And If Thou Wilt, Forget

“Are you going to tell them?” Gerry asked. There were probably more important questions and concerns…maybe…but that was the first one that bubbled up on his tongue. “Or at least tell Jon?”

Tim blinked hard. He’d done a remarkably good job on his eyeliner, Gerry noted—yet another thing that wasn’t important but was definitely distracting; it hadn’t budged all day, despite what had to have been frustrating and stressful. “Tell them what? That I’m supernaturally compelled to make sure they’re okay? Do you have any idea what it would do to Martin if he thought I was only nice to him because something made me be?”

“Tim, you can’t stand Melanie. That’s obvious to me, and I haven’t even met her yet,” Gerry pointed out. “And you went through a period of months where you were ready to throttle Jon with your bare hands. There’s a difference between protective and nice to. You actually like Martin.”

“I like Jon, too,” Tim said reluctantly. “I think. When he’s not being an arse.”

“Not the point and you know it. Are you going to tell them about the whole…Guardian thing?”

Tim hesitated, then sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe. Not yet, though. It’s…I need to get my head around it first. Among other things, I need to see if this is actually a thing or I’m just having delusions of grandeur.”

“What grandeur, for Christ’s sake?” Gerry demanded.

“Ger, I just came home and declared I am the Guardian in the same tone of voice as Rick Moranis declaring I am the Keymaster as if I’ve got any right to claim any of the Ceaseless Watcher’s power. I’ve read enough statements to know that just because I think I’m worth something to it definitely doesn’t mean I am. There’s every chance this is me being one step away from losing my fucking mind and becoming a footnote to a statement that can’t be followed up on, and I need to make sure I’m not about to snap and do something to hurt them. Or worse, go through a Terry Pratchett ‘magic armor’ sort of situation where I think I’m protecting them only for them to get killed in the bargain.” Tim’s shoulders slumped and he loosened his grip on Gerry’s hands.

Gerry held on tighter, refusing to let go. “I’ll back you on this, you know that. If you say you need time, I’ll give you that time. But I’m telling you, Tim, don’t wait too long. Word gets around, you know? Tonner might not talk to people, but others might start to hear things, and if the Archivist does have a Guardian and the…things…that want to hurt him hear about it before he does, they might go after him and try to break him because he doesn’t know you’re coming to rescue him.”

Tim took a deep breath. “I hear you. And I promise, I do understand what you’re saying. I just…frankly, I’m worried about what Jonah might do to me, or to Jon, if I’m right and he figures it out. He keeps putting Jon in situations he knows he’s likely to get killed in, and I think even without knowing the extent of it he tries to get me out of the way first. If I’m becoming some kind of…early alarm system, it puts whatever he’s plotting at risk, and he will take steps to get around that. I-I need to figure out what he’s planning there, too.”

“Okay. One step at a time.” Gerry brought Tim’s hands up to his mouth and kissed them gently. “Figure out what you need to figure out about yourself, and then we can talk about what’s next. For right now, though, why don’t we take Rowlf for a walk and get something to eat? You’re probably starving.”

They didn’t talk about it again for longer than Gerry had expected, if he was being honest. He’d expected to have to give Tim a day or two before he came to put together a plan to approach Jon. There was never any doubt in his mind that Tim would come down on the side of telling Jon…eventually…especially since he seemed to have at least a modicum of an idea about what was going on. He’d also assumed it wouldn’t take Tim long to realize he was right about what he was, and what he was becoming. When Gerry thought about it for even a few minutes at a stretch, the only thing astonishing was that neither of them had realized it before. Almost all of Tim’s ability to just…Know things was tied to things he would need to protect the Archives crew, and particularly the Archivist—instincts about danger, instructions about favorite drinks and comfort foods, information about statements and key witnesses. He’d dropped everything and run on more than one occasion, driven by a desperate need to get back to the Archives, and while he hadn’t yet been fast enough to stop anything before it happened Gerry didn’t doubt for a second that he’d get there sooner rather than later. Add in the growling, snarling, and the fact that he kept talking in canine metaphors about both himself and Detective Tonner, and really, it was obvious.

