The Collectors' Society 01 (19 page)

I blink up at him, startled by how easily he switched subjects. “A hot cocoa, please.”

One of his impish grins graces his handsome face. “Not tea? But, you’re English!”

“What can I say? I’m a contradiction.”

“Your words, not mine.” He leans down, a palm planted on the table, another on the back of my chair. “It’s hot as hell outside, or didn’t you notice?”

It’s suddenly hot in here, too. But I tell him primly, “Aren’t you going to be drinking something hot, too? Or is coffee served cold nowadays?”

He leans in closer, leaving me wondering if I’d only imagined the cool air. “Yes, coffee is served cold. It’s called . . .” He lowers his voice to a mere whisper. “Wait for it.
Iced coffee
.”

I shove him away. Prat.

That’s not entirely fair, though, because right now? This teasing? It feels good. It feels . . . hopeful.

“Your wish is my command, though. If the lady wants hot cocoa, she will have hot cocoa.” He wanders back to the front of the shop to stand in a line fifteen people deep. I watch as he tugs his phone out of his pocket and stares down at it just like nearly every other person in the shop. Like a sheep, I pull the one Wendy gave me and wrestle with it until I find what she called the search function in the browser.

Curiosity burns like wildfire through my veins.

I type slowly:
Huckleberry Finn
.

A million and a half responses come back. In addition to . . . What did Wendy call them? Links? In addition to plenty of those, none of which I select, there are also illustrations of a young, mischievous, yet dirty boy wearing a ragged hat and holding a gun. The same child that was in the drawing in Van Brunt’s office.

This is my partner? This
child?

I can’t help but glance back and forth, between the beautiful man I’ve just recently come to know and the pictures. My attention is quickly drawn to the person at the front of the line digging through their wallet, though. The elderly fellow is dirty, his hair bedraggled and his clothes in poor condition; it’s obvious they don’t have enough money to pay for their drink. People behind him are furious, saying disrespectful things, but Finn steps out of line so he can go up to the front and give the flustered man several bills from his own wallet.

A buzzing fills my ears, a sickening drop lands in the bottom of my stomach. My heart hammers hard, like I’m betraying his confidence by staring at such secrets, so I go back and change the wording at the top. One much more acceptably selfish.

Sixteen million hits come back for
Alice in Wonderland
, leaving me confident I very well may lose the contents of my stomach all over this coffee shop.

There are images here, too, of girls and women all with blonde hair and blue dresses, some dressed modestly, some dressed so scantily that I’m blushing once more. There are rabbits and pocket watches and cats with grins and men with silly, tall hats. There are tea parties and rageful women with crowns.

My hands shake so hard I drop the phone once more.

A man at a nearby table reaches down and claims it for me. “You okay?”

I take it from him. “Fine. Thank you.”

He has a twangy accent I can’t place. “Want me to go get you some water?”

There’s the
trusty water will save you when you’re upset
bit again. A smudge of hysterical laughter climbs up my throat. “No, thank you.”

“You’re white as a sheet. Should I go get your boyfriend?”

A fist reaches inside my chest and tries to squeeze what’s already been wrung dry. But then I realize he means Finn. Of course. Finn. The man I came in with. The one who now has his phone pressed up against his ear and his back facing me.

“No. I’m fine. Thank you for your concern, though.”

He’s dubious, but the man finally leaves me alone and goes back to his computer.

I stuff my phone back into a handbag I’d found in Sara’s room and spend the rest of my wait people watching. Truth be told, it makes me homesick. And when I catch a fleeting flash of pale skin and dark hair outside of my window, the homesickness trebles until I fear all the joints in my body might disappear.

“I will keep searching. I won’t give up. There’s always a loophole.”

But there wasn’t. And there isn’t.

Black hair fades to golden brown as Finn returns to the table. “Careful,” he tells me as he sets a paper cup down. “It’s hot.”

I blink a few times, praying my eyes have stayed dry. And then I pull the drink toward me, grateful for the distraction. “It wouldn’t be called hot cocoa if it wasn’t hot, would it? It would be warm cocoa, or perhaps lukewarm cocoa, or even room temperature cocoa.”

He mutters, “Smartass,” before sipping his own drink.

“You were telling me about reading your own story.” And telling me his secrets.

A sigh precedes his cup finding its way back to the table. “I think the best advice I can give you concerning that is to not give into temptation and read yours. That’s what this is about, right?” He bites his lower lip, and my fingers have to curl around the cup in order to not reach out and gently tug it loose. “You’re naturally curious. You want to see what some man wrote about you well over a century ago, but don’t do it. I wish now that I hadn’t read mine. And I really wish I hadn’t said anything to you earlier, either. It’s pointless. It means nothing.”

“Were they unflattering? Is that what soured you on them?”

“No—well, yeah, in a way. Our stories are told from somebody else’s perspective, so that colors how you come out. But that wasn’t what got to me. I think it was just . . .” He blows out a soft breath. “It’s an existential thing, I guess. Knowing that my life
could
have come about thanks to some man I don’t know, and that all of my problems did, too, is a hell of a lot to swallow.”

A small, dirty boy, in threadbare clothes and a straw hat—with a gun, no less. My curiosity nearly blazes, it’s so strong.

“Do you resent this Mark Twain, then?”

“Actually,” he says softly, “I do.”

The look in his eyes is so intense I’m forced to glance down at my drink. “Have you read my stories?”

I hear, rather than see, his sigh. “Brom asked a few of us to read up on you before tracking you down.”

“So you’ll read others, but resent your own.”

“I try not to read up on coworkers, no. At least, fully read their books. I’ll skim instead. But you weren’t easy to find. We couldn’t just edit a Timeline and locate you. You disappeared into Wonderland again several years after the end of your second story. We needed clues. None of our trips to England found any traces of your presence.” He takes another sip. “Truth be told, we almost gave up. It wasn’t until Brom’s friend sent him a message about some woman mentioning Wonderland.”

