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I pass through the crowd of people, offering polite smiles to those who catch my eye, and avoiding those who I know will be a headache to deal with in any capacity.I pawn off my basket of chocolate biscuits and vanilla shortbread to a nearby servant, and settle myself behind a particularly large hedge wall with a nice view of the guests. I stay carefully out of sight as I search the crowd for John.
I finally find him getting his ear chewed out by his mother. They’re standing just outside of the cover of a hedge wall. John is bent down at an uncomfortable angle so that his mother can thoroughly scold him without raising her voice.
I stifle a laugh at his sour expression, taking joy in the thought of him being falsely accused of something for once. I stand there, utterly transfixed, and unfortunately not fast enough to move before John spots me. I move aside, pressing myself up against the rough, scratching, hedge. And hoping he didn’t notice me. But one peek outside the safety of my hideout tells me otherwise. His eyes are narrowed, zeroing in on me as he begins to make his way over.
He rounds the corner and towers above me, pinning me against the wall without even touching me.
I look up and groan internally at his stormy eyes and his mouth set in a grim line.
“Do you have any idea what you just put me through?” He asks, his annoyance clear in every brisk word. “Me?” I ask, feigning innocence.
“I know it was you Ophelia.” I look up at him, trying my best to mimic Lucie’s doe-like eyes.
“But how could I, the prissy princess, ever possibly do something that I wasn’t expressly told to do?” I ask him, not willing to admit to anything just yet.
“You know I’m meant to be married this year, are you trying to ruin my prospects?” He asks in a tone that tells me that he does indeed believe I did intend to ruin his chances at an advantageous match. I give him a look and say: “even if I did tell such falsehoods, which I’m not saying I did, you and I both know that the imagined scandal wouldn’t have a negative impact on you and would die down within a week.” He still looks annoyed, but the tension in his shoulders has lessened somewhat.
“But what of the woman?”
“The woman?” I question.
“The woman in the supposed scandal.” He sighs.
“A scandal can’t hurt a woman that doesn’t exist.” I say with a shrug as I slip away from the wall. He’s still glaring, but doesn’t say anything because he knows that I’m right.
John didn’t linger, instead choosing to hasten his mother into leaving early, eager to be rid of the conniving whispers of the people of high society.
I can’t say that I blame him, although it will be considerably more dull without him here to amuse and infuriate me in equal measure.
I eye the table stacked with gifts admiringly. I’m hoping to receive a book of some interest this year, all my mother ever gives me in the way of literary writing is Jane Austen and books on etiquette.
It’s not that I have anything against Jane’s writing, it’s simply that I don’t particularly enjoy reading of the monotony of everyday life. If I’m going to read a book I’d prefer it be about some mystical curse or the like.
“Sister dearest.” Comes my brother’s amused voice. I turn with a grin on my face.
Christopher stands with his hands in his pockets, his suspenders crooked, and his light brown hair slightly mussed.
“What are you doing?” He asks, I pause for a moment, thinking how ridiculous I must look to him. My arms are reaching for the hem of my corset, my back at an odd angle as I try to adjust where it sits against my skin.
“If you must know,” I say as I straighten, dropping my arms to my sides. “My corset is digging into my skin. I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if I have a rash now.” I say with a pout. He smiles down at me, looking like an older brother amused by the immature antics of his little sister.
“Well, while I’m sure that must be awful for you, you look lovely Lia. Just like Mum.” Christopher is the only one who calls me Lia, an old nickname from when Christopher was little and couldn’t say Ophelia and it was shortened to Lia for a time. He tips his head back to take a swig from a silver flask he retrieved from his jacket pocket.
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” I ask him skeptically.
“Of course,” he laughs. “Have you seen the portraits of mum from when she was young?” I shake my head. “Mm, well she was stunning- and you are the spitting image of her.” He says with a shrug.
“How lovely,” i grumble. “I look just like the devil herself- yay.”
It’s always what I wanted, to look just like my mother. He smiles sadly, nudging my shoulder playfully. “Come along little sister, I believe it’s time to open presents.” I loop my arm through his and we leave the safety of the enclosed hedges.
The hubbub of guests milling about begin to gather around the table piled with gifts, forming a half circle. My mother stands next to my father in the center, champagne glass in hand as she taps a fork against it, calling for silence. The crowd quiets almost immediately and my mother begins her speech:
“Good evening everyone,” she begins. “As most of you know my name is Alice Ascot, and together with my husband Hamish, we would like to thank all of you for being so gracious as to attend our daughter’s sixteenth birthday celebration.” She pauses, sharing a look with my father. “And It is with great pleasure that we honor our eldest daughter this day, and on this joyous occasion, we hope to give our daughter an unforgettable sixteenth.” I’m not sure how she knew where I stood with Christopher, but she did. She gestured for me to join her, and the crowd parted, offering me no other choice but to leave the safety of my brother’s company. He gives me a sympathetic look and a small wave goodbye as I leave him.
I join my parents and smile out at the flock of guests, thinking of the fact that as soon as this blasted speech is over, I can quit this dreadful party.
“Seeing as our daughter is now at an appropriate age, we would like to inform everyone here, that we are now looking for a match for our beloved Ophelia.” I turn to my parents, too stricken to speak. They smile out at the onlookers, the perfect picture of a happy family. “Ophelia,” my father starts. “Ophelia?” My head’s spinning, everything feels unfocused. I catch a glimpse of my brother pushing through the crowd as my world tilts on its axis and everything goes dark.
Chapter 2.
I once heard that my mother ran away when my father proposed, she bolted on the spot. That’s how much the idea of marriage frightened her.
I also heard that my father later apologized for springing something so life altering on her without any prior notice. She took an entire year before accepting.
I have a difficult time believing that the girl who ran from her own engagement, would spring one on me, her daughter.
But all of this just furthers my belief that someone offed my mother and took her place as Alice Ascot. She’d have to be mad to put me through what her parents put her through- although she could just be mad.
I sit outside in the early morning sun, brooding over the events of the previous night while I sip my chamomile tea, the calming aroma doing nothing to still my nerves. Christopher sits next to me, idly reading the newspaper, and Lucie crawls around at our feet, a stuffed bunny with an eye monocle clutched tightly under her arm. “Miss.” Sonia scuttled down the front steps, a small card with gold looping writing on the front gripped tightly in her rough hands. “Miss!” She calls again, this time more urgent than before. I set down my tea and stand up to meet her halfway.
“Sonia?” I inquire. She stops before me, her face bright with anticipation.
“Mr. Jonathan Whittle is at the door!”
“John?” I question. “My John?”
“Yes miss, he said to give this to you.” Sonia gives me the card with gold writing and I flip it over. “What’s it say miss?” Sonia asks eagerly.
“I- I have to go.” The card flutters from my hand as I rush up the stairs, racing through the halls and bursting out of the front door.
“Ophelia?!” John exclaimed.
“What is the meaning of this Jonathan Whittle?!” I give his chest a hard shove and cross my arms as he sputters out an answer.
“Well, it was a proposal.”
“Yes, I’m perfectly aware of that fact. What I would like to know is why in Gods name are you proposing to me?!” He scratches his head and mumbles something I can’t hear. “What?”
“I said-“ he stops, dropping to one knee, clasping my hand in his. “I said that I would be honored if you would accept my hand in marriage.” I pull away from him, shaking my head as I stare into his questioning eyes.
“This isn’t funny John, you can’t joke about something like this!” My voice pitches two octaves higher and my heartbeat thuds loudly in my ears.
“I’m not joking Ophelia. I know exactly what I’m asking, and what it means.”
“No, see, because it’s not possible for you to know what you’re doing, you must be mad to propose to a woman you hate.”
His brow furrows at my words and he says: “but I don’t hate you.”
“You don’t?” I thought he hated me, I thought we hated each other.
“Of course not.”
“But if you don’t hate me, then why do you try to make me miserable?”
“I’m not trying to make you miserable.”
“Then what were you doing?”
“Reciprocating.”
“Reciprocating what?! My hatred of you?” He looks momentarily taken aback before he rises to his feet and says with perfect clarity: “I know that you don’t hate me,” that’s technically true. “And I thought it was just friendly teasing.”
“I quite literally started a rumor about you having a secret rendezvous!”
“And I purposely goaded you into ruining your dress.” Not many people can make me speechless, and John is not one of them. “That changes nothing. It might have been harmless teasing, but that doesn’t mean we should get married.”
“It doesn’t mean we shouldn’t either.” He takes hold of my hands again, forcing me to look at him. “Just take my offer under consideration, please.” I bite my tongue to keep from rejecting him outright. “Don’t hold your breath.” I say at last.
When I was a child, I used to wander through the hedge maze. It would usually end with my becoming utterly lost, crying within the maze for hours at a time before someone found me. And yet, whenever something upset me, I would run into the labyrinth. Hiding from my reality.
And that, I suppose, is what I’m doing now as I trail my hand along the the hedge walls that tickle my fingers as I walk. I follow the path in my mind, walking until I reach the garden in the center. The tables are still out from the previous night, the flowers still strewn across the grass covered floor. I make my way around the large space and plop down on the grass, content to hide away in here until someone decides to force me back into reality. I lay down in the grass, turning onto my stomach as I open my book to chapter two of “pride and prejudice”- the only Jane Austen novel I actually enjoy.