And yet, Tim didn’t bring it up again for the rest of the week, or any of the next. Gerry knew he was thinking about it, or at least thinking about something, because he would occasionally get a vague look in his eyes, but he didn’t talk about it directly. He talked about work, about the sorts of research everyone was working on and what statements they weren’t talking about, but nothing about the Guardian thing. Gerry was biting his tongue, but it was going to come to a head sooner or later, he could feel it.

To distract himself, he started sifting through Gertrude’s tapes, looking for anything that might potentially be useful. He knew enough about Gertrude’s labeling system—picked up through osmosis, really—to figure out what some of the more obscure ones meant, and he took to listening to the ones that seemed promising. His ties to the Eye were apparently tenuous enough that the statements neither fueled nor drained him, so he figured he could listen to more than even Tim could and get…well, something. Maybe the Unknowing would collapse on its own, but as Tim had said, it would still be dangerous, and they couldn’t risk letting Jonah Magnus know they knew. Better to disrupt the ritual as safely as possible and figure out a way to nip Jonah’s own ritual in the bud later than to lay it all out and have Jon pushed too far to stop. Anyway, it gave him something to listen to while he worked on the preliminary work for the art he’d been asked to do for a children’s orthopedic hospital that was apparently privately funded and could afford to commission three large canvases for the front room of their proposed new state of the art facility.

It seemed darkly ironic that the committee that had commissioned him had requested a circus theme.

The more he listened to the Stranger statements, though, the more convinced he became that the Circus of the Other was simply a means to an end. After all, circuses traveled from place to place, and most of the performers hid behind masks and face paint and stage names. Ringmasters tended to be the circus owners, so more of them were known by name, but even the performers that weren’t completely anonymous tended to be labeled either as a group or as something like Davey, King of the Beasts. Tim had mentioned once, offhandedly, that some clown faces were passed down from parent to child and beyond—that even though you couldn’t have two clowns performing with the same face, the same face could appear in the rings for generations without interruption. How many people would have recognized even Joseph Grimaldi if he’d washed his face and put on a fitted suit? There were plenty of things that could be terrifying about circuses beyond just the fear of things you didn’t know, but it was also really easy for someone who didn’t want to be known to disappear into one.

He was going to have to make Tim talk to him about this, he mused as he half paid attention to Gertrude’s recital of the latest statement he’d pulled. He needed Tim’s expertise and insights into this, and he was more and more convinced they were looking in the wrong direction. After all, there were plenty of other places the Stranger lurked than circuses. Theaters were perhaps a tad obvious, but there’d been that taxidermy place Tim had been ranting about, and the forest full of mannequins…okay, that was a bit unusual, but mannequins lurked other places, like in department store windows—like the statement he was listening to right then. Perhaps another irony that it was a circus themed display, but—

Gerry froze, brush poised over the canvas, as something occurred to him. Mannequins. Jesus Christ, how had he not made that connection before? The Not, the thing that had been pretending to be Sasha. She, it, had been spending long lunches at Madame Tussauds. God, he’d even thought at the time that if it were to do with a statement it had to be the Stranger. Obviously there was no statement involved…yet…but the Stranger was almost certainly there. The Not had gone to connect with its…what? Superiors? Colleagues? Co-conspirators? Didn’t matter.

And what had the previous attempt at the Unknowing involved? An automaton. A simulacrum of a man, just off enough to be uncanny but close enough to be real. More than likely it had been what the Dancer was now, which meant…fuck.

Gerry took a deep, steadying breath. He made himself finish what he was working on and clean up properly; while it was relatively unimportant in the grand scheme of things, it wouldn’t do his reputation any good if he got sloppy, and this was how he hoped to make a living, after all. Once he was done, though, he practically ran up the stairs. He took the world’s fastest shower, changed into one of his dad’s old suits, made sure Rowlf had water and kibble, and sent Tim a quick text: [If I’m not here when you get home, DON’T PANIC. Gone to the library. Got a hunch. Love you.]

Since he chose to drive, it wasn’t until he got to the library that he was able to see Tim’s response. [I’ll bring something home and we can talk over dinner. Love you too.]

Gerry parked the car, found the research librarian he’d spoken to the last time he’d been here, and put his question to her. She was delighted to help him out, first with his theoretical (and largely unnecessary) research, then with the answer to his casual but crucial question about hands on experience. She even handed him over to an expert, which was a boon he hadn’t expected. The thirty minutes of impromptu lecture were worth the valuable information he got from it. When he left a little after five, it was with a list and a mingling of hope and dread.