“Dr. Featheringstone.”

He nods as he takes another drink.

“Did you go to England looking for me?”

“I did,” he says. “Twice.”

I tug on my long braid. “When I first came to the Society, Victor said—”

“Christ. Do not put stock in whatever Victor had to say. If you haven’t already noticed, he loves to talk out of his ass.” I’m given a smile, though. “He’s English, for the record.”

Does everyone find this man as ridiculously charming as I do? “Victor said,” I continue, “that I did not look the way I should have. Do you feel that way, too? Especially as I apparently don’t look like the other one?”

“Alice—”

My eyes hover somewhere over his shoulder, focusing indirectly on a man with orange hair standing straight up. “I suppose it shouldn’t matter. But I’m curious. Are there pictures in my story?”

I know there must be. When I searched for my name, little drawn images of a blonde girl in a blue dress popped up.

Another sigh fills the space between us. “Of course you were different. The books have you as a child. You’re an adult now. It would have been weird had there not been differences.”

My fingers drum against the table. “It bothers me, knowing you all have an idea about my past and I’m blind to yours.”

“Only your childhood,” he corrects. “And only the part that the author chose to talk about. It’s not like I had a play-by-play of every second of your life. And there are your later years in Wonderland that none of us know about.”

Thank goodness. Cocoa burns my tongue when I finally take a sip, but I refuse to flinch or ease up on my gulps. “Do you ever wish you were back in your Timeline?”

There is no hesitation. “No. I’m where I belong. This place . . .” He gestures around the coffee shop. “This is who I am. This is where my family is. When I think about the stories I’m from, they no longer seem real to me. The years I’ve spent here do.”

It’s nearly identical to what his father said.

I envy him, this feeling of belonging and rightness. Because, as alien and fresh as this all feels, my history weighs down nearly every breath I take. I didn’t belong in Wonderland. I didn’t fit in in England. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel at home in New York.

“Do you ever wish you could go back to yours?”

I hide behind my cup, sipping the stinging chocolate as I try to piece my answer together.
Yes
,
God, yes
is there.
I can’t
is equally strong.
I’m confused
and
Even if I wanted to, I shouldn’t
are right there as well. I eventually tell him, “Until Van Brunt found me, I never planned on going back to Wonderland.”

His blue-gray eyes study me in the amber light coming from a pendant fixture overhead. “Do you mind if I ask why you left?”

“There is no room for misinterpretation. There is nothing unclear about the meaning. Your head, or your departure. Are you really so selfish you would put yourself above Wonderland?”

I clear my throat. Focus on ensuring my words remain steady. “I found myself not wanting to allow madness to dictate my life.” My smile is thin. Brittle. “There was no future for me there.” No matter what I had hoped or believed.

“And at the Pleasance?”

“Are you asking if I felt I had a future in an asylum?” I love that his grin is sheepish, so I take pity on him. “As bizarre as it sounds, there was more of one for me there than where I’d been.”

“Do you miss it, though?”

“The asylum? Not really. It wasn’t as bad as you might think, though. My brain wasn’t drilled into, so there is that.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

I lift an eyebrow. “Do you?”

There’s no hesitation. “No.”

O
VER THE COURSE OF the next fortnight, I am immersed in all things Society and Twenty-First Century. I learn what televisions are, which wars have occurred, how man has flown into space and to the moon. I discover how music has changed and of how women’s and civil rights have advanced. I’m finally coerced into choosing a new wardrobe (Mary can be relentless until she gets her way) but am relieved to find out the items previously hanging in my closet were not Sara’s.

“Oh, those,” Mary said one morning. “They were things I picked up before you arrived. God, you would have hated Sara’s clothes. She looked like a prissy bridesmaid all the time.”

She’s disappointed in the choices I make, though. Whereas Finn made bohemian sound like a good thing, Mary makes it sound like I’m playacting as an urchin on the streets.

I spend countless additional hours with Wendy, going over all her gadgets until she’s certain I am comfortable with them. Comfortable is her word, though, because they actually leave me vexed more often than not. She sets me up with videos on my computer to help fill in the blanks about history and modern-day culture, and I will admit to watching them long into the wee hours of night, fascinated by what I see.

More hours are spent with Kip, training. I purposely ignored his request for weapon preferences for a solid week before I relented and told him I’d go with daggers—but only because they’re small and can be strapped easily to my legs under skirts. I’m forced to endure gun instruction and target practice, and it’s there I come to realize I am, in fact, not naturally talented with all weaponry. I am a terrible shot.

Finn isn’t, though. Finn’s accuracy is frightening, and so is how coolly he is able to point his gun at a great distance and fire once, only for it to find the exact spot he wanted. He’s also brilliant at swords and archery, even more so during sparring matches. I surreptitiously watch him during our shared practices, and hate that his talent makes him even more compelling.

Mary, on the other hand, is awful with weaponry. Kip berates her on a daily basis, but rather than breaking down in the face of his disapproval like I think many men or women would, she revels in it. Taunts him at how lousy an instructor he is, and gleefully breaks bō staffs and arrows at alarming rates. She admitted to me how she’d learned the fine art of poisoning from Victor, and I wasn’t sure if I ought to be impressed or horrified by such a revelation.

“Not all poisons kill,” was her response. “Many merely incapacitate.”

Victor, like his adoptive brother, can more than hold his own when it comes to fighting. He’s much stronger than he looks, and I’ll admit to not wanting to get in between the two during sparring practice. I like watching them interact, though. There’s a subtle bond between the two men I didn’t notice during my first few days—and while there are plenty of insults and arguments, there is also deep respect and loyalty.