Free The Hidden Library by Heather Lyons Page B

come.”
    I suppose this is less insulting than her frequent charges of my tardiness.
    “Was there any difficulty in obtaining 1847BRO-WH’s catalyst?”
    I’m annoyed she asks such a thing, when I’m confident she already knows the answer. “Outside of the labor, none at all.”
    She finally turns around and offers me a wide smile. She is truly beautiful, with thick dark hair and bright eyes more shrewd than kind. “Why, Alice. You and I both know you are no stranger to getting your hands dirty.”
    “Contrary to what your crystal ball must tell you, until last night, I had never robbed a grave before.”
    Her laugh fills the small room. “Could you relate to Cathy, though?”
    It’s a challenge to hold back my irritation. “Dead and possibly a specter?”
    “Torn between two loves.”
    Honestly, the gall of this woman. I drop the handkerchief-wrapped locket in her outstretched palm, refusing to rise to her bait.
    The Librarian unwraps the catalyst and pulls it up by its chain. The small locket is dirty, yet manages to glint in the bright light anyway. “Catalysts are always symbolic,” she muses. “This, for example, represents the enduring struggle between two lovers its owner was torn between during both life and death.” She picks up a small cloth conveniently sitting on her desk and begins to polish the stolen jewelry. “Did you see her ghost, perhaps?”
    My answer is clipped. “No.”
    “Some people believe that beloved objects such as this can be haunted by their owners.” She flashes me an indulgent smile. “Do you think that possible?”
    “If it is,” I say tightly, “Mrs. Linton will be haunting you down here in the Museum.”
    Another laugh. “She would have much company then.”
    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