The Other Alice

by Michelle Harrison

  ‘What was the final line?’ she asked hoarsely.

  ‘You sure you want—?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Before . . .’ Piper swallowed. ‘Before moving on to her daughter.’ He reached out for her hand, squeezing it tightly.

  ‘That can’t be true. It just can’t. The kittens . . . they must have been sick. She would have been doing it to put them out of their misery. And the rest, that’s just people being wicked. My mother wouldn’t do that!’

  ‘You never knew her, Gyps,’ Piper said softly. ‘You only know what you’ve heard from your papa. Other people say different.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what other people say! Papa knew her best!’

  ‘Or maybe he just knew the best side of her . . . until he saw the truth.’ Piper raked his hand through his hair. ‘There’s never just one side to a person, or a story. Maybe you need to hear a few different versions before you can work out the true one.’

  ‘You can talk!’ she cried. ‘Hoping your pa might still come back for you!’ She heard his breath catch, heard the cruelty in her own words, but couldn’t stop. She was hurting and she wanted someone to share it. ‘Everyone knows he ditched you. He just used you to make him money and, as soon as he had enough, he was gone. So don’t talk to me about what’s true when you can’t even see it yourself!’

  She gave him a hard shove. It caught him off guard and he staggered backwards as she fled into the trees. He gave chase immediately, but Gypsy was quick and the woods were dense. With the sound of his own movements crashing in his head, it was hard to hear where she was and, within a little while, he realised she’d thrown him off the scent by tossing a stone or a stick in another direction.

  He stopped running. Why was he chasing her anyway? Let her go. It would do her good to stew in her own juice. He trampled on, stamping down grass, cracking twigs and snapping dandelion heads. He was way off the path by now, but past caring. He went on and on, working up a sweat, but his temper only worsened. Eventually, he stopped and sat on a log, taking out his flute.

  He brought it to his lips and started to play. That would serve her right, he thought, to be brought back to him by his tune. If she were close enough to hear, she would come.

  Soon someone did. He heard footsteps behind him, sensed he was being watched.

  It was not Gypsy, though. It was an old woman, and he couldn’t help giving her a scowl for not being who he wanted her to be.

  ‘Ooooh, a temper, is it?’ she said, craning her neck to look at him. ‘What a cross little tune indeed.’ She was bent over with a load on her back that looked far too much for her twiggy little legs. He hadn’t seen her before. Even though she was tiny, she was made bigger by the dozens of little cages hanging off her sleeves. Some were empty; others contained small creatures, mainly birds.

  ‘Poaching’s against the law,’ he muttered, angered by her observation.

  ‘Not poaching.’ She wagged a knobbly finger. ‘Collecting.’

  ‘Looks like poaching to me.’

  She shook her head. ‘I collect pretty things.’ She took a sidestep into his path. ‘I saw a pretty thing come along this way just a few minutes ago. At least she would have been pretty if her face wasn’t all screwed up, and she was saying some ugly words.’ She gave a mischievous grin. ‘A quarrel, was it?’

  ‘None of your business.’ His anger flared up again, at the old woman, and especially at Gypsy.

  ‘Want to get back at her?’ Her eyes were sly and there was something a bit bird-like about them. Even so, he couldn’t resist asking.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Just a little trick,’ she said. ‘It’ll make her think twice before saying unkind words again.’

  ‘How?’ he repeated.

  She untied one of the cages and handed it to him. A little green-and-blue bird sat inside. ‘Play her a tune,’ she said. ‘The one you were playing a moment ago.’

  He lifted the pipe and played. The bird tilted its head, listening. He wondered what kind it was, something not from these parts, that was for sure.

  ‘Keep playing,’ she whispered, releasing the peg from the cage door.

  The bird took off through the woods, singing as it went, echoing his tune back to him. He heard it circling their heads, then grow fainter, singing all the while. Then the singing stopped and he heard a familiar sound. Gypsy’s voice, somewhere within the trees.

  ‘Don’t stop,’ the old woman said. She held the cage up in the air.

  Gypsy’s voice rang out from above, high-pitched and afraid. ‘What’s happening to me? Why can’t I—?’

