The public prosecutor, a gowned and whiskered gentleman, stood up and said a number of things in French, which, muffled though the unintelligible words were, Hatter could hear from within the confines of the rug.
“Ou est le prisonnier?” the magistrate asked.
The public prosecutor pointed to the rug. Again, the court regulars laughed. With a heavy sigh, the magistrate warned the gentleman not to make a mockery of the court. The prosecutor apologized and explained that he had no intention of doing any such thing, but that the prisoner was tres dangereux and the carpet the only means that had been found to subdue him.
A man stepped forward and declared that the prisoner possessed violent, other-worldly powers. The gallery of onlookers, none of whom had witnessed the fight on the rue de Rivoli, came alive with loud assertions of “C’est vrai! C’est vrai!”
The magistrate, however, had seen quite the parade of motley life from his perch in court and merely wondered if he might not treat himself to a little fried mutton along with his usual wedge of brie and bottle of bordeaux at his favorite cafe, Le Chien Dyspeptique.
“Je voudrais voir le prisonnier,” he said.
The prosecutor cleared his throat several times and said that, with all due respect, he did not think releasing Hatter from the rug was a good idea. The magistrate huffed and ordered the prosecutor to remove Hatter from the rug or he would find himself in prison for contempt of court. The rug was laid on the floor. The gallery of onlookers surged, people squeezing forward, sensing that something dramatic was about to happen.
They were not mistaken. No sooner was Hatter unrolled from his confinement than he jumped up and- Thwink!
His wrist-blades sliced the air, blurry with speed. He grabbed a dagger from his backpack and threw it, skewering a painting on the wall next to the magistrate’s head-an action that caused the wise man to hunker down beneath his bench for safety.
Before the court police gathered their courage to attempt recapture, Hatter corkscrewed out the nearest window and landed on the sidewalk at a run. The onlookers crowded at the window, hoping to catch a last glimpse of the mysterious man. The magistrate peeked up over his bench to see if his life was still in danger. After surviving such a day, he decided, a plate of fried mutton was well-deserved.
Rumors began to spread about a man with spinning knives on his wrists who appeared out of puddles. With the passing months, and after numerous sightings of Hatter had been reported but never officially proved, the rumors fossilized into legend. Civilians claimed that he could defeat an entire regiment on his own. Military men wondered aloud what more Napoleon might have accomplished if he’d had the man in his ranks. Young boys imagined themselves in his shoes, playing the part of a superhero. In drawing rooms, wealthy, educated ladies and gentlemen put aside their usually reserved manners and attempted to imitate his acrobatic spins and twirls, and even, on occasion, his somersaults. Maidservants all over
France gathered in dim kitchens and told one another romantic stories about the legendary figure, with whom they’d fallen in love. A woman must have broken his heart, they imagined, because surely no man would behave as he did for any reason but the suffering of unrequited love? Upon turning in for bed,
these lovesick servants left candles burning in their windows, and had Hatter been able to fly over Paris in the middle of the night, he would have seen a sleeping city dotted with these flickering lights of longing-pinpricks of warmth in the cold dark, illuminating the way to women’s hearts. But Hatter would have felt anything but deserving, for he was wrestling with an unfamiliar emotion: inadequacy. He had failed to keep his promise to Queen Genevieve.
CHAPTER 18
A LYSS DIDN’T get along with the other children living at the foundling hospital-children who had seen their share of heartache and sorrow, as she had, but who were no less eager to lose themselves in games like jacks, hopscotch, and hide-and-seek. All so silly and immature. Thoughts of Redd, about what might have become of Dodge, clouded Alyss’ head. She couldn’t for the life of her muster up any enthusiasm for games.
The wardens of Charing Cross took a special interest in her and this only served to further alienate her from the rest of the orphans. Anyone could see that she was going to grow into a beautiful woman. It was thought that her beauty might gain her entry into ranks of society rarely attained by orphans, which could bode well for Charing Cross, leading to donations from wealthy families on the hunt for unearthly beauties of their own. Whenever Alyss mentioned Wonderland, she was shushed more harshly than she would have been if the wardens hadn’t taken an interest in her.
“That’s all in your head, little miss, and no one will want a daughter who talks rubbish all the time. Unless you want to live here forever, you’ll clear your mind of that ridiculous, fantastical stuff.”
Dr. Williford, the doctor on the staff at Charing Cross, listened patiently to Alyss’ ridiculous, fantastical stuff.
“I’m sure you’ve had to face things that no young girl should ever have to face,” he said. “But you cannot hide in fantasy, Alice. Accept what has happened to you and know that you are not alone in misfortune. Try to focus on the sights and sounds around you, because they are reality. There is still a chance for you to lead a normal, fruitful life.”
She stopped confiding in Dr. Williford and spent her days staring out a window at a dirty, leaf-strewn courtyard, which was where one of the wardens found her on an afternoon that would (yet again) change everything.
“Alice, I’d like you to say hello to the Reverend and Mrs. Liddell.”
Alyss turned from the greasy window to look at the couple-the woman with the hard eyes and uneasy smile, the doughy man in overcoat and gloves. All strangers were the same to her: strange, far removed, unable to reach her.
“She is pretty,” Mrs. Liddell said, “but a haircut and a thorough scrubbing are in order, I think.” “Quite,” said the reverend.
The Liddells lived in Oxford, where the reverend was dean of Christ Church College. Nothing happened, it seemed, that didn’t bring with it an element of misfortune. No sooner had Alyss left Charing Cross than she found herself in circumstances hardly more pleasing.
“Not another word!” Mrs. Liddell scolded when Alyss described the Inventors’ Parade to her new siblings.
“Animals can’t talk because they’re dumb beasts,” she rebuked when Alyss claimed otherwise. “Flowers can’t sing because they don’t have larynxes,” she insisted when Alyss told of flowers with
beautiful voices. “Keep talking nonsense and I’ll wash your mouth out with soap.”
“I’m a princess and I’m waiting for Hatter to come and rescue me,” Alyss said. “You’ll see.”
“Alice, if you want to amount to anything in society,” Mrs. Liddell warned, “or at the very least show appreciation for what we’ve done by welcoming you into our home, you’ll stop embarrassing this family and live with your head firmly in this world and do as others do.”