I laid there for hours as the sun sunk lower and lower in the sky.
I had been looking up, shielding my eyes from the afternoon light, when a flash of white caught my eye.
The rabbit! I scramble to my feet, turning in a circle as I scan the garden. I spot the rabbit darting through the narrow passage in the hedges.
I rush over to the wall, dropping to my knees as I crawl through the tunnel. I scrape my hands and knees on loose twigs and thorns as I scurry through the passage. Stumbling through the opening and leaping to my feet, I note the tree full of apples and see the white rabbit darting down a hole at the base of the tree that I hadn’t even known was there. I run to the tree and begin to reach my hand in the whole when I notice the bright red flowers stuffed within it like blood. My breath catches in my throat as uncomfortably macabre thoughts fill my head.
I reach a shaking hand into the hole, grasping a flower. I breathe a sigh of relief as I hold the bright rose in my hand. So this is where Father and Lucie hid the roses from mother. I pull them from the hole with a laugh. I hesitate before climbing into the tunnel, looking down at my gown. I silently thank Sonia for choosing a long brown dress for me to wear today, hopefully the dirt stains won’t show.
I close my eyes and slip into the hole.
It feels like falling.
When I was little, my mother would tell me stories. She told me tales of a whimsical place called Wonderland. In wonderland, you paint the roses red. In wonderland, you eat mushrooms that either make you grow to the size of a giant, or to the size of a fly. In wonderland, you receive riddles from cats with half-moon smiles. In wonderland, you hide from the wicked Queen Of Hearts. In wonderland, you take your tea with a man as mad as a hatter.
And in wonderland, everyone is mad, and therefore no one is mad at all.
I tumble down the steep drop from the opening among the roots, tearing my dress and scratching my face in the process. I land with a hard thump on my back, and flounder on the ground like a fish out of water for what feels like a lifetime as I struggle to get air into my lungs. My lungs fill with a gasp, I sit up coughing slightly and spitting out bits of dirt that I swallowed on my way down the literal rabbit hole. What the bloody hell is this place?
I’ve landed in a tunnel large enough for me to stand to my full height- although I can admit that it isn’t a very impressive one. I force myself to get to my feet and squint at my surroundings in the semi darkness. From what I can make out, I seem to be in a very old tunnel, and if the marks on the floor are any indication, it must have been carved by an enormous rabbit. But of course that’s preposterous. I must’ve hit my head on a rock, perhaps I have a concussion. I reach out my hand, lightly touching my fingers to the dank wall as I begin my decent.
The path of the tunnel descends at a steady decline, and with each step the musky smell of damp earth grows stronger, mingling with a metallic scent that I can’t quite name.
My breath puffs out in white clouds, and the condensation on the walls turns to slick ice. It’s almost as if the deeper I go… the closer I get to death.
Before long my body starts to shiver, and the chattering of my teeth rings out in the ever darkening tunnel like the church bells ring out upon London.
The cold of the enclosed space brings hot fear to my stomach, and I feel sweat begin to bead upon my brow before it freezes in place.
I didn’t know it was possible to feel so cold, and yet so suffocatingly hot at the same time.
I close my eyes, sliding down to the frozen ground, waiting for someone to find me and take me back to the warm safety of my home.
And then I hear it, quiet at first, and then louder. The unmistakable sound of boots crunching on snow.
My head snaps up as I search with wide eyes for the source of the footsteps. “Christopher!” I call out, my voice cracking from disuse. “Christopher, I’m over here!” I yell.
The footsteps quicken and my heart rate slows as relief courses through my veins. As the footsteps grow closer, I begin to be able to make out the shape of Christopher.
The smile fades from my lips as I notice how short he seems, and a dark foreboding feeling grows in my heart as a high pitched cackle emanates from the approaching figure. Something’s wrong. Something is terribly wrong.
The figure is so close now that I can make out the sharp planes of its angular face, the hollow cheeks and circles around its eyes.
I grip the wall, straining my arms as I force myself to stand, stumbling over my feet as I back away. The figure gets closer and closer, and then from behind it, a second one appears. Twins, they must be twins. I turn on my aching heel and struggle back up the path, slipping on the icy ground.
“Hatter!” Says the one on the left as it turns its head and calls down the passage. “Hatter, Alice has fallen down the rabbit’s hole again!” My heel catches on a root and I collide face first with the cold, solid ground. Tears spring to my eyes, freezing before they ever fall as I feel claw like hands grip my ankles and pull me faster than I thought possible back down the rabbit’s hole.
My head bangs against a large rock, and my vision darkens as I hear the twins say in a singsong way: “Alice is home! Alice is back! Alice is here for a tasty snack!”
I picked it bc of Hamlet and what happened to Ophelia…..😶
“Come now Alice.” Said the man seated across from me in the pitch black darkness as he tried once more to convince me to sing him a song. After I lost consciousness in the tunnel, I can only assume that the twins brought me to this room of darkness, binding my hands so tightly to the arms of a chair that I could feel my blood drizzling down my arm as I struggled against my constraints. “Alice, oh Alice, delicate like a chalice. If you slipped from my grip, you would be ripped to….” The man trails off, and with a cluck of his tongue says: “Oh pity, I cannot seem to find a word suitable enough that rhymes with ‘grip.’” I hear a clatter of what sounds like silverware crashing to the ground as the man pushes from the table, his chair scraping against the floor as he does.
I brace myself as an eerie silence fills the room, I hear nothing, not his incessant singing, or his footsteps. It’s unbroken silence until I hear the sound of breathing in my ear, feel the hot breath of someone far too close against my neck. I swallow back my own sick at the smell of his foul breath, it reeks of that strange metallic scent mixed with something undeniably rotten.
“Alice.” He whispers at last, sending a shudder down my spine and a scream up my throat. “Tell me, what rhymes with ‘grip?’” He asks, his sharp nails digging into the sensitive skin of my neck. I try to form words, try to say anything at all, but the fabric gagging me keeps my voice locked deep within, letting only muffled sounds escape.
“Oh! I forgot, so sorry my dear.” The man tugs my gag away, and snaps his fingers twice. Bright red flames flicker into being high above my head, bringing my surroundings into sharp, clear focus.
Before me is a frayed white tablecloth draped over a long table, piled high with teapots, teacups, cookies, sandwiches with their crusts removed and various other finger foods.
I strain my neck, gazing around what I had thought was a room. I’ve been retained in what appears to be a large clearing in a forested area, the trees ringing the enclosure are dark and rickety, their leaves falling to the ground with each gentle swish of the wind. The red fires above paint the night air in a bloody facade. “Alice.” The man said again, and as my eyes found him for the first time, an involuntary shiver traveled down my spine as recognition sparked in my mind.
He stood across from me, leaning with his hands braced on the table. His hair, a dark shade of rust like red, fell forward, framing his face. Atop his head sat a worn looking top hat, and he wore a frivolous, moth eaten suit, with frilly sleeves.
“Alice…” he murmured.
I looked into his eyes, taking in their odd discoloration, and the manic look within.
He smiled, his lips painted a shade of deep red- reminiscent of blood. He teeth are pearly white, only a few shades lighter than his skin.
I stare up at him, I know exactly who he is.
“Hatter.” I breathe. He smiles, pleasure lighting up his dim eyes.
“Alice! My dear Alice, where have you been?” He stands to his full height, and I notice with some surprise, the lean muscles rippling slightly as he moves. I believe if he weren’t so undeniably mad, he might be handsome. Not a typical kind of handsome, but a unique beauty.
“I’m not Alice.” I say, the stubborn strength of my voice surprising even myself.
“Don’t be silly Alice, of course it’s you- unless you’ve changed?” He seems harmless when he rambles like this, but I remember the sensation of his sharp nails digging into my flesh, and know that he is anything but.
“My name Is Ophelia, not Alice.” I try again, perhaps if I convince him of my identity, he’ll set me free.
His expression contorts for a moment, his eyebrows scrunching together in puzzlement.
“Are you quite sure?” He asks, the singsong tone of his usual speech gone. “It would be such a shame if you were yet another disappointment.” His voice took on a cold, disconnected tone as he spoke, like he suddenly didn’t care anymore… like the life had gone out of him.
He stared into my eyes and I saw nothing, not hatred or fear, joy or anger, just a void of nothingness.
As I sit, bound to the chair, the sound of my blood splattering on the ground echoes in the stagnant atmosphere. I feel the sweat begin to drip from my brow, and I know with clear, unclouded certainty that there is no escape for the girl named Ophelia.
“Of- of course not.” I stammer. “I was simply jesting with you.” I say with a feigned laugh.
The Hatter’s lifeless expression shifts, brightening at my words.
“Oh wonderful! Wonderful!” He galavants over to me, and without even touching my constraints, they fall to the ground. “Come come, Alice!” He shouts, skipping down a path in the trees. “It’s time to celebrate your return!”
