“Where is that carriage going?”
No answer. Maybe they hadn’t heard her? She was about to ask again when one of the soldiers deigned to look in her direction and, judging by the look on his face (as if someone had shoved a smelly radish under his nose), he was not impressed by Alyss’ rough-and-tumble appearance. Alyss glanced down at her dress, torn by The Cat and wet from the Pool of Tears. She looked far from regal.
“To Buckingham Palace. Where d’ya think?” he said.
But Alyss wasn’t thinking, events still following too closely and too quickly one after another for her to make much sense of them. Buckingham Palace was simply the place where her mother had gone.
“And where is the palace?” she asked.
“You don’t know where Buckingham Palace is?”
“If you don’t tell me, I can make life difficult for you.”
This amused the soldier. “That right? And why should I tell you where the palace is? Like as not, you’re after doing the queen some harm.”
“I am Princess Alyss Heart. The queen is my mother and-”
“Your-? Well, well.” The soldier turned to the fellow standing next to him, who had overheard everything. “Heh, George. This girl here says her mother’s the queen.”
“You don’t say?” said George, turning to the soldier next to him. “Timothy, you hear that? This little girl’s mother’s the queen. You and me’d have to die protecting her, I suppose.”
“All hail the royal lady,” Timothy said, bowing. The soldiers laughed.
Nothing was worse than imagination used in the service of anger, Alyss knew, but these soldiers were too disrespectful. It may have been the distorting properties of her anger, or the muck of this alien city, but when she imagined the soldiers’ mouths sewn shut, their coats and breeches tore at the seams instead.
Thinking they had split their uniforms from laughing so hard, the soldiers laughed even harder.
Alyss’ anger drained out of her, leaving her sad and doubtful. Could it be that her mother hadn’t been in the carriage? Hadn’t she seen her mother burst into a thousand fragments, leaving only blackness, nothingness in her place? And why had her imagination failed her?
Without realizing it, she walked away from the soldiers. “Hatter?” she called.
But there were only strangers, clots of them conversing on the pavements, others hurrying on their way to who knew where. There was only the grime and soot and horse-dung stink of the streets.
“Hatter!”
She had to get back to the puddle that had landed her in this world. It could reunite her with Hatter, maybe even return her to Wonderland. She retraced her steps. But the street was mottled with so many puddles. What if she’d gone too far and passed it? Everything appeared equally unfamiliar. Could she have covered so much distance while chasing the carriage? What if she never found the puddle? What would happen when the sun broke through the clouds?
If she stopped to think about what she was going through…No, don’t. Her father murdered. Her mother most likely dead. Sir Justice Anders’ throat torn open. And Dodge, her best friend…But don’t think about it. Don’t! Stuck in this alien place. Alone. Don’t-
She had to be strong. She was a princess, the future Queen of Wonderland. She shouldn’t weep like a baby.
She took a running start toward the nearest puddle, jumped, and landed in the middle of it, splashing herself and a lady and gentleman walking past.
“Oaf! Good heavens!” the woman protested.
The man made as if to chase after Alyss, but she had already stamped out of the puddle and was sprinting toward another. She jumped into it and thoroughly soaked a dapper young chap who’d just come from a visit with his tailor.
“Ugh! This cravat alone is worth more than you, you beastly thing!”
Alyss splashed from puddle to puddle, squeezing shut her eyes as she took to the air and imagining hard that she was back in Wonderland, opening her eyes as she came down, sprays of water going every which way, only to find that she was still in this alien world.
I’ll never find my way home. Never ever EVER!
All hope gone, she jumped up and down in a single puddle, yelling, “No! No! No!” until it was impossible to tell which were her tears and which splotches of street water.
“You taking a bath or what?” said a boy watching from a safe distance, out of splashing range.
She stopped jumping, sniffed. The boy wore gray breeches patched at the knees and thighs, a frock coat much too big for him, the tail of which reached down practically to his heels, and cracked leather boots with no laces.
“I’m Princess Alyss Heart of Wonderland,” she said defiantly.
“Yeah, and I’m Prince Quigly Gaffer of Chelsea. That’s one loony outfit you’re wearing.”
She looked down at her damp, dirty birthday dress: a flouncy thing, tight at the waist and poofing out below her knees in a cumbersomely wide circle, its collar high and floppy and ruffled. It was decorated with appliqued hearts, in colors only available in Wonderland, and the dress was a rare sight even there, where it would be taken from the princess’ wardrobe and aired only once a year, the royal tailors refitting it to accommodate Alyss’ growing body.
“It’s all I have,” she said, which started her crying again.
Quigly considered her for a moment. Even smudged with dirt and scum, and with tears leaking out of her eyes, there was something about the girl that intrigued him. She seemed brighter than everything around her. It was as if she were lit from within by a lantern that shone faintly through the pores of her skin.
“Better come with me if you want dry clothes, Your Majesty,” he said.
He started to walk off. Alyss hesitated. Half a block away, Quigly turned. “Off we go!” he called, waving for her to follow.
She looked around one last time for Hatter, then abandoned her puddle. She couldn’t afford not to have a friend.
CHAPTER 13
N O AMOUNT of Millinery training could have prepared Hatter for getting sucked through the Pool of Tears. Having somersaulted out of a puddle and landed on his feet with the agility of…well, of a cat, he let his instinct for self-protection take over. His backpack sprouted its usual array of weaponry. His steel bracelets popped open and spun in propeller-like action. He reached for his top hat but it was gone,
which was bad news. Really bad news. The top hat was his signature weapon, the one he had worked the hardest to master. And he was probably going to need it, judging by the shocked and alarmed faces all around him. He had emerged from the exit portal in Paris, France, 1859, and found himself standing in the middle of a wide thoroughfare known as the Champs-Elysees. Parisians spilled their cafe au lait at the sight of him. His sudden appearance upset traffic, carriages veering left and right. One carriage knocked over a fruit stand, another crushed baskets of baguettes and loaves. Horses whinnied and neighed, edgy.