  The bird swooped down and landed in the cage. The old woman slammed the door shut and pegged it, hopping from one foot to the other in glee.

  ‘Help!’ cried the bird in Gypsy’s voice. ‘Somebody help me!’

  Piper stopped playing as Gypsy came crashing through the woods, her eyes wide and her hands clutching her throat. He dropped the flute and ran to her. It wasn’t a lesson; it wasn’t a harmless little trick. It was spiteful and she was scared.

  ‘That’s enough now,’ he said, turning back to the woman. ‘Let the bird go—’

  But he and Gypsy were alone. There was no sign of the old woman, or her creatures. They had vanished, taking Gypsy’s voice with them.

  18

  The Luck Charm

  THE CHAPTER ENDED THERE. THERE was still more to read, but my head was too full of Gypsy and Piper to concentrate.

  Gypsy was still standing by the window, unmoving, when I went to her side.

  ‘I’ve read the pages,’ I said quietly. ‘I know how you lost your voice.’

  Without warning, she seized a cup next to the sink and turned, hurling it at the opposite wall. I flinched as it smashed, broken china flying everywhere. Gypsy’s face was no longer blank. It was alive with rage. I backed away from her, crawling on to the bunk bed and shielding myself with a cushion as she turned and grabbed whatever was to hand.

  The cat zipped past, ears flat to her head and tail sticking out like a bottlebrush. ‘She’s gone mad!’ she yowled.

  I saw Piper duck down to look through the window, and heard him swear. ‘Gypsy!’

  The crashing continued as he stopped the engine and brought us to a halt. He appeared in the cabin, his boots crunching over glass.

  Gypsy was like a wild thing, her hair flying out and her teeth bared in a silent scream. Her cheeks were wet with tears. She lashed out with her fists and feet, not caring what she hit. Piper grabbed her, taking a couple of blows in the process, but held her tight to him to stop her beating arms.

  ‘Stop it. Just stop now. This ain’t gonna help.’

  She struggled, but he held her firm, surveying the damage. She’d swept the draining board clear, breaking most of the crocks. The sugar pot lay on its side, the lid in two halves on the floor and sugar scattered everywhere. Milk dripped from the work surface.

  ‘Do you think your papa would want to see you treating his boat like this?’ Piper said. ‘Well, do you?’

  She glared up at him, then her face crumpled and she buried it in his shoulder and wept silently. When her sniffles had subsided, he led her to the snug and sat her down, tucking a blanket over her like she was a child, and placing the chalk and slate next to her.

  Gypsy picked up the chalk with one hand and rubbed her nose with the other. She pressed the chalk against the slate.

  ‘What’s she saying?’ I asked unthinkingly.

  Piper scowled. ‘If darling Alice had given me the ability to read, then I’d tell you.’ That same bitter note had crept into his voice again, but this time I understood. Now that I’d read about his past, I’d seen another side to him. He wasn’t just a smirking thief. He’d been only a child, a frightened boy when the one person he had in the world had abandoned him. More than that, he had cared for Gypsy – and plainly still did now.

  Reluctantly, I climbed off the bed and went to Gypsy. ‘I’ll do it,’ I said. I sat down next to her, wary at first in
case she flared up again, but Piper gave a slight nod. She was like a cork that had been popped, a match that had been struck. The fight had left her.

  I read what she had written aloud.

  You have no idea what it’s like to find out that everything about you is a lie. That you’re just a figment of someone else’s imagination. She waited until I’d finished, then wiped the slate with her sleeve to make more room and continued.

  We only exist because your sister put us into a story. We exist for her entertainment. For your entertainment. My mother is a monster because it made for good entertainment. Her eyes narrowed. And probably because, if I’m the main character, to make you pity me. To get you on my side. I lost my voice to keep you turning the pages. Piper’s pa abandoned him.

  All our lives are on these pages. Our private thoughts, our secrets. Things no one should have to share, but they’re here for whoever reads them to see. She cleared the slate again and gestured to notebooks on the shelves. All the stories I’ve ever written are no longer my own. They belong to Alice, like everything else in my world.