I gingerly stand from the chair, wincing as I rub my raw wrists. I look around, longing for the passage back to my apple tree, but find only trees looming about me- and none of them are what I wish for.
Mother once told me that I used to have terrible nightmares. That my screaming would wake the entire house, and that she would stay up with me, telling me stories of fantastical world, where rabbits were late, and hatters were mad, until I could sleep soundly.
But out of all the fanciful creatures she described to me, the twins called Tweedledee and Tweedledum were the most cherished in my mind, for they were like me: young, childish, and free.
My mother’s tales would bring grand smiles to my face, but when I looked to her, she would look… almost sad.
And I never understood why.
Mother once told me that I used to have terrible nightmares. That my screaming would wake the entire house, and that she would stay up with me, telling me stories of fantastical world, where rabbits were late, and hatters were mad, until I could sleep soundly. But out of all the fanciful creatures she described to me, the twins called Tweedledee and Tweedledum were the most cherished in my mind, for they were like me: young, childish, and free.
My mother’s tales would bring grand smiles to my face, but when I looked to her, she would look… almost sad.
And I never understood why.
The path the Hatter leads me down was formed by trees curving inward, making an arched ceiling so dense with foliage that I cannot even glimpse the night sky above. The path is a carpet of fallen white rose petals, soft and damp beneath my old heels. And all around, small, bell-shaped mushrooms, in hues of violet and deep emerald, sprout from the mossy earth, a fairy-tale touch that makes my situation feel all the more laughable.
I pause, not caring that the Hatter is much farther ahead of me than he ought to be, I feel a strange pull to pluck a mushroom. My fingers grasp the thin, soft stalk, and it rips from the ground without so much as a complaint- although I don’t see how a mushroom could complain. I rub the small bit of fungus between my thumb and forefinger, admiring the pretty blue stains it leaves… I think they’re blue anyway, it’s a bit hard to tell with only the Hatter’s blue fire for light.
“Alice!” He beckons.
My head snaps up and I race to catch up with him, he’s stopped at the end of the passage. Smiling grotesquely at the scene unfolding before us.
The twins from earlier are prancing about, circling blazing red fire in the center of a the meadow.
It seems harmless at first, until I notice what’s burning.
There, in the center of the bright flames, stands a dark haired man tied to a pole. I choke on my scream, too afraid of what the Hatter might do to me if I let it escape.
Every bone in a body is telling me to run, to run far and long until the stench of melting flesh no longer fills my senses. Until my heart ceases its jackrabbit hammering, and until the fear turning my insides to stone ebbs away.
But I don’t, I stand there, rooted to the spot. Staring in fascinated horror at the wild creatures dancing in circles around the fire, singing nonsensical words as they laugh and laugh. Like the act of burning someone alive is something to be delighted by.
The Hatter grabs my wrist, ignoring my cry at his touch, he drags me into the fray. Spinning me round and round, hands holding tightly to my waist as he lifts me into the air.
We spin and spin, my head feels cloudy, my body hollow, and all I do is stare at the man. He looks young… he looks dead.
His eyes firmly closed as his skin flakes away in charred black bits.
Tears begin to well within my eyes at the thought of his pain.
The Hatter drops me low to the ground as he bends forward, smiling joyously at the shriek that slips past my lips. I cling to his neck, terrified of falling somewhere worse than I already have.
He brings me back up, laughing at my fear.
I push away from him, trying to vain to escape his hold. I look out helplessly, searching for a helping hand that I know I won’t find.
My gaze scans the throng of savage beasts, and then finds its way back to the burning man.
My heart stops as our eyes meet.
He isn’t dead, he looks straight at me, with something like horror within his eyes.
He stares unbelieving at my presence, and his lips form one lone word: Alice.
The man’s eyes stayed glued to mine, and all I feel is the unbearable heat of the flames.
The Hatter begins to spin me faster, so fast that my feet leave the ground as he drags me in circles, the trees around us blurring as he does.
I flinch as his grip tightens on my wrists, causing fresh blood to drip down my arm, the sharp pain tearing my gaze from the burning boy.
The Hatter grins down at me, the fire reflecting in his pale eyes like sunlight on a mirror. “Let me go.” I plead, my voice barely above a whisper. The Hatter laughs, pulling me closer. We dance closer to the flames and they lick the hem of my dress. “Please!” I beg him, as the bloody inferno singes my calf. “PLEASE!” I scream, my throat burning as smoke fills my lungs.
The Hatter begins to laugh hysterically and he says, whispering in my ear: “as you wish, Alice dear.”
He releases me, relief flashes in my mind before I fall.
I stare up at the Hatter as he smiles at my falling form, the air rushes from my body, my back plunging down into the flames.
I clench my eyes shut, bracing myself for the searing death of fire.
I thought that the worst fall of my life would be that of my fall to this land of nightmares, but perhaps I was wrong.
The crackling of the fire sounds like breaking bones as the heat burns my back.
I land with a hard crunch as I crash into the burnt coals. I hold my breath waiting for my skin to flake away and my flesh to melt- but it doesn’t.
I tentatively open one eye, expecting to find myself consumed by flame- only I’m not.
I gasp, my eyes wide as I stare up at the burning boy above me.
He’s crouched down, peering at my face, and all around us the fire has simply vanished.
I bolt upright, pushing myself up and looking out upon the dumbfounded faces of the onlookers.
The Hatter stands at the front, flanked by the twins who both have broad grins on their faces, showcasing their small, sharp teeth.
“Alice!” Exclaims the Hatter. “What are you doing in the fire Alice?” I don’t say a word in response to his question, instead turning to help the boy.
I bend down to touch his arm, but jump back with a shriek as his skin knits itself back together. He looks up with a grin, flashing sharp canines and defined dimples.
“Hello poppet.” He says, standing to his full, towering height. I stare at him in shock as shadows begin to wrap around his bare torso and solidify into a black dress shirt. He leans forward, and without the light from the fire casting strange colors upon his glossy hair, I notice that his black unruly curls have a strange purple sheen to them.
He winks an eye at me, highlighting his one black iris and one purple.
I jump as the Hatter grips my arm pulling me into his cold embrace.
“Let go!” I scream, attempting in vain to wriggle way from his icy hold.
The Hatter laughs and begins to sing and rhyme: “Alice, you’re like malice, you make my mumbling hapless. And If you were cake, you would cause paralyses! And though you are not quite glad like-us, you laugh like you are mad as us!”
He sways to his own tune as the others laugh, all grinning smiles and sharp teeth- except the boy who almost burned.
“Hatter,” inquires a petite girl with the nose of a mouse, and small ears poking out from her wispy white hair. “Are sure she’s Alice?” The Mouse-girl asks, poking my midsection as she does.
“Of course!” The Hater says with a laugh. “Just look at her, our dear Alice is home at last!”
“But,” begins the Mouse-girl. “She seems different… and also smaller.”
“Perhaps she ate a mushroom again?” Suggests one of the twins.
“Yes!” The Hatter agrees. “Alice has always had that terrible habit, and besides, the first time Alice returned she had become a grown up.” He pauses, a look of reminiscence on his face. “This time she hasn’t aged at all.”
“That’s what makes it all the more odd.” Insists the girl. She frowns up at me, her beady eyes drilling into mine as a golden light falls across her face.
The girl freezes and turns to the horizon.
“The sun!” She shrieks. “It’s morning already, come Hatter, we must hide.” She bolts towards the woods, and the Hatter releases me, gripping only my wrist as he pulls me after her. Bolting with the crowd and entering the forest at a seemingly random point.
The branches and leaves scratch at my face as the Hatter pulls me along, the dim light from the rising sun doing nothing to illuminate the tumultuous path that I’ve been blindly led down.
I stumble, almost falling, as we enter a particularly forested area. The roots littering the ground wind around my ankles as the Hatter slows to a stop before an enormous tree.
He reaches up with his free hand and tugs on a lever, a series of clicks and creaks emanate from within the tree and an opening forms in the center, revealing a descending staircase.
Chapter 4.
Chapter 4.Time is odd here.
There are no designated mealtimes.
The sun does not rise and fall according to common sense.
Some hours are endless, while others are minute.
There is so sense to be made in this land of unreality… and the sooner you realize that, the safer you’ll be.
Before I fell down a rabbit hole, I had never once been bound to a chair. After I fell down a rabbit hole… I’d been bound not once, but twice.
No one thought to tell me why we ran from the daylight, they simply dragged me down a spiral staircase that opened to a large underground, circular room. The ceiling hanging with roots, and the floor haphazardly covered with outrageously colored carpets.
The room was full of chests, hats and other queer objects.
I didn’t see much before I was forced into a smaller room and wrangled in a blue dress almost identical to the one I wore at my birthday celebration. At first the twins tried to change my dress, but my screaming and throwing of Nick-Naks deterred them. I kept my arm poised to throw whatever was available until everyone left the room. Separated from everything else by a worn curtain, I removed my dress, relieved that my corset and shift were still intact as I shrugged on the blue dress. I managed to tie the back of the dress on my own, tying my hair in a braid and slipping my feet into the white knee-highs and black shoes left out for me.
