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“I saw my folks murdered, same as you,” said Quigly. “We were driving along in our coach when a couple of thieves decided they didn’t like the look of us and killed my father with a club to the head. I watched my mother get beaten to death with that selfsame club, all the while begging for mercy. And I would’ve been greeted with the club too if I hadn’t run into the dark and hidden while the thieves were trying to take the rings off Mother’s fingers. So I suppose you and me have something in common, what with our parents being dead, right enough.”

Alyss could think of other things she would have rather had in common with him. She didn’t know it, and this certainly wasn’t how Bibwit Harte would have taught her, but in the person of Quigly Gaffer, Alyss

was learning something that would one day serve her well as a queen.

Lesson number 1b in Bibwit’s carefully planned curriculum: For most of the universe’s inhabitants, life is not all gummy wads and tarty tarts; it is a struggle against hardship, unfairness, corruption, abuse, and adversity in all its guises, where even to survive-let alone survive with dignity-is heroic. To soldier through the days in the wake of failure is the courageous act of many. To rule benevolently, a queen should be able to enter into the feelings of those less fortunate than herself.

“Never mind that dress, I knew from your gab that you ain’t from anywhere round here,” Quigly said. “You don’t have any accent I recognize. I don’t know just what it is.”

“It’s Wonderlandian, I suppose.”

“Right, right. You’re from Wonderland, you say?” Quigly laughed. “Why don’t you tell us about the place, Princess?”

So she did, and the more she talked, the more she felt the cold, impersonal tone she’d used to describe her parents’ deaths fall away till she was almost overcome with sadness and longing for what, so quickly and suddenly, so unexpectedly, had become part of her past. She was sure the Inventors’ Parade wouldn’t seem so boring to her now, if she could only get back to the royal balcony to watch it.

“You see that light?” she said, pointing at one of the gas lamps lining the street. “That was invented in Wonderland, but instead of an open flame it had a glass bulb inside and you only had to flick a switch to turn it on.”

She described Heart Palace, the singing flowers in the royal gardens, the Crystal Continuum. “And I don’t mean to brag,” she said, “but I have a powerful imagination.”

“I’ll say.”

“You think I’m making everything up?”

Quigly didn’t answer. Alyss saw a lone dandelion poking out of some mud. She stared hard at the flower and imagined it singing. It seemed to require more effort than it would have done in Wonderland, and it took longer. But then the dandelion’s petals moved and from the bud at its center came a thin little voice.

“La la la la, la la la la, la la la la, laaaaaaah.”

That was all Alyss could manage, but Quigly was impressed. He’d heard about magicians who could “throw” their voices, making it sound as if a person or object across a room were talking when it would be the magician himself standing right next to you.

“Nice trick.”

“It’s not a trick.” And then, sadly, just remembering, the exiled princess added, “It’s my birthday.” “Happy birthday, ma’am.”

Alyss felt her eyes water, sorrow weighing her down.

“Aw, no crying on birthdays,” Quigly said. “You oughta meet some of my friends. They’ll cheer you right up.”

So they walked to a blind alley in the shadow of London Bridge, where a ragtag group of children

ranging in age from five to twelve lounged around on old crates.

“Hear ye, hear ye,” Quigly announced. “I bring a newcomer into our ranks.”

The children looked at Alyss, uninterested. They had seen newcomers before. Fact was, the makeup of the group was always changing, some boy or girl entering into it one day, sharing their bread for weeks or months and then going off, never to be seen again, no one ever knowing if they’d been arrested for stealing, stuck in a home, murdered, or what.

Quigly introduced everyone to Alyss. “The big one’s Charlie Turnbull. The one next to him with the mole on his nose is Andrew MacLean-he’s an orphan too. That one there is Otis Oglethorpe-a runaway, but his mother’s dead. And in the ladies, we’ve got Francine Forge, Esther Wilkes, and Margaret Blemin-all of them orphans. Everyone, may I present you with Princess Alice of Wonderland. She’s come to us through a puddle of water, and I suggest you be on your best behavior in front of royalty.”

“Puddle of water?” Charlie Turnbull guffawed. “Princess of Wonderland?”

Quigly didn’t bother to explain. He dug in a heap of what looked like rags and held up a pair of trousers, a blouse, and a man’s coat for Alyss’ approval. “These should fit you right enough.”

Where was she supposed to change out of her wet things?

“Sorry, Princess,” said Quigly. “No private rooms for you here in the alleys of London.”

She stripped, trying to act as if taking off her clothes in front of everybody wasn’t unusual. The blouse fit her well enough, but the trousers and coat were too large. She added her birthday dress to the pile of clothes and blankets for anyone who might want it once it was dry. She slipped her feet into a pair of boots Quigly had rummaged up for her, discarding her Wonderland birthday shoes.

“Righty right, let’s see what we’ve got,” Quigly said to the others.

They pulled various coins and foodstuffs out of their pockets-a few pence, a mostly empty wallet, cheese, sausages, a chicken leg. Otis Oglethorpe produced a loaf of bread he’d been hiding under his coat and Charlie Turnbull brought out half a meat pie from under his hat.

“What about you?” Otis asked Quigly. “What’ve you brought?” “I brought the princess right enough.”

“We can’t eat her,” said Charlie Turnbull. “And that’s another mouth eating what could’ve been going into our bellies.”

“I’ll make it up tomorrow, when me and the princess’ll bring plenty for all of you, don’t worry.” Charlie glared at Alyss. Meeting Quigly’s friends wasn’t in the least cheering.

The food was divided evenly into eight portions. The cheese and sausage did not taste like their counterparts in Wonderland, the cheese somehow soggy, the sausage flavorless. The meat pie, Alyss thought, tasted like a stuffed old stocking.

After eating, Andrew, Francine, and Margaret-the youngest of the orphans-crowded together on the clothes heap and snuggled down to sleep. Charlie made a bed for himself by pushing three crates together and covering them with an old quilt. Otis simply went to bed on the hard ground, using his coat as a blanket. Esther Wilkes dozed off sitting up, leaning back against a wall, her legs sticking out straight

in front of her into the alley.

Alyss couldn’t sleep. She tried counting gwynooks. One gwynook, two gwynook, three gwynook. It didn’t help.

“Restless, Princess?” Quigly asked, and offered to keep her company for a bit. “We scatter about during the day,” he explained, “to beg, borrow, or steal, as the case may be. Francine, Andrew, and Margaret work as a team. Two of them get a bloke’s attention while the third picks his pockets. Some days one or another of us’ll make the rounds of the shops, looking for stale food they might want to throw away. But every night we meet here and share what we’ve got. I don’t know if it’s easier on us to make our way together, and Charlie doesn’t always give up everything he gets in a day-he doesn’t know I know, so don’t tell him-but it feels better to most of them to be in a group. It can get lonely with no proper