Tim wasn’t home when he got there, so since he’d offered to bring home dinner, Gerry sent him a quick update and took Rowlf for a walk. His mind was buzzing, and, well, walking always helped Tim, right? Maybe it would help him get his thoughts in order.

It didn’t, but then, he reminded himself, he wasn’t Tim. Painting did for him what long walks did for Tim. Usually.

When they got home the second time, the smell that hit as soon as he entered said that not only was Tim home, he’d gone to the Indian takeaway they liked. Gerry hung up Rowlf’s lead and went into the kitchen, where Tim was unpacking butter masala and garlic naan. Sitting on the counter next to him was a rather fancy tin of looseleaf tea. Gerry frowned at it. “I didn’t think you liked tea that much.”

“I don’t, it’s for Martin,” Tim said, a bit distractedly. “I owe him a serious apology. We had a nasty fight today that wasn’t actually about what we were shouting about—you know the kind I’m talking about. But he was really upset, understandably. I know tea isn’t going to fix all of it, but maybe it’ll at least grease the wheels so he lets me apologize properly.”

“It’s not all your fault.” Gerry paused. “Probably.”

Tim looked up and managed a smile. “I know. But I also know there are times when I need to be the first one to say I’m sorry, and this is definitely one of them. By the way, would you be all right if we had a house guest for a while?”

Gerry blinked at the non sequitur. “Who, Martin?”

“No, Jon. I have a feeling the person he’s been staying with is about to want him out of her flat, and for that matter I think he’s going to want to get out of her flat in case he involves her in ways he doesn’t want to. And I’d rather have him staying where I can keep an eye on him than in a hotel.” Tim sighed. “It’s my job, after all.”

Gerry hummed as he poured two glasses of milk and set them on the table, then gestured for Tim to take a seat and eat. “I take it that means we’re conceding the Guardian thing?”

“Yeah, I don’t think there’s any getting away from that. That’s kind of what precipitated the fight with Martin, on my end at least. Jon’s been in and out of the Archives for the last two weeks and he’s really cagey about where he’s going, and I found out yesterday—only because Basira let it slip—that he took Tonner with him to investigate someone.”

“He trusts her more than you?”

“I think he just thinks she’s more likely to kill someone than I am,” Tim admitted. “Which is definitely not true, because if someone did hurt him—”

“I know, babe.” Gerry mixed the masala into the rice on his plate. “And no, I don’t mind if he ends up crashing here until he can find his own place. As long as you tell him what’s going on.”

Tim nodded. “I’m going to have to, even if he doesn’t agree to stay with us. Because one, I don’t trust Tonner, and two, I think something is after him.”

Gerry paused. “What makes you think that?”

Tim raised an eyebrow at him pointedly, and Gerry sighed. “Yeah, all right, fair. You just know. And it’s obvious.”

“Also, I pieced together a bit from what Melanie and Martin said. Jon was looking into Breekon and Hope—which used to be a legitimate courier service, until those two Strangers moved in—and I think he might have gone to the Trophy Room.” At the confused hum Gerry made around his mouthful of food, Tim clarified, “The taxidermy shop I think the Anglerfish thing was using as its lair. Definitely a Stranger stronghold, which…shit, I really should have thought of that sooner. Sasha—or the thing that called itself Sasha but was not—was the one that investigated that statement. She—it—said there was nothing there, but…it probably just went up and had a laugh at our expense.”

Gerry swallowed, took a drink of milk, and said, “Speaking of the Not, and things it did while pretending to be Sasha—I think I have something concrete for us. So to speak.”

At that, Tim sat up straighter and studied him intently. “Lay it on me.”

“Remember the day I followed it—well, I followed Jon following it? It went to Madame Tussauds. The wax museum.” Gerry lifted his eyebrows significantly. “I’ve been listening to some of Gertrude’s tapes—”

“Ger!”

“They don’t hurt me. I’m fine.”

“They will if you listen to too many of them. Protections etched into your skin notwithstanding, enough exposure to the tapes will erode those barriers and you’ll end up entwined in the Eye too deep to get away.” Tim laid his fork down, obviously upset.