As I prepared myself like I would have at home, I almost smiled at the comforting familiarity of the mundanity.
It brought to mind Sonia’s soft voice and rough hands as she brushed my hair, telling me stories from a world left behind.
I tried to smile to myself in the musty mirror, but when images of this insanity flashed before my mind… I couldn’t. I sank to the carpeted floor, shaking with my arms wrapped around my body. My eyes burned, but the tears stayed locked behind them. “I want to go home,” I whispered into the stifling quiet, the words catching in my throat. I thought of John and my father, Lucie and Sonia… I even thought of my mother. My flawed, cold-hearted mother… who loves me, in her own way.
If this were a story, this would be the part when Mr. Darcy saves me from this cruel fate and loves me forever, we live happily ever after, and he never treats me like a foolish girl… but he never did, no one ever did.
I flinched when the curtain opened with a whoosh, ripping me from my melancholic thoughts.
I backed away, pressing myself against the wall when the twins and the Hatter came closer and closer, cloth bindings gripped tightly in the Hatter’s hands.
“Hush hush Alice.” He had said as the blindfold stole my sight and rope bound my hands.
I kicked and fought them, but to no avail. I was shoved in a chair and I’ve been there ever since.
I always thought that if I ever fell into a land of whimsy, it would be like a dream, instead it’s more like a nightmare.
Mother always dismissed her tales as nothing more than fiction- heard from travelers and “the women of old”- but, I don’t think she was being truthful.
The figments of her stories feel all too real, except they aren’t the whimsical and kind characters she described them as.
For they have sharp teeth and biting nails. Their rhymes do not cause joy, bringing only fear, this land is not one of wonderment and life, it is only despair and death.
And I do not believe that the Alice in her story is any different from the Alice that raised me…. Perhaps only younger, and free.
I swallow against the gag, my throat tightening as I do.
I can’t remember the last time I had a sip of water, or a bite to eat. Is this how I die? I suppose it’s not the worst way to go, better than burning anyway.
I shift in the chair, trying to move the rope digging into my raw and aching wrists. I’ve been stuck in this drafty room for ages, the air causing the hairs on my arms and neck to rise.
It feels empty, I don’t hear the Hatter singing his unfinished rhymes, or the twins complaining about their hunger, and I don’t hear the mouse-girl doubting my false identity.
I hear nothing, and somehow that’s worse.
“Poppet.”
I jump, my scream catching in my throat when a dark, silky smooth voice speaks close enough to my ear that I can feel his warm breath on my neck.
“Oh,” he says, surprise lighting his words as his large hands work on my gag. “There. Much better, no?” I shudder a breath, working my jaw to relieve the stiffness.
“Who are you?” I croak, my throat burning from the strain.
“That’s what I was going to ask you.” He says lightly, his hands moving to the rope binding my hands behind my back.
I open my mouth, but stop when a terrible memory surfaces unbidden.
The Hatter stands across from me, saying what a shame it would be if I were yet another disappointment, his voice cold and unforgiving.
“Alice.” I whisper, the lie tasting like ash in my parched mouth.
He chuckles softly, and says, his voice full of dark amusement: “poppet, don’t lie. You and I both know that you are not Alice.”
My hands fall away, cool relief smothering the pain as a slight breeze passes over my raw skin.
I feel the man’s cold hands at my ankles as he works at the knots trapping me here. I reach up tenderly and pull away the cloth keeping me in darkness.
The dimly lit room slowly comes into focus as my eyes adjust. The man stands, dusting off his dark trousers. He straightens and recognition pierces my eyes like a nail pierces wood- hard and unforgiving.
It’s the boy from the pyre, the boy who should have burned.
He smirks at me, his eyes twinkling in the dark.
“So,” he says, his voice clear as the day that I cannot see. “Who are you?”
I stand, barely meeting his shoulder, and say, sounding more sure than I feel: “Ophelia, my name is Ophelia.” He nods his head approvingly, beckons me up the spiral stairs. And for some inexplicable reason, I follow.
Why does this feel like Tim burtons Alice but 20000000000000x better?
It does? Tysm!!!(I’m a huge Tim Burton fan)
That might just be the most flattering thing anyone’s ever said to me😂😅🥹
The man's footsteps were a soft, even beat against the rough, cold wood of the spiraling staircase. His back was a wall of dark fabric, broad and unreadable, and I kept my focus on it as I followed. The air grew colder with each turn, the scent of dust and rot growing stronger, and I had to fight the urge to glance into the shadows that clung to the edges of the path. I didn't know where I was being led, only that turning back felt like a quicker death.Finally, the staircase ended at a wood door, carved like a leaf. The man traced his fingers along the veins, twisting small, concealed buttons before he pushed it open without a sound. It revealed a chamber of forgotten things, a circular room with a tall, domed ceiling. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of bright sunlight that cut through the gloom. In the center of the chamber was a long, wooden table, piled with objects both mundane and unsettling: rusted teapots, cracked mirrors, and a collection of glass bottles filled with liquids of various sickly colors.
It’s odd, I could have sworn that staircase led to the woods.
The boy—or rather, the man who had been a boy—gestured to a chair at the table. It was a high-backed, ornate thing, draped with cobwebs and looking remarkably like a throne. "Have a seat," he said, his voice echoing in the large space. "We have much to discuss."
I remain standing. "You were at the pyre," I state, my voice stronger now, more certain. "The one they built for me- for Alice.”
"The one who they tried to burn? The one who saved you? The one who is devilishly handsome?" The man finished, the smirk returning. "Yes. That was me." He strolled to the table, picked up a chipped cup, and examined it. "And you, I'd bet, were the one they thought they were building it for…But you aren’t.” He smiles, his lips curving wickedly at the corners. “No, you’re the one named for a tragedy and destined for one of her own.” He pauses, a single eyebrow rising. “Did I miss anything?”
My jaw tightened, my teeth grinding together, the sound loud and grating in my mind.
"I didn’t ask for it, I didn’t want it… any of it."
He set the cup down with a clatter. "I think you’ll find, that wants and asks have little to do with the outcome of what happens in Wonderland.”
He said it, he said the name of this land… the name I’ve refused to accept.
He walks towards me, but I stand my ground. "Why are you helping me?"
"Helping you?" He laughs, the dark, booming sound rattling the teacups. "You haven't been in Wonderland long enough to understand." He stops inches away, his cold hand brushing a strand of hair from my face. "There is no help in this land, only bargains. I saved you from their games, yes, but I did it to play my own."
His fingers trace the line of my jaw. "The last Alice was a liar, a facade of innocence," he whispers.
"But you…you are not Alice. You are a new song, a new story. I think you might be worth protecting. For a time, at least."
He leans closer, his multi colored eyes deep enough to bury myself in. "So, what do you say, Ophelia? Shall we dance?"
I should say no, I should say no and run far away. But somewhere deep down, I know that the only way home, is to play this sick and twisted game. Where the cost of life is death, and the cost of freedom is something worse.
“If I were to accept…” I begin, my blue eyes staring into his mismatched ones defiantly. “Then I would need answers.” He looks down at me thoughtfully and then says: “ask whatever you wish, but I would require a few answers of my own in exchange.” I nod, but add after a moment of thought: “Real answers, not riddles.” He laughs, but waves his acceptance as he bends down, opening a glass cabinet to retrieve a silver tray stacked with a teapot, sugar, cream, cups, and two spoons. He sets it on the table, plopping down in a chair, once again offering me a seat. And this time, I take it.
***
He makes a surprisingly good cup of tea. The spicy and bitter aroma of the black tea calms my nerves as I cup it near my face, warming my chilled hands. I take a small sip, letting the familiar taste sit on my tongue before swallowing. I watch over rim of my cup, he’s lounging in his chair, his head tipped back as he admires his black nails that he must’ve painted himself.
I gingerly set the cup down, and begin to speak.
“How did you know it was me?” He turns his head, grinning like a feline and says: “anyone who truly knew Alice would see beyond the outward similarities In appearance, and recognize the person within as someone wholly different.”
“But,” I say. “The Hatter seemed to know precisely who Alice was, and he was sure beyond the shadow of anyone’s doubt that I was his Alice.” The man smiled sadly, showing for the first time an emotion beyond the masks of sarcasm and threats that he wears like armor.
“The Hatter,” he says quietly. “Once knew Alice better than anyone. He loved her, in his own way. But when the queen drove her to the brink, chasing her from wonderland. His madness that was once delightful, became dark twisted.” He pauses, looking at me with an air of wistfulness.
“When he saw you,” continued the man. “He saw only Alice, and he thought that perhaps she finally had returned. That after all the false Alice’s over the years, she had finally come home.”
I think back to the Hatter’s remark about all the failures before me, and shudder to think of what happened to them. The man sits up with a clap of his hands and smiles brightly as he says: “my turn!”
He grabs his tea, downing it in one long gulp. Wiping his mouth, he says with some seriousness: “why do you look like her?” He means Alice, he must, for who else could I resemble.
I take a breath, debating whether to feign ignorance or be honest. But a deals a deal, so I suppose there’s no real choice.