  I waited for Gypsy’s temper to flare, but she remained still. I tried to think of something to say that would ease her pain. ‘Alice often says her characters take over when she’s writing. Doing their own thing. Like the story is writing itself and the characters take control.’ I gave a weak smile. ‘Never like this before, though.’

  Gypsy’s chalk pressed against the slate so hard that crumbs of it chipped away and landed in her lap. I envy her.

  ‘I think she feels the same about you,’ I said.

  Gypsy shook her head, disbelieving, but I rushed on. ‘You’re the version of her that she dreams of. The person she wishes she could be. You’re beautiful—’ she snorted at this, ‘—well, you are and you don’t care what people think of you. You wear cool clothes and you sail around on this perfect boat, going wherever you like, writing stories that you can finish if you want to, but don’t have to. Not like her.’

  But she cursed me. She made my mother abandon me.

  ‘I think your mother left because Alice’s father did,’ I said. ‘And, with the curse, you’re forgetting something.’

  What’s that?

  ‘That every story and every character have problems they need to solve,’ I said. ‘That’s the point of the story. She wrote your curse, but she would have wanted you to undo it. That’s the whole point of the story.’

  And if she can’t finish the story? What then?

  ‘She has to finish it,’ I said. ‘But first we have to bring her back from wherever she is. Her dad will know what’s happened to her – we just have to find him.’

  ‘We’d better get going,’ said Piper, getting up. ‘Gyps, I’m gonna need your help in a minute. There’s a lock coming up.’ He crunched over the broken crockery to go outside on deck.

  Gypsy got up and took a dustpan and brush from under the sink, and set about sweeping up the mess. I knelt down to help her, but she shook her head.

  It’s my mess, she wrote. I’ll fix it.

  I sat back on my heels, watching her. She pulled her hair off her face and tied it back in a messy knot. I found myself staring at the tiny scorpion tattoo just below her ear, and remembered first reading about it in Alice’s notes. I’d thought then it was a strange choice, and I still did – but now I found it suited her. It wasn’t ugly, or cruel-looking. It just kind of reminded me of Gypsy herself. Waiting for an attack, ready to defend herself. Lashing out, but only when she was injured.

  ‘Why did you get that, Gypsy?’ I asked. ‘The scorpion?’

  She stopped what she was doing, touching her fingers to her neck. Then she took out her pencil again. Where we come from it’s a symbol of strength. A luck charm, for protection.

  ‘Protection?’

  She nodded. Most people choose charms for love or riches. I chose the scorpion, because it’s said its sting has the power to ward off danger, even save your life.

  ‘Sting!’ I snapped my fingers, instantly thinking of Tabitha’s riddle. Of course – the sting of a scorpion could be deadly. Could that be the key? I couldn’t think of how it connected to a queen, though. I took out the slip of paper with the riddle on it, trying to make it fit, but, after staring at it for several minutes, I was no closer to solving it. When Gypsy finished clearing up and joined Piper outside on deck, I went back to the snug, sinking into the cushions and puzzling over it, but still getting nowhere. I closed my eyes, thinking, exhausted, lulled by the rocking of the boat on the water. Without meaning to – or even realising I was – I drifted off. Sometime later, Piper’s shout from above jerked me awake.

  I scrambled to my feet, rubbing my eyes as I went up on deck. A chill breeze chased the last sleepiness away.

  ‘Look,’ said Piper, pointing ahead.

  Gypsy stood at the front of the narrowboat, shielding her eyes from the sun.

  There, on a hillside in the distance, stood a majestic horned statue.

  ‘We found it,’ said Piper. ‘The five-legged stag.’

  Twenty minutes later, we’d moored as close as we could, shrugged into warm clothes and clambered on to the path. It was just past noon, but the day didn’t feel much warmer than it had when we’d started out.

  ‘Looks a bit of a trek,’ said Piper. ‘It’s all uphill. Come on, there’s a path up ahead.’

  We’d only taken a few steps when a black shape appeared alongside us.

  ‘Nice of you to join us,’ Piper grunted. We began walking again, Tabitha moving silently through the grass beside us.

  She yawned. ‘I felt like stretching my legs.’

