracted and the shot is taken before Mary and I even have the ability to regain our composure or pose. But in the final product, the librarian’s smile nearly glows, it is so wide.
In the hallway, Mary’s indignance resurges. “Colin, indeed.”
“It is surreal how so many people know our stories, that they have their own opinions and thoughts of them, is it not?”
“It’s annoying, is what it is.” She tucks strands of hair behind her ears. “Interesting about the rare book librarian and Pfeifer though, isn’t it?”
A nearby sign informs us we are heading in the correct direction. “If I’m not mistaken, we have a pair of scenarios ahead of us. One, this Jenn Ammer is an innocent who has coincidentally worked with the fiend over the past twenty years. Two, she is an ally of his along the lines of Todd, Rosemary, or Jenkins.”
“With Jenkins, he had a minion at a bookstore. This Armmer—”
“I believe it is Ammer.”
“Fine. Ammer would be an in to a massive library collection. Who knows how many other assets he has in the literary world? There are other collections, some much larger or more important than that here at the New York Public Library. You have places like the Huntington Library in California, which has an astounding collection of important works. The Librarian has cultivated quite a good relationship with the director and several of the curators there. The British Library in London is also phenomenal, as is the Library of Congress here in the U.S. And those are only just a few of the important libraries that we also have liaisons with or contacts within. There are many others filled with priceless books here. Who knows how many other libraries, in other Timelines, Pfeifer might have connections with? It’ll be nearly impossible to try to track them all down, especially if he’s using multiple aliases.”
“We know he has a relationship with this library, using Pfeifer. Let us start with this Jenn Ammer and go from there.”
Mary’s strong fingers grip my forearm. “I want his head, Alice.”
As do I.
A bit later, we find ourselves in a room filled with books hidden behind glass cases, wooden tables, and bronzed lamps, along with a woman with multi-colored hair and glasses. No one else is present; the sound of a pin dropping would be utterly deafening as long as no speech accompanied it. Identification presented is carefully scrutinized, paperwork is filled out, and signatures are required before she introduces herself as the Jenn Ammer we’ve come to see.
“How very curious it is,” she says as she passes back our small rectangles of identification, “that I received a message from Bianca Jones not a half hour before, requesting admission for the two of you into the reading room.”
“Yes, well—” Mary begins, but the librarian cuts her off.
“It’s against regulations. Visitors must be vetted before coming in here, and a list of reading materials must be submitted beforehand. The books in here are quite valuable.”
I force myself to remember manners. “We would like to discuss with you one of the library’s donors.”
Her lips thin as she stares at us from across her desk. “Isn’t this more of a question for the director or public relations?”
Her enunciation is formal, much more so than Bianca Jones. I extract my tube of lip rouge and apply a quick coat, ensuring I activate the recording mechanism.
Mary’s irritation is quite evident. “As my colleague was saying, we would like to ask you some questions about a Mr. Gabriel Pfeifer. We understand you two have worked together frequently, especially as he has gifted the library numerous rare books.”
“Mr. Pfeifer has been incredibly generous with the New York Public Library.”
“How well would you say you know the gentleman?” Mary asks.
Several long seconds tick by, during which Jenn Ammer merely regards us as if we were bugs to be squashed. I cannot help but stiffen at her rudeness. We simply do not have time to humor such a woman.
Finally, she says, with much derision in her tone, “Well enough, I suppose.” And then, with suspicion, “Who did you say you work for again?”
Mary taps on the paperwork we recently filled out. “The Literary Preservation Institute.”
Ammer’s eyes narrow until they are nothing more than slits. A chill overtakes my spine. Her muscles are too taut, the lines of her face too drawn. Disdain no longer colors her face—cold calculation does.
One hand slowly reaches beneath the desk.
Dammit.
I grab Mary and whip her back, kicking a table over just as Ammer pulls out a small gun tipped with what Finn explained to me is a silencer. Mary drops behind the fallen desk a split second before a quiet bullet rips above us.
“What the hell!” Mary shouts.
I kick out at the table behind us, knocking it over. A second bullet explodes into the wood shielding us; Mary jumps and scoots to the side. Another kick to the desk knocks one of the legs free.
Footsteps sound; she’s left her position behind the desk. If I’m correct, her gun has five to ten bullets left if fully loaded.