“I look like the girl you knew… because Alice, is my mother.” He stares at me, unblinking, as a cloud of confusion settles over his face.
“How long?” He rasps, his voice thick with an unknown emotion.
“What?” I question. He clears his throat and says in clarification: “how long has Alice been in the mortal realm?”
“I don’t know, she never told me that her stories were real. She never told me that the characters of her tales weren’t as she said, she made them sound kind, if not a little mad.”
He nods, saying: “then how old is she?”
Understanding gnaws at my heart as I realize what he’s asking. Maybe he isn’t so twisted as the rest.
“She turned forty-two last spring.” He sinks in his chair, sorrow morphing his enchanting features.
“She grew up, I suppose.” I open my mouth to respond, but don’t as something in me tells me he isn’t actually speaking to me anymore.
We sit in the stifling quiet, and I watch as he returns to his usual air of threatening looks and veiled insults. The emotion I glimpsed within is gone, hidden somewhere deep within his mind.
“Come along poppet,” he says as he opens a small door engraved in the back of the wall that didn’t know was there before. “I do believe we should get moving, after all, the Queen is likely waiting.”
***
I dropped to my knees behind the man, who still denied me the knowledge of his name. He crawled down the small stone tunnel at an alarming rate, leaving me far behind.
As I crawled, the rough hewn stone of the floor bit into my already scraped palms, and the suffocating smell of mold and dust caused a fit of coughing to erupt from my throat.
“Hey,” I cough, gripping my dress in my fist so I don’t trip.
“Yes, poppet?”
“What’s your name? And who are you?” He pauses, peeking back at me with a condemnatory look on his face.
“Isn’t that the same thing?” He turns back with a shake of his head, hurrying down the tunnel.
“No,” I say indignantly. “It’s not. A name does not define a person, it’s a way of addressing a person, and I refuse to keep thinking of you as ‘the boy from the pyre.’ It’s simply ridiculous.”
He said nothing, but his shaking shoulders are met with a glare. "Well, I suppose that is a bit ridiculous," he conceded finally. "You can call me Cheshire."
A gasp caught in my throat. "But..." The words stammered out, "You're meant to be a cat!"
“A cat?” He scoffs. “Do I look like a cat to you?!”
“Well, no.” I admit. “But that’s what my mother always called you.”
“How insulting.” A laugh threatened to bubble up my throat, and I pressed my hand to my mouth to stifle it as he pouted.
“Well if it makes you feel any better,” I offer. “I called you ‘the treasure cat’ for most of my childhood.”
“Because I’m a treasure to behold?” He asks, the grin evident in his voice.
“No,” I say mutinously. “Because I thought that ‘Cheshire’ was a made up word… and also because I thought you were the ‘treasure cat.’ I had always assumed that you had a trove of treasure in a cave somewhere.”
“Like a dragon?!” His voice is higher than usual, but I know not in anger.
“Mm, yes, possibly.”
“Tsk, how dull indeed.” He decides with a wave of his polished hand.
I glare at him in the dim light, quietly crawling after him.
“Cheshire,” I ask after an insufferable amount of silence.
“Yes, my annoying little poppet?” Ignoring his rude address, I ask him the question that has been burning in my mind for quite some time.
“Can everyone in Wonderland do magic?”
“Don’t be ignorant, of course not. Only the strongest of us can.” He snaps, sounding annoyed at my apparently ignorant question.
“Then could I do magic if I stayed here long enough?”
He’s silent for a few minutes before he says: “One moment.” As he stops at the dead ended tunnel, raising his hands above his head as he lifts an iron hatch with the insignia of a heart with a dagger piercing it and a crown resting above it.
He stand to his full height as sunlight streams in through the opening before disappearing above.
I sit just outside the circle of light, not moving an inch until his scarred hand appears through the hatch with his voice floating down from above.
“Are you coming?” He asks, his tone quick and sharp.
I grasp his hand, and pull myself up with his help.
My eyes shut on instinct when he grasps me under my arms, I wince as he roughly hauls me up, the sensitive flesh under my arms feeling bruised.
My feet touch the ground as he slowly lowers me, I grab onto his shoulders for balance, my eyes open wide and staring into his dark, annoyed face.
“Do you mind?” He disentangled himself, the cutting-edge of his tone a cold slap back to reality, I step away, jumping as I back into something large and sharp.
He chuckles as I jerk away from the wall of thorns- or, more precisely, the wall of thorned roses.
I stare up in wonder at the towering wall, and take in my surroundings. “Where-“ I stutter. “Where are we?”
An ivory path wound through a maze of blood-red roses, bright against the otherwise dark.
“We, poppet, are in the queens garden.” Cheshire murmured, his voice at my ear as I stared in disbelief at the white palace far in the distance, at the center of a seemingly never ending labyrinth.
“But,” my voice sounds distant even to my own ears. “Doesn’t the queen hate Alice?” Cheshire saunters ahead of me, his black nails trailing along the red roses.
“Oh no, don’t be silly. She doesn’t hate Alice,” he stops, turning to me with a Cheshire grin dancing across his lips. “She despises her.”
I stare at him, my eyes wide, how does that make it better?
“Then why are we in her garden?!” I exclaim.
“Oh my, you really don’t know a thing little poppet.” Cheshire plucks a rose, crushing the bright petals in his fist. A gasp slips past my lips as dark red liquid drips from between his clenched fingers, splattering on the white ivory. He grins, flashing those sharp teeth of his as the puddle of red grows and shifts.
“It’s time for a little history lesson, miss poppet.”
He opens his fist and the now thoroughly drained flower falls like a corpse, splashing in the red, swelling puddle. The puddle explodes, red bright liquid spattering my hands and dress as I block my face. The world seems to spin, and break, the sky splitting down the center as blood pours from the crack.
The last thing I see is Cheshire as I desperately dash for him across the expanse of red.
***
The sky’s blood flooded the maze, painting everything red. It rose at an alarming rate, reaching my knees within moments and pulling me under.
My lungs burned as I clamped my hands over my mouth and nose, fighting the urge to breath.
The red torrent, thick as syrup, held me captive. The thrashing of my limbs was useless, the cloying liquid resisting my attempts to surface. It pulled at me, heavy and insistent, and I was plunged into a suffocating darkness. The air in my lungs became a desperate, burning fire as the flood coursed into my mouth, tasting of iron and ash. Just as my mind began to lose its frantic grip, the pressure vanished. The burning in my chest eased, replaced by a strange, numb cold. My eyes, open but unseeing, slowly began to perceive my new reality.
I was no longer underwater but suspended, weightless, in an endless expanse of crimson light. I looked down at my hands, no longer splattered with the blood of the sky, but clean. The red liquid was gone, and my dress was blue again, pristine against the scarlet void. Floating around me were fractured images, like memories caught in a dream. I saw a girl in a blue dress skipping through a sunlit field, then another, older girl, sitting at a table with the Hatter, her smile brittle and thin. I saw Cheshire, the same youth in his face, looking at a girl with a boundless wonder in his mismatched eyes. The images sped up and burred, then suddenly it stopped.
I stood on the outskirts of a tea party, watching a young girl- maybe eight or nine- drinking tea and eating cake with a wide, joyous grin on her face.
All the seats at the table were filled. At the head sat a man with a bizarre yet pristine waist coat and tall hat. His eyes were a bright green, his skin a healthy sun kissed shade, there were no circles under his eyes, and his full cheeks flaunted beautifully defined cheekbones.
He smiled and laughed with the girl in the blue dress, a teacup in his hand and a biscuit in his mouth.
Next to him sat a small mouse-like girl who was jumping and laughing on her chair, she had a teapot gripped firmly in her hands, spraying all the guests with the warm, sticky brew.
Across from her and next to the young girl sat two boys, two identical boys.
They were perhaps four feet in height, and they jubilantly threw sweets at each other.
They had rosy cheeks, like those of a child’s, their eyes were large and round as they laughed and rhymed.
In the chair next to the Hatter sat- or rather stood, seeing as he was on his hind legs- a rabbit with a midnight blue vest, a pocket watch dangling from a vest pocket, a red tie, and a small eye monocle. He was merrily chatting with the Hatter and munching on carrots.
I looked out over the table and realized the rest of the seats were occupied by stuffed animals.
I felt a wave of dizziness as the scene shifted and burned around the edges like photograph under flame.
A bright light flashed and I stood in the same flowery clearing in the woods.
I looked out upon the table and saw with a sinking heart that the guests were all there, all except the rabbit. The man with the hat looked sad and tired, his eyes pale and his skin sallow.
His face shifted from anger to grief, joy to fear, disgust to surprise… and then finally settling on contempt as he sang and rhymed horrible things about a girl named Alice.
The twins looked small and bony, their childish charm entirely gone as they gnawed on hardened pieces of rotten fruit.
The stuffed animals around them were worn and dirty, and the only one who looked somewhat sane was the mouse-girl.
She sat on her chair, watching with downcast eyes as the scene unfolded before her.
