Furthermore (17 page)

Ten minutes later, Alice was grumpy.

She thought this was all a bit ridiculous. Waiting for Time. Oh, she was losing her mind, she was sure of it. She tried to remember the last time she'd slept, and couldn't.

What day was it? How long had they been gone? Had Mother and her brothers finally noticed she'd left?

Alice was paid such unaffectionate attention at home that it was hard for her to believe Mother would miss her. But Alice underestimated the space she took up in the hearts and minds of those she met and she had no way of knowing how her absence would affect the ones she loved. Nor did she have time to dwell on it. Her days were dizzier than ever here in Furthermore, and though she missed her home, she didn't miss the long, empty hours or the interminable stretches of loneliness. Here at least she had Oliver—a friend unlike any she'd ever had—and constant adventure to fill her mind.

Speaking of which, the big red door had finally opened.

Behind it was a little boy.

He wore denim overalls over a bright red T-shirt and he peered up at them through a pair of spectacles far too large for his face, taking care to stare at Alice the longest.

She and Oliver said nothing.

“Good,” the boy finally said with a sigh. He sounded like he'd lived the life of an old man. “Very good that you've brought her.” And then he turned around and left, walking back through a door into a world she couldn't see the end of.

Oliver moved to follow him, and Alice shot him an anxious look. “Don't worry,” Oliver said, reaching for her hand. “He's my friend. And I've been here before.”

They followed the boy through a house so dark Alice almost thought she'd gone blind. In fact, it was so impossible to see anything but the boy that the darkness actually seemed intentional.

Time was private, apparently.

They three tiptoed through hallways and up stairways and under doorways until finally they reached a room that was brightly lit. Inside was a very old desk and very old chairs (you'll find that young people are very good at spotting old things), and every inch of the room was covered in numbers.
Plastered to the walls and tables, framed and hung as photos, upholstered to the chairs; books and books of numbers were piled on floors and windowsills and coffee tables. It was bizarre.

The little boy asked them to sit down, and then, to Alice's surprise, took his seat behind the large desk, laced his fingers on the table, and said,

“Alice, it's a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Oh,” she said, startled. “It's a pleasure to meet you, too, Mr.—um, Mr. Time.”

“No need to be so formal,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Call me Tim. And please”—he smiled and gestured to his appearance—“forgive my age,” he said. “It changes on the hour.”

Alice tried to smile.

“Thank you for meeting me here again,” he said to Oliver. “I know how much trouble it is to negotiate with my security team, but I can only ever be of use to you when I can stand to be still.” To Alice, he said, “I hope my friends didn't frighten you too much. Some people find those pantsuits extremely intimidating.”

“Not at all,” she said shakily. “I thought their pantsuits were lovely.”

But Alice was distracted. Tim was dark-haired and olive-skinned in a way that reminded her of Father. Father's skin was not such a lovely brown as Mother's, but just a shade or
two lighter, and Alice's heart was hit with a sudden swell of emotion as she remembered her parents' faces.

“Now then,” Tim said as he turned to Oliver, all business. “You brought the book?”

Oliver nodded and placed the pocketbook on the table.

“Very well, very well,” said Tim, looking vaguely disappointed. “Thank you for returning it.”

Alice glanced at Oliver, all question marks. He still hadn't told her anything about what they were doing here, and she was beginning to realize he seldom did—not until it was too late.

Tim seemed to understand.

“Oliver paid me a visit,” he explained, “the last time he was in Furthermore. I'd respectfully requested that—in the very likely chance he should fail in his mission—he return the pocketbook to me. And now he's here, true to his word.” Tim folded his hands on his desk and took a moment to smile at Oliver in a kind, fatherly fashion, which, truth be told, was uncomfortable to witness, as Tim had the face and build of a seven-year-old and appeared to be in no position to have fathered anyone.

“But why was Oliver here before?” Alice asked. “What did he need the pocketbook for?”

“Well,” Tim said, surprised. “To find your father's pocket, of course.”

“My father's—I'm sorry,” she said, stunned, “my father's pocket is in there?”

“Yes,” Oliver said quickly. “The pocketbook brought me to Tim the last time I was here. I needed to hand over to him the contents of your father's pocket.”

“Oliver!” Alice gasped, horrified. “You just handed over Father's things to someone else? How
could
you?”

Oliver sat up in his seat. “No,” he said, “it wasn't—I didn't—”

“Your father got himself into a bit of a bind,” Tim said gently. “Oliver was only trying to help mend the matter.”

“What?” Alice looked at Oliver, panicked. “Why didn't you tell me this sooner?” she cried. “What did Father do? Was it awful? Did he . . . eat someone?”

(Tim flinched at that last bit, but we won't dwell on it.)

“Of course not,” said Oliver. “But he took far too much time to make a decision. Remember, Alice—we talked about this—it's a grave offense.”

Alice was stunned. It took her a full minute to find her voice, and when she did, she said, “That is one of the most ridiculous rules I've ever heard in all my life.”

Tim cleared his throat, visibly offended, studied a chipped corner of his desk and pinched his bottom lip between two fingers. Finally he dropped his fingers and, affecting a tone of sympathy, said, “See, it's quite simple, really. In Furthermore we do not waste time, share time, or spare time,
and I'm afraid your father took more than his measure. Because what he took belonged to me, I was the only one with permission to search his pockets.” He paused. “Though I'm afraid there wasn't much to reclaim. I had no choice but to repossess his ruler.”

Alice's hands fell into her lap as she sat straight up and stared, unblinking, at Tim's round, ticking face. His mouth twitched; his hands twitched. He looked like an old clock.