  ‘Well, now you’re here, perhaps it’s time you told us a bit more about yourself,’ I said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’ve been lurking around since the start of all this, not saying much, but hearing everything. And,’ I said, suddenly realising something, ‘you didn’t seem surprised at all when Gypsy was upset just now, after finding out she was a . . .’

  ‘A character in your sister’s story?’ Tabitha said bluntly.

  ‘Yes.’ I reddened, glancing sideways at Gypsy. Her expression was stony. ‘And, well . . . there’s no easy way to say this, but you are, too.’ I paused. ‘Or had you guessed that already?’

  The cat pounced on something in the grass. ‘Drat. Missed it.’

  ‘Tabitha? Did you hear me?’

  ‘What? Oh, sorry. Well, yes, I assumed that was the case.’

  ‘You’re not shocked?’ Piper asked.

  ‘Nothing surprises me any more,’ Tabitha replied. ‘That’s the way it is when you’ve lived three lives. Besides, I’ve heard enough to work out that, wherever I am, it’s somewhere that talking cats are rare.’

  I snorted. ‘Not rare. Impossible.’

  ‘Yet here I am, talking to you,’ said the cat scornfully. ‘So clearly not. Nothing is impossible.’

  ‘You said you’ve lived three lives,’ I said. ‘And that you were human once—’

  ‘Did I? I don’t remember that.’

  ‘When you said you missed soap and water,’ I reminded her.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Someone must have turned you into a cat,’ I pressed.

  ‘What makes you think I didn’t do it myself?’ Tabitha asked. She leaped on to a tree stump and scratched it hard, her white claws gleaming like tiny talons.

  ‘You did it yourself?’ Piper turned to look back, his eyebrows lost in his long fringe. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I could and it was better than the alternative,’ the cat answered. ‘Do you know what happens to people who can do that sort of magic where I come from? It’s not pretty.’

  ‘You mean like . . . witches?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, goody, they use that word here, too,’ Tabitha muttered sarcastically.

  What word would you prefer then? Gypsy scrawled. Enchantress? Sorceress?

  ‘Cripes, no,’ Tabitha retorted. ‘None of that fancy malarkey. “Wise Woman”, it was. I was ha
ppy enough with that. They’ll come to you to cure their warts and their flatulence, but as soon as anything goes wrong they turn on you, quick as you like. “Ooooh, Mother Tattle see a toad that looked at her funny!” Or, “Farmer Ned ’ad bad dreams about someone pinchin’ ’im, an’ woke up black an’ blue!” That’s all it takes to get fingers waggling. And then the “witch” word starts getting bandied about.’

  ‘People here used to burn witches hundreds of years ago,’ I said. ‘And that’s in real life.’

  Tabitha jumped off the tree stump, her ears flattened to her head. ‘Real life sounds just as bad as life in stories.’

  ‘It’s probably worse,’ I said. ‘Anyway, why did you decide to turn into a cat?’

  ‘I thought I’d just explained that,’ said Tabitha. ‘To escape.’

  ‘But why a cat? Why not just someone else?’

  She looked at me as if I were very stupid. ‘It had to be someone or something that would agree to switch places with me. No human in their right mind would choose to do it, but my dear moggy was more than happy to. I’d given her a good life, you see, and witches – if we’re using that word – and their familiars are bonded for life. If I died – and I would have, if they’d caught up with me – she’d have died, too, only she’d have suffered more. Nine times more, as they finished each of her lives. This way I’d have a chance of escaping and surviving, and she could at least go peacefully.’ Tabitha gave a little sigh. ‘She was a sensible thing, still on her first life as luck would have it.’

  I frowned. ‘Her first life? What about the other eight?’

  ‘She still had them. They’re there to get you out of scrapes, but, like I said, she wasn’t scatty . . .’

  ‘So the cat was on her first life, and you used up another two,’ I said. ‘That means you have six left?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Tabitha agreed, with a sly look at Piper and Gypsy. ‘Plenty of mischief left in me yet.’

  Gypsy fell into step beside me. Until now I hadn’t been sure she was listening, but she lifted her notepad to show me something.

  ‘Gypsy wants to know what happened to the cat, after you switched places with it?’