In the chair reserved for the girl with blonde hair and the blue dress, sat another girl of a similar age. She wore a blue dress, but she was not the same girl. She cried and cried in fear and panic, begging to go home, to see her mother.
But her pleas fell on empty ears.
The scene changed just as a blood curdling scream could be heard reverberating through the forest.
I stood in the middle of a forest before a large tree. And lying on his back in the tree with a leg hanging over the side, was Cheshire.
He looks the same as he does now: multi colored eyes, dark nails, black clothes, unkempt ebony hair with a purple sheen to it, and that annoying smirk of his.
He turned his head and seemed to look straight through me.
“Hello,” said a young voice from behind me. I turn with a start, realizing that the young girl from the tea party was here.
“I’m Alice.” She said, her voice light and airy, sweet as honey.
“Hello Alice, I’m Cheshire.” Said Cheshire.
The girl giggled and pointed at him with a smile.
“That’s a funny name Mr. Cheshire.”
Cheshire scowled, jumping down from the branch and sauntering over to Alice.
He dropped down to his haunches so that they were eye to eye.
“Tell me Alice,” he purred. “Who let you into Wonderland?” Alice shrugged with an air of innocence that only a child could have.
“A pretty prince. He said his name was the prince of Hearts, and that his mother was the Queen.”
Cheshire looked at her sadly and said: “ah, it appears you’ve caught his eye young Alice. I should take you to the palace-“ he paused, a wicked glint in his eye. “But luckily for you, I rarely do what I should.” He scooped her into his arms and she laughed as he carried her off.
“Where are we going?” She asked him between giggles.
“To see the Hatter of course.” Said Cheshire as once more the images changed and swirled together.
I saw Alice again, she was older, close to my age. And she stood in the darkened forest, wrapped in the embrace of an obscured man.
I tried to get closer, but some strange force kept me in place.
Alice kissed the boy, he held her face in his hands, and then she raised her arm and she and the man seemed to melt into the forest floor as all around me the scene faded and collapsed.
I stared in horror at my surrounding, and at my hands which seemed to have become translucent.
As the scenes from another lifetime faded, I was once again watching a tea party with the Mad Hatter. Only it seemed as though I wasn’t witnessing one memory, but many. Young girls sat in the chair, eating cakes, drinking tea, pleading for release.
They faded in and out, overlapping each other, and coming in speeding flashes before my eyes. They looked similar to Alice, but they weren’t her… and something tells me that not one of the multitude of girls got to see their home again.
A loud thunderclap sounded above and I was washed away as rain fell from the sky.
CHAPTER 5.
Mod
Mod
Okay...wait a second.....I think you're onto something here.This EATS!!!
Only read a paragraph but I still love it.
Do you know how many chapters your going to write???
@BriannaTysm!!!!
I’m thinking maybe thirty or so chapters but it depends on how it goes😅
CHAPTER 5.I awoke gasping for air. The images from the strange vision blurring and quickly fading, like my mind can’t hold them.
I open my eyes to find Cheshire staring at me from above, not even a hint of worry on his mischievous face.
I shove him away, staggering to my feet with a strained groan.
“What was that?” I gasp, standing in the labyrinth of roses.
“A memory.” He shrugs, cracking his neck with a wince. I glare at him, rubbing my temples as the aching slowly fades away.
“I’ll assume it was my mother’s memory.” I guess, scowling at his amused smirk.
He really is incorrigible.
“More or less.” His voice is like liquid silk with a slight huskiness to it, he never seems to falter… or care.
He loops his arm through mine, pulling me down one of the many pristinely alabaster paths.
“I thought I said no riddles.” I glare.
“That wasn’t a riddle.” He smirks, his voice in my ear.
“Oh?” I raise my brows, staring him down.
“It was a statement of fact," he says, leaning closer, his breath a warm whisper against my ear. His proximity sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the chill of the labyrinth. "It was, in part, her memory. And in part, someone else’s."
“Who’s?”
“How should I know?” He shrugs with a vexing little tilt to his lips.
I frown, shaking off the irrigation he plagues me with. I have questions and he owes me answers.
“Will you at least tell me how you did it?” I inquire, anticipating his inevitably sarcastic and mocking answer.
“Magic, of course.” He says, his tone- as predicted- practically dripping with sarcasm.
I glower in response.
He sighs, patting my head softly as he says: “you truly are no fun poppet.”
“That isn’t an answer.” I look up at him with falsely sweet smile on my lips.
“Too true Miss poppet,” he pauses, picking a thorn from my hair. “Do you see this vast garden of roses before us?”
I blink up at him, not sure if he’s serious, because I obviously see the roses- I’m not daft.
He continues as if my answer wouldn’t have mattered even if I gave one.
“Each flower is tied to a soul that has passed through Wonderland- even if they were here for all but a moment. The petals of the flower contain the memories of that soul. The longer you stay in Wonderland, the more flowers you have.”
I look at the flowers with renewed curiosity, tempted to pluck a flower and see what secrets hide within it’s petals.
“What happens if you pluck the flower, will the memories be erased?” I wonder aloud.
He looks at me disapprovingly and says with a scoff: “of course not. A new flower blooms in its place.”
“Then can anyone do what you did and see someone else’s memory?”
He groans, rubbing the bridge of his nose and shaking his head as he says: “do your questions ever cease?”
“Never.”
He scowls at me and responds with: “no, like with most things in Wonderland, there are rules.”
“Which are?” I prod.
“For starters, you must have exceptional magical talent. And, you would have had to have known the person whose memories you sought to even view the memories- and that’s only if you can find the flower.”
“How do you find the flower?”
He grits his teeth, a vein in his neck flashing as he turns us down a corner.
“If you’re after a specific person’s memory, then there is the small possibility that you could find it by chance, but it’s unlikely. And If that doesn’t work, as it most likely wouldn’t, then you can find it if you knew them well enough to know their heart, or if they gave you their permission- and before you ask, no, you should most definitely not give anyone your permission.”
“I wasn’t going to ask that,” I say with a grin. “I was going to ask what you meant when you asked my mother who let her into Wonderland.”
Cheshire looks at me with something like begrudging respect.
“There are three ways to enter Wonderland.” He begins, his eyes on the path ahead. “The first and most common of them being through your dreams.”
“Dreams?” I cut in.
“No interruptions.” He says with a glare, I only nod and close my mouth.
“Some unique mortals in the above world dream of Wonderland, and by doing that, their spirit enters this place. It’s as if they’re here physically, they feel, they eat, drink… bleed.” He stops, emphasizing the meaning in his words. “Of course, they wake in the mortal world and return every night,” his eyes dart to mine. “Unless they escape to the above world while they still dream.”
He hums deep in his throat, turning us down a new path before I lead us the wrong way. “The second way,” he continues. “Is to enter on the longest night of the year, when the shadows roam and the moon is dark.” He begins to slow our pace, seeming to gaze at the roses. “The third way,” he says quietly. “Is for someone of royal blood to let you in… it’s also the only way to get out of Wonderland.”
He stops completely, and detaches from me, retreating with a Cheshire grin and glowing cat eyes.
“So that’s why we’re here,” I look to him with a sinking heart as I put the jagged pieces together. “To get her permission.” I whisper.
I refuse to falter or move from my spot as the ground begins to shake with the synchronized thumping of people approaching.
Dozens of soldiers swarm us, all bearing the emblem of a pierced heart with a crown resting above it.
They wear armor covering the entirety of their bodies, including helmets covering their faces… I can’t even tell them apart as they detain me. Their cold metal gauntlets digging into my forearms and opening the wounds on my wrists.
“Cheshire!” I shout, desperation creeping into my voice as they take me away. I scream at him as he seems to fade into shadows and cold metal clamps over my mouth.
I’m trapped… I’m doomed.
Chapter 6.
Chapter 6. MANY YEARS AGO.
“Mum?” I ask, calling to my mother across the garden.
“Yes, my darling Ophelia?” Responded my mother with a great fondness in her voice.
“I found something for you!” I skipped to her across the family garden, clutching a blue mushroom in my hands.
My mother looked up from her book, setting her tea on the checkered blanket she lounged on.
“What is it darling?” She smiled, her soft lips brightening her face as the light catches on her hair.
I open my hands, grinning from ear to ear as I show her my blue stained fingers and the little mushroom sitting on my palm.
“Isn’t it pretty mum?”
She stares at the mushroom, her eyes wide, lips thin, and skin drained of color.
She grabs my wrist, gripping tightly as she asks frantically: “where did you find that Ophelia?! Where have you been? Did someone give that to you?” She’s edging on histeria now.
“Mum, let go, that hurts.” I cry, pulling away from my mother as the mushroom slips from my palm and tears well in my eyes.
“You have to tell me!” She screams, her grip tightening.
“I- I was,” I stammer between sobs. “I was by the apple tree. And the mushroom was in a hole, there was a trail, a-and I followed it farther into the hole. And I found a grove of the mushrooms, so I picked them and came back.”
My mother stared at me for a moment, fear clouding her eyes before she pulled me forward and embraced me so tightly my ribs hurt.
“It’s okay baby, it’s okay.” She murmured as she rocked back and forth with me cradled in her arms.