Suddenly, Alice understood.

“Is that what Ted meant?” she said slowly. “About being arrested?” She looked from Tim to Oliver. “Was Father arrested for taking too much time?”

Tim's eyebrows hiked up an inch and his oversized glasses slipped down his nose. “Yes, I'd say so,” he said, pushing the glasses back into place. “I'd say so, yes.”

“Oh my.” Alice had taken to flapping her hands around as the seriousness of it all finally set in. “Oh, oh,
oh
—”

“I know this isn't much in the way of comfort,” Oliver said gently, “but . . . would you like to see his pocket?”

Alice dropped her flapping hands. And nodded.

Oliver checked to make sure it was alright with Tim, and Tim tilted his head approvingly. Oliver gave Alice a warm smile, cracked open the pocketbook, and Alice was on her feet and looking over Oliver's shoulder in the same second it took Tim to sneeze. The old, musty pages of the pocketbook had
unleashed a foot of dust into the air, and while Tim used up the moment to blow his boyish nose, Oliver bent over the book with great care. The spine creaked and wheezed like an ancient staircase mounted by mighty beasts, and though Oliver did his best to be gentle, he couldn't help but disturb the peace of the pocketbook.

Alice was no help either.

She was so amazed—so very enchanted—she reached out and touched it.

Jabbed it, really.

She pressed a firm finger against a page and Oliver jolted in his seat, dropping the book in horror. Tim shook his head, sighed, and sneezed twice more into his handkerchief. But worst of all—
worst of all
—the book actually yelled at her.

Oliver snatched the book off the floor—shooting Alice an admonishing look as he moved it out of her reach—and though he tried to turn the affronted page, the affronted page was refusing to turn.

“Oh, be good,” Tim finally said, waving his handkerchief at the pocket. “No need to throw a fit,” he said. “She was only curious.”

“I didn't realize a pocket could be angry,” Alice said.

“These pockets belong to actual people,” Oliver explained. “Some of them are attached to the clothes they're still wearing. I believe the woman you just poked was sleeping,” Oliver said,
fighting back a smile. But his search for Father's pocket was taking a lot longer than Alice had expected, and it was making her anxious.

“Is Father's pocket attached to him, too?” she asked, hoping no one could hear the desperation in her voice.

Oliver shook his head.

Her heart sank.

“Pockets,” Tim explained, “are usually catalogued only after they've been lost. Abandoned. Sometimes a person will want to index the contents of an important pocket they're still wearing, but most others prefer privacy. A pocketbook is often the best place to search for things we've misplaced.” Tim clapped a hand on Oliver's shoulder and smiled at Alice. “Very clever of your friend to go looking for it, don't you think?”

Alice didn't know what to say.

Oliver, seeing the blank look on her face, did his best to explain. “We have pocketbooks in Ferenwood, too,” he said. “And when I arrived in Furthermore my first order of business was to try and find one, because I hoped your father's lost belongings had been catalogued.”

Clever indeed
, Alice thought. But she daren't say it aloud. She didn't want to admit this, but she was beginning to resent Oliver's depth of knowledge and experience in Furthermore. She, too, wanted to be smart.
She
wanted to save the day. It was
her
father, after all. Where were all her good ideas?

Why wasn't she the hero of this story?

“As all pockets are cross-referenced with the date, time, and location of discovery,” Oliver was saying, “I knew that even if I couldn't access the contents of your father's pocket, I would at least know
where
he'd lost it. Where he'd been. A little luck and a lot of persuasion helped a great deal in my quest. Ultimately, my discovery led me to Tim, who became a great friend. He's taught me so much about Furthermore.”

Again, Tim looked on like a proud parent.

Alice felt herself go numb, feeling more useless by the moment. “Oh,” was all she said.

Oliver turned another page in the book and then, finally, “Ah. Here we are.” He tapped (gently, very gently) the open page and the book groaned, but quietly this time. “This is it,” Oliver said. “This is the one.”

And there it was.

Father's pocket.

Alice recognized it instantly. It was the only pocket on his faded denim jacket; she remembered this because he was wearing it the last time she'd seen him, nearly three years ago.

“Oliver,” she whispered, her two eyes on the book, and two hands clasped in her lap. “Please tell me what's going on. What happened to Father after he was arrested? Did he manage to get free? Is he hiding somewhere?”

Tim looked to Oliver.

Oliver looked away.

Alice bit her lip; emotion had drenched her heart and she was running out of ways to wring it dry. “What is it? What's the problem?”

“My dear girl,” Tim said gravely. “Your father is in prison.”

Alice heard her breath hitch.

“And his sentence is very long,” said Oliver.

“Oh yes,” said Tim. “It was made up of many words.”

Alice turned to Oliver, her eyes filling fast. “So when you said you knew where Father was, this was what you meant? You knew he'd been imprisoned?”

Oliver nodded. “The last time I was here,” he said, “I tried to get him out the proper way. I thought if I followed the rules I'd be able to get him released.” He shook his head. “But now I know that the only way to get him out is to break him free.”

Alice sniffed away her tears and tried to be brave. “So we have to do something illegal?”

Oliver nodded again.

“Well,” said Alice, pulling herself together. “Go on then.” She looked from Oliver to Tim. “What is it? What do we have to do?”

Neither of them had a quick answer.

Tim finally leaned forward, studied the two children before him, and said, “Oliver, have you never told Alice what you need her for? Does she not know why she's here?”

“Of course I know why I'm here,” said Alice, interjecting. “I'm here to help find my father.”