“Like I’d walk away anyway,” Gerry pointed out. “Anyway, I think I’m good—I think I’ve got what I need. See, the one I was listening to today was a statement from a woman who was working in a department store, only for the mannequins to come to life. One of them, at least. It was dressed as a circus ringmaster and it sounds like it skinned her manager. Bit much, honestly, but it got me thinking. It was one of the last few statements Gertrude recorded before she died, because she talked about us on it—said it wasn’t worth calling us back over, but that it would be a lead to pick up on later.”

“Which department store?” Tim half rose from his seat.

Gerry waved him back down. “Fanton’s, in Hammersmith, but don’t worry about it, I don’t think we need to track the woman—um, Chloe Ashburt—down. Truthfully, I’m not sure she’s still alive, but that’s not the point. The thing is, I’ve been mulling it over, and I reckon the circus isn’t what’s important. I think it was just a convenient cover. Just a way to travel about unnoticed, you know? But. It was a mannequin. Plastic, Ms. Ashburt said, but the Not was at a wax museum. What better way to create the models the Stranger needs for the Dance than a wax museum?”

“So—what, you think this is centered around Madame Tussauds?”

“No. Too obvious, too centralized, too well known. It was probably just the most convenient place for the Not to go. There are other places, though.” Gerry grinned and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I got some good information from the library today. We can at least start narrowing it down.”

“You’re brilliant.” Tim beamed at him. “Let’s do that. Then tomorrow I can bully Jon into coming over, find out what he already knows, and give him what we’ve got. Maybe we can sort this out sooner rather than later.”

“Yeah, well, hold your horses on that one, Stoker, there’s a lot more to go off of than the where,” Gerry cautioned him. “But it’s a start.”

“It’s a middle. We’ve started long ago.”

“Fair point. Eat your naan.”

Apparently both of them were hungrier than they’d expected; they polished off the food in record time. Once the dishes were soaking, they went back into the living room. Tim retrieved the folio with Gertrude’s notes, Gerry got the sheets he’d printed off at the library, and they settled on the couch. Tim slung his arm along the back. “Right. What have you got?”

Gerry leaned into Tim’s side as he flipped to the logical start of his notes. “I learned a lot about the history of waxworks and wax modeling, but I also learned the more important information that there aren’t actually all that many people in the United Kingdom who can do it, comparatively speaking. A lot of them apprenticed at Madame Tussauds, and apparently they keep a database of everyone who trained there. I guess so they have people to call in when they need to hire.”

Tim rubbed the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “Maybe, but it’s mostly so they can pull the information if someone claims to have been trained there for legitimacy. After all, Madame Tussauds is the gold standard of wax modeling. Someone wanting to get better freelance rates might claim they were trained by the best, but if they keep that information on hand they can immediately call out when a shitty artist tries to pass their work off as highly trained.”

“Tell the Ceaseless Watcher to take fifty and let me feel smart for a change,” Gerry grumbled, earning a chuckle from Tim. “Point is, Doris—the reference librarian—helped me put together a list of people who are experts, but not the insanely famous ones—the quieter ones that might be flattered by a student coming to them for advice.”

“Smooth.”

“I thought so. Even better, she put me in touch with the library’s art history expert, who gave me a list of every wax museum and waxwork workshop in the country.”

“That many, huh?”

“Less than a dozen,” Gerry said triumphantly. “And most of them are closed to the public, but—she emphasized and so do I—people still do work out of them. Most of them, anyway. Madame Tussauds is the only one still open—there’s one here and one in Blackpool—but there are a few smaller ones.”

Tim hummed and peered over Gerry’s shoulder. “So that gives us a handful of museums to…what, stake out? Investigate?”

“I thought we’d start by checking when they shut down. Right now I’ve got two theories. One is that they might be at a location that is completely abandoned, that people don’t even work out of anymore, that maybe everyone would be surprised to learn still even had waxworks in it. The other is that they might be somewhere that closed down, maybe suddenly and unexpectedly, around the same time that Gregor Orsinov died.”

“That—why around then?”