I cried silently, salty water staining my cheeks, and just as my mother began to calm down, my father burst through the thicket with Christopher in tow.
“Lia!” Christopher cries as my father pulled me from my mothers arms, careful not to touch my bruised wrist as he held me.
“What happened?” He asked my mother, his voice sounding strained as he struggled to contain his fury.
“They tried to take her.” My mother mumbled so quietly that only I could hear her.
“What?” He demanded, his voice rising.
My mother looked up at us, and before our eyes her stricken face morphed to one of cool indifference as she stood.
“Harry,” she ordered the servant standing just behind my father in the shadow of the entrance to the garden. “Seal off the apple tree, no one is allowed in.”
She said it with such finality that no one dared question her as she glided past us, returning to the manor as if nothing untoward had occurred.
Chapter 7.
Chapter 7.I sit up with a gasp, waking from a terrible nightmare that I don’t remember. Sweat beads on my brow as I inhale the warm air.
I look around, shock registering as the feeling of being nestled in soft blankets sets in. I’ve somehow found myself in a absurdly extravagant bedchamber with walls of red wallpaper, adorned with gold roses. In a corner sits an armoire, and not far from it rests a settee with a petite coffee table next to it.
Mother always said that if you ever find yourself in a place you do not know, you must make note of your surroundings, so that is what I must do.
I run my fingers along the delicate carvings of rabbits, hearts, spades, clubs, and diamonds embellishing the large four poster bed that I find myself in.
There are no windows in this room, but there are brightly blazing torches placed about the space- which explains this stifling heat- there are two doors, one is slim and open, leading to small washroom. And the other is a set of large double doors, and i don’t have to check to know that they are undoubtedly locked. I slip from the covers, relief unspooling in my stomach at the sight of my familiar dress still draped on my body. My bare feet pad softly across the dark carpeted room, stopping at the table and lifting the candelabras, clutching it tightly against my chest.
It’s not much, but it makes me feel less defenseless… even if I’m not.
I don’t have a chance to even try to escape before the lock on the door clatters as someone on the other side twists a key in the hole.
I spin to face the door, and it feels like there’s a tiny person inside my chest, right where my heart should be, taking a Jackhammer to my rib cage.
The door swings open on soft hinges, and through the opening enters a tall woman with smooth black hair, crescent shaped eyes, and porcelain like skin. She pockets a black key as she approaches me, her mouth set in a firm line. She beckons for the soldiers behind her the close the door behind them.
“Who are you?” I question, brandishing my candelabras like a blade griped in both hands.
“Is that supposed to tighten me?” She laughs, and with a wave of her hand, my only weapon turns to water, slipping through my fingers.
“Now,” said the woman, her voice sounding thousands of miles away instead of just six feet. “You sit.” Although I did not wish it, my legs obeyed her command, sitting obediently on the chair placed before the armoire.
“You will not ask questions of the Queen,” she continued. “And you will not speak unless spoken to, is that understood?”
I meant to say more, but “yes.” Is all that I uttered.
The woman smiled, flashing brilliantly white teeth as she approaches my chair.
She places hand on my shoulder, leaning down so close that I can smell her breath, it smells like mint and cold. I shiver as her gold eyes look me over in distaste, as her nose crinkles and she says: “you reek.” My cheeks flush scarlet as she straightens and turns to the guards.
“Don’t let her out of that door.” She strides to the exit, turning on her heel as the door opens. “You have until I return to clean yourself.” And then she disappeared through the closing doors.
***
The moment the door closed behind her, the lock that kept me from doing as I pleased, was simply gone.
I rose from the chair, the hairs on the back of my neck still erect as I slipped into the washroom.
Closing the door behind me, I lock it… but something tells me it won’t hold when it’s needed most.
Rubbing at my eyes as I approach the tub, I avoid catching a glimpse of my reflection as I pass the stained mirror. I have a feeling that I must look horrid.
The tub is filled to the brim with steaming water. I smile to myself, I really shouldn’t find this so odd, especially considering the fact that I saw a man knit his skin back together after it was burned away. And yet, I do.
I peel away the dress, shivering as the cool air hits my flushed skin.
I groan as I realize I have to remove my corset on my own, something I’ve never done. I turn so that my back is reflected in the mirror, I stretch my hands back, hoping to reach the many intricate knots holding it together.
My arms strain, stretching as far as they can, but I only barely brush the knots. Cursing in a very un-ladylike way, I slump against the wall.
“Damn you Sonia and your Godforsaken knots.”
“Well that’s not very nice poppet.” I spin at the sound of his obnoxiously cocky voice.
“What are you doing here?!” I shriek as quietly as I can so as to not alert the guards.
“I’m obviously here to make sure that my investment is still in good health.” He traces his hand along a shelf, crinkling his nose at the dust caked on the pad of his finger.
I grab a cloth and throw it as his head as I say: “I didn’t ask you to, and you need to leave before that woman comes back.” Cheshire laughs as I glare up at him, pressing another cloth against his chest.
“How feisty.” He smirks, his eyes pointedly traveling much lower than my own. His smirk grows as my cheeks redden in realization.
“You scoundrel!” I cover my chest with my arms, shame mingling with my anger.
How humiliating to have him of all people witness me in this state of undress.
“I prefer to think of myself as a charming and yet devious rascal- but I suppose scoundrel works just as well.” He shrugs.
“I don’t care what you prefer. Don’t you realize that I’m mad at you?”
“Is that what it was? I thought you were just grouchy because that nasty little girdle of yours was depriving you of oxygen.” I glare at him, unable to refute his words.
“Please leave.” I say between clenched teeth.
He sighs, raising his hands in surrender as he says: “whatever you say poppet. Although I was willing to help you with your little problem, seeing as I am quite adept at removing them.” He stops, waiting for a response that I refuse to give.
After a moment he turns around, beginning to step within the shadows.
I clench my eyes shut, swallowing my pride as I mutter under my breath: “wait.”
I wince at the arrogant grin displaying his dimples to their full charm.
“It would be my pleasure, poppet.”
I turn around, my head down as I wait for him to remove my corset. His scarred but soft hands brush my hair aside, sending involuntary shivers down my spine. I feel him chuckle as his hands leave my back.
“Well?” I snap, feigning impatience. I hear a quiet singing noise before he traces a sharp blade down the exposed skin of my back.
“What-“ I never finish my question. He swipes at the knots and my corset goes limp, with only my hands keeping it from falling.
“You’re welcome.” He murmurs, even though I never thanked him.
I turn, expecting to see him standing behind me wearing an amused yet calculating leer, but he’s completely vanished.
I stare at the empty space for longer than I should before I remove the rest of my clothing and slip beneath the water.
***
The woman never returned.
I sat stationary on the plush bed, clothed in a flimsy nightgown I found hanging in the closet- the only nightgown I found hanging in the closet.
She said she would come back, but it feels like hours have passed and I haven’t seen any sign of her, any sign of anyone at all. Sighing, my eyes droop, the bed beneath me warm and beckoning as my body begins to slide. I wake up just as I slip off the bed, landing in a pile of tangled limbs.
“Owww,” I groan, rubbing the back of my head as I pull myself up. “Bloody beds.”
My head snaps up as the door creaks open just enough for a tray to be slid through. I rush to the door my hand mere inches away from the crack before it slams shut, sending a tremor through the room and causing the items of the tray to tremble. “Wait!” I yell, banging on the door. “Please! Wait!!… wait.” But no one returns, no sounds are heard, and I am left to fall to the floor. Dejected, and utterly alone, so much so that I think I may even miss Cheshire… he at least kept my mind off this unbelievable reality I find myself trapped in.
I turn my attention to the tray, hoping to distract my spiraling mind, and note the queer looking stew steaming in a small bowl. Picking up the spoon, I stir it around, marveling at the purplish liquid with muted blue chunks floating around. They look quite similar to the mushrooms I saw on the path the Hatter led me down. I frown as my head begins to throb as I feel a memory pricking at my consciousness, a memory begging for attention. But all I managed to recall before the throb intensified to a burning pain were stained fingers. Hissing through my teeth, I cradled my head in my arms, hoping to alleviate the sensation of a hot poker stabbing at my mind.
“Dear god what was that?” I ask myself as my mind finally settles and I manage to grasp the small folded piece of yellowing paper.
“Dearest Darling,” it read. “I spotted you with Hearts this evening. And I must say that you looked quite dulled, quite annoyed even. Of course, he didn’t notice a thing, he was simply glad to have you for company. He’s a tad bit obsessed with you you know.
Mother hopes for a marriage between the two of you, she likes you a great deal and would be pleased if you were her successor.
HA! Imagine it, a human for a queen.
I would make you my queen, if you so wished it.
But mother would never name me her successor, so I suppose I would settle for the life of a husband, the father to your children. It would be quite nice, no?
Well, anyway, I’m afraid I must end this correspondence here, I’ve been summoned to entertain our guests from lands of Never.”
“Love, your Loyal Servant.”
