Fifth Avenue was broad and long, and at this time of night, empty. It was cold enough that I could see not only my own breath in the night air but also his, and there was something intimate in that sight. I snuck a peek at him. The arched eyebrows and the high cheekbones, they hadn’t changed. He looked a little wider in the shoulders, and he wore thin-rimmed eyeglasses over those piercing blue eyes, but otherwise, he was the same. I knew he was examining me just as closely, though I pretended not to see. I turned my gaze back to Fifth Avenue.
The mansions were stunning. Broad-shouldered and pale and grand, each and every one. They loomed out of the darkness like sleeping giants, noble and silent. Most had the faint glow of lights deep within, veiled behind lace curtains and velvet drapes. Despite how large the windows were, you couldn’t make out even the faintest shape of what was inside. You had to imagine. Their faces were blank and forbidding. I’d heard about them, of course, but I’d never walked into this part of the city.
As if he could hear my thoughts, he said, “You’ve never been here before?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Never had a reason,” I said.
“I love New York,” he said. “No matter how long you’re here, there’s always something else to see.”
“But there’s a whole country to be seen too. Not just this one city.”
“Then I suppose we’re both best off doing what we do. I’ll hold down the fort here, operating out of the Broadway office, and you’ll take to the tracks.”
That heartened me some. Adelaide insisted we work together, but we wouldn’t really be together at all. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. Casually, I responded, “Oh yes. I’d almost forgotten why you’re here.”
“Never forget the bigger picture, Ada.”
“Don’t lecture me,” I snapped back. “I don’t see any gray hairs on your head.”
“Sorry. Sorry. Anyway, here we are.”
He gestured up at an imposing marble building, one that looked just as much like a mansion as the rest, but with no signs of life inside.
“The Lenox Library,” he said.
The building was enormous and white, and I could feel the cold radiating off its surface. Two imposing wings jutted out toward the street while the central entrance sat demurely within a large courtyard, recessed and regal. Huge arched windows were arrayed on the first and second floors. On the first floor, each arch was large enough to drive a carriage through, but only the top half of each window was glassed, to keep out prying eyes. On the second floor, the windows were even grander, furnished with six separate panes of glass, curved gracefully on the top but solid and rectangular at the middle and on the bottom. The center of the building had a third floor, with smaller windows, paired and rectangular. From here, they resembled French doors, but at such a distance, it was impossible to know their true size. Both wings of the building were crowned with Greek-looking pediments, intricately carved, but with what I couldn’t say, as they were so far overhead, nearly disappearing into the darkened sky.
I had to admit the entire effect was breathtaking. “It’s beautiful.”
He led me away from the street, around the side of the building—no small distance—toward a series of low windows. He counted under his breath, one two three four from the left, and crouched in front of a window that looked identical to the others.
“In case you ever need to know this,” he said, “the best way to get through a lock isn’t to pick it. It’s to slip something in between the bolt and the frame so it never locks in the first place.”
He reached down and swung the glass of the window open, as silky silent as you please, and gestured for me to proceed through the open window, which I did gladly and landed softly on a floor not too far down. He followed.
Once we were inside, he turned back to me from the dark and said, “Welcome to the whole world.” I looked around, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light from the high windows.
Books.
Shelves of them, walls of them. Down to our feet and high above our heads. Books everywhere. The last time I’d seen shelves of books was back at the Biltmore, in the library where we first began our affair, but these shelves held twenty, thirty, fifty times more. It was stunning. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed them. I wanted to run my fingers along the endless series of spines, rub my cheek against the cloth and leather covers, press my nose into the pages and inhale until I was drunk on the smell of old paper.
“All the books anyone could ever want,” he said. “And this is only half of what’s going to be in the public library. All these, and all the books from the Astor Library, that’ll be the start of the collection. For anyone to read.”
“It’s amazing.” I couldn’t help whispering, staring up at the rows on rows of spines stretching out into the distance. I knew it wouldn’t last—we weren’t supposed to be here, and I doubted we’d stay long—but it still felt like a sort of homecoming.
“And tonight it’s ours,” he said.
“No watchmen?”
“The watchmen are at the front doors, the main entrance,” said Clyde, gesturing to indicate I should follow him along a row, which I did. “They won’t bother us.”
“What won’t they bother us doing?” I asked, suspicious.
“We’re going to find you a name.”
“Why?”
“No one goes to see the Amazing Ada. Or the Amazing—what did she call you?” he said.
“Vivi.”
“Vivi? Awful. Won’t do.”
“You have a better idea?”
“I’m full of ideas,” he said and then, jauntily, “Oh, don’t look at me in that tone of voice. Come on.”
We stopped in front of a shelf next to another window, this one larger and higher than the one where we’d come in. With only two of us here in the huge dark space, only a small puddle of light around us, it felt like the most private place in the world. It was warm. Clyde shed his overcoat, and I followed suit, letting the coat fall in a heap at the end of the shelf before we stepped further in.
“Duck, duck, duck, duck,” he said, running his finger over a long row of books and then stopping at a series of matching brown spines, “goose.”
I leaned in to read the gold lettering. “Shakespeare?”
“Only the best,” he said. He reached for the leftmost book and opened it.
I brought my face close to the book—The Merchant of Venice—so I could make out the words in the dim light. He leaned closer, but not too close. He brushed his finger across the page, saying, “Portia?”
“It might suffice,” I said.
“It won’t.” He took the book from my hands, tucked it back into its place, and handed me the next.
I flipped the pages into motion then stopped them with an outstretched finger. “Here. How about Cressida?”
“No, not enough poetry to it. Cress is like salad,” said Clyde.
He lowered his hand on top of mine and removed it from between the pages, sending a long and trembling shiver up my arm like the bubbles in champagne.
I jerked my hand back. It was a powerful reminder, and I knew it was the moment to speak.
“Clyde,” I said.
He turned to look at me, and I held his gaze. “Yes?”
Then I said, sharply so he couldn’t mistake me, “Look. We need to work together. That’s a fact. And I’ll do it because it’s necessary and for Adelaide’s sake. But let me make this clear. If you touch me again, I’ll kill you.”
Nothing registered on his face. Not surprise or fear or amusement. Nothing at all.
After a pause, he said, “You won’t.”
“You doubt me?”