“Because that’s probably when the Dancer came to England. If it—she, maybe? Ms. Ashburt definitely seemed sure the mannequin was female—if the Dancer buried Gregor Orsinov in a cave in the center of Lake Baikal, it had to have been in Russia before that. So it maybe came here and set up its center of operations.”

Tim pursed his lips. “There’s something to that. I think Breekon and Hope were the advance guard. They were definitely part of the Circus of the Other back in its day, so I’m guessing they left first and came to prepare the ground. Once they found a center of operations, maybe, they sent for the Dancer.”

Gerry nodded slowly. “It’s as good a theory as any. Do you know where Breekon and Hope—the company, I mean—were based out of?”

“Newcastle. And Nottingham, but that’s been converted into flats. I think Newcastle is where Jon was investigating last week.”

“Right, well, let’s see if there are any waxworks near Newcastle, then. Or Nottingham, for that matter.”

“It’s something to go off of, anyway,” Tim agreed. “I don’t think it’s where we’re going to end up, honestly. They delivered everywhere, but…”

Gerry looked up at Tim when he trailed off. He was staring vacantly at the wall opposite him, not as though he was really seeing it, and he’d suddenly gone rather tense. Gerry sat up straighter. “What? What is it?”

“Hang on. Sorry, Ger, I’m…I’m going to call Jon. Hell, maybe we can get him over here to go over this with us. I just…” Tim shook his head and fished out his mobile phone, hit a couple buttons, and pressed a finger to his lips, then pressed a third button. From the fact that Gerry could now hear the ringing on the other end, he assumed Tim had just put the call on speaker phone.

After a couple more rings, the call picked up. Jon’s voice came through, sounding nervous and distracted. “Ha—hello?”

“Hey, boss, it’s Tim,” Tim said cheerfully. Gerry, who knew him well, could tell it was fake; Jon, unless he’d started getting a handle on the Archivist thing, probably couldn’t. “You busy? I came across something I’d like to go over with you, if you’ve got the time.”

“Ah—Tim. I’m—I’m a bit—can we talk about it tomorrow?”

Gerry picked up on the sound of traffic and raised an eyebrow at Tim, who nodded in understanding. “I mean, we could, but I’ve got some theories to bounce off, and frankly, the sooner we get started on it—”

There was a faint sound from the other end that Gerry couldn’t quite identify, but Tim stiffened as there was a rustle from the other end, and Jon’s voice came through much more faintly. “Yes, wh—oh, sh—”

There was a grunt, and a loud clatter, and Tim leaped to his feet. “Jon? Jon, are you okay?”

“Miss Orsinov wants to see you.” The voice was faint, but unmistakably clear, and it sent a chill down Gerry’s spine.

“Says she changed her mind,” another voice, similar but just distinct enough, chimed in.

“No, I-I—” Jon’s voice sounded panicked and terrified.

“Jon!” Tim yelled.

There was a loud crunch, and the line went dead. Tim cursed and started for the door.

“Tim! Tim, wait—shit, stop—” Gerry hopped to his feet and grabbed Tim’s arm. “Tim, don’t. You won’t—”

“I have to find him.” Tim’s voice had taken on the timbre Gerry had come to associate with the Guardian, but it wasn’t a growl—it was practically a howl, like he was wounded…or crying out for his master. “My Archivist is in danger.”

“I know, Tim. I know.” Gerry got between Tim and the door and pulled his head down, pressing their foreheads together. “But you can’t just go out there half cocked. Slow down and think. Miss Orsinov—that’ll be the Dancer. She wants to speak to him, right? He’ll be safe at least until then. We can figure out where he is, and come up with a plan. Because if you run out there now, you’re going to get both of you killed.”

Maybe that was a bit unfair, but it seemed to work. Tim’s shoulders slumped, and he closed his eyes and put his arms around Gerry, tugging him close. “I know. I know,” he whispered. “But we’re going to have to come up with something quick. Never mind that it’s physically painful knowing he’s in trouble and that I’m not right there to protect him. If we don’t get him back safe and sound—and soon—then Martin is going to be the one to go after him. And I can’t lose both of them.” He swallowed hard. “Especially since if it came down to it, and I had to choose which one to save, it wouldn’t even be a choice. And I don’t know what Jon would do if I let Martin die just to save his life instead.”