The paper crinkled and cracked in some places, like it was written many years ago. I stand, crossing the room to store the paper in a small drawer in the table next to my bed. I return to the tray, carefully retrieving the still hot soup and small cup of water before settling on the bed. My stomach grumbles as I sniff the soup, checking for anything indicating a poison- though how I would know if it were poison even if I did detect something, I haven’t a clue.
I only smell something like burnt sugar.
Shrugging, and hoping for the best, I bring a spoonful to my lips, swallowing the odd yet pleasant mixture. After a moment of tense waiting, I discard the spoon, scarfing down the soup in a way that would have my mother fainting. I suppose after having not eaten for God knows how long, I’ve become quite ravenous. I wipe at my mouth with the back of my hand and then gulp down the water, setting both now empty containers down on the floor.
I slip from the bed, intending to explore this room of mysteries, when I stumble. My legs feel numb, like they aren’t even there. My hands begin to tremble and a cold sweat breaks out on my brow as the stew begins to make its way back up my throat. I collapse on the carpet, almost retching before the dark cloak of sleep entraps me in its folds.
CHAPTER 8.
This is just the first two chapters and I’ll post more if anyone is interested, but I just want your honest thoughts on these two chapters. (There are doubtlessly lots of typos/grammatical errors so just ignore those pls)
LONDON, ENGLAND.
JUNE 6th, late 18th to early 19th century.
Mother is going to kill me.
I stumble to my feet as I exit the narrow passage through the hedges of the family gardens surrounding the manor. Dust flew from my hands as I brushed them together, and my stomach clenched at the sight of my ruined dress. Mother had this specially made for my birthday celebration. She drilled it into my mind that I mustn't under any circumstances do anything that might dirty my dress. But how could I possibly follow her strict orders when John teased me so for being a prissy little princess who does whatever she's told? The answer is simple: I couldn't.
I duck behind a hedge wall as I spot my father's broad frame stride across the garden, pausing at the long ornately decorated table to discreetly pocket the bright red roses sitting idly in a vase. I silently curse whichever servant foolishly chose red roses of all the flowers to adorn the table. Mother can't stand roses- especially the red ones. And most people know that. "New staff." I mutter under my breath with a roll of my eyes as I note the splotches of red dispersed throughout the garden. Father will certainly have his work cut out for him.
I turn my attention away from my father and scan the few guests that have arrived, searching for my dear nemesis, Jonathan Whittle. The boy I grew up with, and also the boy who could literally get away with murder. Which he did- he murdered my patience.
I narrow my eyes, glaring at the smirking boy sipping champagne next to the stone fountain. He's surrounded by a gaggle of his fellow school boys, all snickering at something clever he must've said, although I have a hard time believing he could ever possibly say anything even remotely clever.
Setting my jaw, I smooth down my soiled dress and march across the garden, ignoring the scandalized gasps, and the not-so quiet dissaproving whispers of the ladies of high society.
John turns just in time to see me standing before him, dirt smeared on my cheek, and apple clutched tightly in my fist. "Back so soon?" He asks innocently. I glare up at him, and shove the apple into his hands- a childish, triumphant gesture. "I win." I say hotly, turning on my heel before he can see the grin spreading across my face.
I weave my way through the crowd, not bothering to avoid the judgy women of my mother's inner circle. I slip within the hedge walls, barely taking a step inside before I feel someone grip my arm. "Ophelia." Comes my mother's sharp and menacing voice. I close my eyes and breathe deeply before turning to face my mother's wrath.
My mother escorted me into the manor as though I were a convict awaiting my trial. She didn't even let me explain that John was the one who goaded me into climbing the old apple tree in the back of the garden, which only produces sour apples. It's not my fault that the only path to the tree is through the narrow tunnel in the hedges. Nor is it my fault that my mother insisted I wear this custom-made dress. I wanted to wear a simple evening gown made by Sonia, our family seamstress.
Besides, who in their right mind would want to wear a dress in this color of pastel pink? It's absolutely horrid. "Mother," I try again. "Mother I'm sorry. I didn't purposely ruin the dress." She turns to face me, the afternoon light pouring in through the window catching on her fair blonde hair as she moves. "Ophelia, I have an exceedingly hard time believing that you did not purposely ruin the dress that you made very clear that you hated." I don't dare respond as she levels a glare at me that could melt the frozen wastelands of hell. "Sonia!" She calls down the hall. Sonia comes scurrying down the hallway a moment later, a wicker basket full of laundry resting on her hip. "Yes my lady?" She says with a dip of her head. "Take Ophelia upstairs to change." Sonia nods and leads me up the stairs. "Sonia," my mother calls again, more softly than before. "Use one of my old dresses, they should fit." Sonia nods once more and continues on her way.
"Sonia?" I ask as I sit before my vanity mirror while she brushes out the tangles and leaves from my hair. "Yes miss?" She locks eyes with me in the mirror for a moment before returning her attention to my mess of a chignon. My hair comes tumbling down from its half up style as she pulls out the last pin. "Are what they say about my mother true? The things about her being an unruly child who never did what she was told?" Sonia laughs lightly and says with a sparkle in her eye. "Oh yes miss. The madam was a free spirit for many years." "Well then what happened?! She's as stiff as everyone else now." Sonia gives me a sympathetic smile. "I suppose the madam decided to act in the best interests of her family after her mother died." I sigh, slouching in the chair and crossing my arms as I think of how dreadful the next few hours will be.
Sonia taps my shoulder and I shift positions, turning to the side so that she can dab ointment on the various scratches on my arms and legs. "You really do know how to make a mess of yourself don't you." She says with a shake of her head.
Sonia sits up with a sigh and leaves my room to fetch a new dress for me to wear.
I walk over to my window and watch as all my parents' guests begin to fill the garden, they look like little ants. Everyone is dressed in various shades of pastels, making the garden look a migraine inducing painting. I start to turn a away when a flash of white catches my eye. Was that, a rabbit? I catch another flash of white as a small shape darts through the passage in the hedges. It is a rabbit! I turn from my window and race to my door just as Sonia returns carrying a baby blue dress in her arms. "Miss?" Sonia asks, startled by my sudden appearance in the doorway. "Oh, Sonia, I just need to check something in the garden." I say, attempting to edge past her. Sonia places her hand on her hip and ushers me back into the room. "But Sonia," I plead. "I promise that I'll be fast." Sonia gives me a hard look and says: "not in that state you won't. If the madam sees you like this she'll have my head." I groan in defeat, standing perfectly still as Sonia unbuttons the back of my dress, leaving me in a simple white shift and corset. Sonia lifts the blue dress over my head, and pulls the strings in the back, tightening it until it pinches me slightly. She comes around to the front and gives me a pair of white heels that have a strap just above the ankle. I plop down onto my bed, pulling on the heels as Sonia pulls back my blonde hair with a blue ribbon that matches my dress.
"There," she says with a satisfied smile. "You look beautiful." I smile at her and stand in front of the mirror, admiring the soft silk of the fabric. "It is much better than the other dress." I admit. Sonia smiles at me, nodding her head in agreement.
Sonia sent me on my way with a small basket full of biscuits to hand out to the guests- as a peace offering to my mother. I make my way absentmindedly through the hedge maze, barely having to think about the path I take. I’ve walked through the maze so many times growing up that I know it like the back of my hand. I soon hear the chittering sounds of buzzing socialites making petty small talk with one another, and have to suppress the urge to run the other way. I exit the maze and am immediately greeted by my little sister Lucie. “Ophelia! Doesn’t the garden look pretty?” Lucie is small for her eleven years of age, and takes after our father with chestnut colored hair and a fair complexion. She tugs at my hand and I bend down so that she can whisper in my ear. She looks around for a moment before cupping her hand and saying in a conspiratorial manner: “I helped daddy hide all the roses.” I smile approvingly at her and ruffle her immaculate curls. She grins before turning on her heel and skipping into the throng of guests, most likely with the intent of squirreling away a few treats from the table. I laugh, shaking my head as I approach my mother’s small ring of followers avidly listening to the gossip she managed to overhear at the salon last Thursday. “Darling!” My mother says as I approach, immediately stepping into the role of a doting mother. “Mother,” I say sweetly. “I’ve brought you biscuits fresh from the oven.” “Oh!” Exclaims Mrs. Goody Whittle. “How lovely, I must say that I was quite worried for you when I glimpsed you gallivanting in that ghastly state earlier.” I lock eyes with Mrs. Whittle, pasting on my most believable mask of gratitude and say: “oh yes, you see, I’d had an awful fright earlier when I witnessed my beloved friend Jonathan in a secret rendezvous with a young debutante. I couldn’t believe my eyes and fell to the ground, scraping my knees, in my haste to depart before being spotted.” Mrs. Whittle pales visibly and makes a small, alarmed sound before excusing herself. I look to the others and we share a look of pity for Mrs. Whittle. “Yes, it’s quite understandable that you had such a horrible fright after witnessing such a vulgar display as that.” Says Mrs. Carter, one of my mother’s closer confidants. I nod solemnly before saying: “but it is such a shame that my dress was wrecked in the process.” They nod and mumble in agreement, and I smile sadly and wait for my mother’s nod of approval before excusing myself to greet my other guests.