She picked up the phone and read the caller's name.
Now, this is alarming.
She calmed down a little, as this was an unusually worrying call.
She clicked the answer button. "You know what time it is?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," Margaret Kent, the Duchess and revered Parliament member, said from other side. "But it's important."
"It better be." The Queen sighed impatiently.
"I know this will sound inappropriate if I ask, but..." Margaret hesitated.
"I hate the word 'but,'" the Queen said.
"Are you missing any of your precious nuts, My Majesty?"
The Queen was silent, and her knees felt wobbly all of a sudden.
"I see," Margaret responded to the Queen's utter silence. "So someone's been stealing from your nuts again. And it's not the guards, I assume."
The Queen nodded. Now, fear wrapped itself around her skin like a pale ghost. Bulldog was really starting to worry. Suddenly, it seemed apparent who took her nuts. The same man who broke in many years ago. It couldn't be. After all these years?
"Is it him? Is he back?" she asked, watching her dog's ears perk up. Of course, Bulldog must have been confused. What was so utterly scary about a thief stealing nuts from the Queen?
"I am afraid he is." Margaret sighed. "And it doesn't look good. He stole the nuts to remind you he's back. It's a message. A threatening message. We have to get rid of him. We can't handle him, not this time."
"You promised me last week's killings would be the last of Wonderland's nonsense," the Quern retorted. "I can't allow this in my country."
"I know. Don't worry. We'll contain the matter."
"Then do something about it!" The Queen's hands shivered. "Kill him. Do anything. Make sure I never see the Muffin Man again!"
Chapter 25
Director's office, Radcliffe Lunatic Asylum, Oxford
When we get back to the asylum, the Pillar and I separate so we won't be seen together by the guards. I still don't know how he is capable of escaping and returning to his cell, but I enter through the main door, as if the ambulance just dropped me back from the hospital I was sent to in London.
Inside, I have to pass by Tom Truckle's office.
"Before I let you in, I want to ask you something," Dr. Truckle says. He is eating his favorite mock turtle Soup, exclusively delivered from a famous restaurant called Fat Duck in London. Fat Duck is owned by one of the world's best cooks, Gorgon Ramstein. The restaurant is rumored to have stolen their amazing mock turtle soup from a Victorian kitchen in Oxford University's basement, supposedly the same kitchen that inspired Lewis Carroll's Mock Turtle character.
"And what would that be?" I ask flatly. He is mean, and he means nothing to me.
"Did Professor Pillar, under any circumstance, ever mention Houdini?" he asks after wiping his greasy lips on a napkin.
"Who's Houdini?"
"Harry Houdini, the most famous American magician of all time. The escape artist who could escape a box chained and submerged under water." He seems offended by my ignorance.
"Ah, that Houdini." Lately, no historical figure matters much to me. I am now all fixated on Wonderland Monsters. Who's Houdini compared to the Cheshire, really? "No, I don't remember him talking about him. Why would the Pillar mention him?"
"To cut it short, do you know how he escapes and sneaks back into the asylum without my cameras ever catching him?" Dr. Truckle points at the many new surveillance cameras in his office. "I've researched the matter, and only found one incident in history that matches the Pillar's skills."
I smile. It's amusing how the Pillar gets on his nerves.
"It happened 1819 in New York's Hippodrome Theatre, wildly known as the Disappearing Elephant event."
"Why are you asking me about his?" I am too tired to deal with his paranoia now.
"I figured you might know, since..."
"Since?" I tilt my head.
"Since you are an expert in escaping a straitjacket," he blurts.
I try not to shrug. I find it a plausible train of thought. Where did I ever learn to escape a straitjacket? I have no idea.
"You know how many people in the world are capable of escaping a straitjacket as tight as the one we used on you?" he explains, then makes a V sign with his fore and middle fingers. "You and Houdini."
I laugh. "Look, I don't know how I do it. I just know I can. If Houdini did it too, rest assured, I am in no way related to him. Besides, how did you ever connect those events together?"
"Because of this." He hands me an old copy of the New Yorker listing the honorable guests attending the Houdini event. I scan it, and among the names find the following:
Carter Chrysalis Cocoon Pillar,
VIP guest,
personal friend of Mister Harry Houdini.
"Is that his real name?" I raise my eyebrows as high as I can. Dr. Truckle nods.
Although I am astonished, I don't know what to make of it. The documents could be forged. "Listen," I say. "I'm not friends with Professor Pillar, and I need rest. Can I go now?"
Sighing, he waves the path to the door to me, then asks, "Is he going to ask for you again tomorrow?"
"I believe so." We still have tons of work in the Muffin Man case. "Look!" I point at the surveillance camera behind him. "The Pillar is back."
Dr. Truckle turns around, looking like an angry turtle about to explode. He watches the Pillar smoking his hookah, leaning back on his sofa, and wiggling his feet. If you take the cell out of the picture, you'd think he was on vacation in Ibiza. When Dr. Truckle turns on the sound, there is a song playing in the background. It's "Crazy" by Seal.
I try my best not to laugh as I walk away, wondering if Waltraud would allow me a shower today.
Chapter 26
After dismissing Waltraud's insults and a few unnecessary chuckles by Ogier, I am back in my cell.
The first thing I do is check on my terribly insane flower. She seems to be enjoying the bigger crack in the wall and the sunlight seeping through. She isn't sleeping, nor talking to me. It's better that way. I already had my share of madness for a day. Still, I wonder why she means so much to me. It's not like she is a pet I keep home and come back to. Deep inside, I know she means more to me, but have no clue why.
I spend a few minutes staring at the six days I carved on the wall, wondering if I will live long enough to scratch the seventh diagonal stroke tomorrow. Next to the carvings, I glimpse the date, January 14th, still not knowing what it really means or why the number 14 keeps popping up everywhere.
Then there is the key, like the one Lewis gave me, drawn on the wall. I still have no idea who drew this key, but this time I notice the key is almost the same exact size like the real one. I take off the necklace and pick the key. Slowly, I near it to the drawing on the wall. I am right. It's the same size. I wonder if this means anything. Before I decide to give up on the crazy idea, the key on the wall glitters, so does the real one in my hand. I near it even closer, and then the coolest, and craziest, thing happens. The key in my hands dissolves into the one in the wall, still sticking out slightly so I can pick it up later. I realize I found a place to hide it, finally.