I motion to Mary: You, to the left. Me, to the right. And then I hold up three fingers. She nods, and I tuck away the fingers one at a time. The cock of the gun matches the end of the countdown. Another bullet splinters the wood, missing Mary by millimeters. She springs toward the left, wrenching one of the lamps from the tables. The cord connecting the light to the table snaps a second before she hurls it at Ammer. The diversion allows me enough time to swipe the broken table leg and dart to the right. The librarian is taken off-guard, stumbling back into her desk when the metal lamp strikes her arm. The gun flies from her fingers, skittering across polished floors. As she scrambles for it, I leap toward her, the wood in my hand swinging.
Contact is made, right across her knee. She roars, buckling to the ground.
Mary wrenches another lamp off a table as I swing once more, striking the librarian’s lower back. She sprawls before me, face smacking against the floor. Just as I try to pin her, though, she manages to twist and grab hold of me.
She’s strong. Incredibly so.
Eyes bloodshot, she hisses something in a language I do not know before landing a rather inglorious head butt against my forehead. I reel back, giving her enough time to push out from beneath me. She’s not only strong, but she’s quick, too, and even though I am able to grab hold of a pant’s cuff, she’s reclaimed her weapon.
“Say goodbye, you nosy little bitch!”
I roll away just in time, the bullet grazing my shoulder. Another bullet flies by, and then a third. Glass shatters on one of the cabinets behind me, causing the enraged woman to swear up a filthy storm.
Mary sends the lamp in her hands soaring toward Ammer. This time, the librarian is able to duck the attack. Another pair of bullets is sent toward a yelping Mary and then me as I do my best to sprint across the room. Yet another cabinet’s glass is fractured.
Paper flies out from the shelving, raining down upon me like rain.
And then, as she fires at Mary, who is now ducking behind a table, Ammer begins to sing an unfortunately familiar song.
“Carry on, beyond the skies,
beyond tumultuous sea,
to the heart of the mountain
lies wondrous future for ye.”
I reclaim the wooden leg just in time to miss yet another bullet in my direction. Across the room, Mary sends a chair soaring toward Ammer.
Amazingly, the woman does not miss a note in her song. Instead, she charges me, a berserker come to life.
“Sing, sing, little children!
Spill blood graciously.”
I leap over a fallen table, swinging. My makeshift staff strikes her across the shoulder, sending her backward into another table. She must feel no pain, though, because she automatically pushes herself up, reminding me of how Rosemary was more machine than woman in battle. Blood trickles
from the librarian’s lips as she wastes no time pointing her gun toward me.
“Rest assured, in the end . . .”
I barely miss a bullet as I dart toward her.
“Treasure and glory await thee!”
My staff strikes her across the head. I spin and kick out, my foot landing directly in her chest. Once more, she slams into a table, breaking it into smaller pieces. The gun lands a few feet away.
Bloody teeth gnash at me, fingers fumble toward the fallen weapon. Her song is less firm now, the effort it takes to sing more difficult. “Fear not the blade of death . . .”
I smack the wood deftly across her kneecaps. She gasps, her fumbling growing weaker. And still, she continues to fight me with all she has.
“Fear not the hole of time—”
I grab hold of her head and slam it against the larger of the table pieces once, twice. Her eyes are impossibly open for such a strike, her lips moving, albeit no more singing.
I squat down before her, using the stick to push the gun farther out of reach. “Why did you attack us?”
The bloody smile that grows before my eyes is chilling, to say the least.
“Does this have to do with Pfeifer?”
She says, “You’re going to die, little Alice in Wonderland. You, too, Miss Secret Garden.” She licks blood from her lips. “You’re all going to die. None of you are worthy enough to be inscribed.”
I drive my fist across her temple so hard her eyes finally close.
“I cannot believe this!” Mary runs her fingers through messy hair. “What just happened?”
I sag back off her body, drawing my knees up toward my chest. “I’d say we have proof that this woman is more than just someone who works for the library.” I wipe sweat off my brow with the back of my hand. “Rosemary sang that song to us, remember? When we first used your truth serum on her. It cannot be coincidence.”
Mary peers down at the fallen woman. “Is she out?”
I shrug. “If it were anyone else than someone associated with Lygari, I’d say yes. But unfortunately, it seems his colleagues are a bit harder to bring down.”
The Forgotten Mountain (The Collectors' Society Book 3) Page 4