The Lost Codex

by Lyons, Heather

  The whole world crumbles like sandcastles at high tide. Stars above melt. The moon peeking from behind dark clouds showers the sky as it transitions from ball to sands within an hourglass. The floor beneath me softens, and I wonder if it will support my weight just long enough to finish the task. Baba Yaga chants in Russian, waving her pestle over the Codex. I have no idea what she is saying, nor what she is doing, but I keep to the mission at hand. I hold on to Finn, to maintain the connection between us, even as all that is around us disappears into nothingness. I refuse to believe he is ash, too, or accept his grip has slackened.

  Bits of ashes flake from Baba Yaga’s face, fluttering in the wind. Her voice dims as colors bleed from her hair, from her skin and clothes. The pestle touches my forehead in benediction, then she throws open her arms and allows herself to disintegrate.

  Before the last of the Pipers’ pages is fully released from the Codex and the world, I say, “I love you, Finn Van Brunt. Come find and recruit me. I will be waiting for you.”

  One last tug, and the loose sheets soften to dust in my grip. And then there is nothing.

  THE CEILING ABOVE ME is a mysterious map of cracks and chipped paint, nearly undecipherable in origins or destinations. Voids unsettle me, though, so night after night, as I stare up at it, tracing the moonbeams that flit in between hills and valleys, I assign them my own designations. There, that bump? It’s Gibraltar. That chunk? The Himalayas. The deep groove near the Southeast corner of the room? The Great Wall of China. The smooth patch nearly dead center is the Pleasance Asylum, which is vastly amusing to me.

  I shy away from the splattering of flakes in the Northwest quadrant, though. Those ones, whose ridges grow on nearly a daily basis, are far too easy to decipher. I made the mistake of telling Dr. Featheringstone this during a fit of delirium, and he’s not forgotten it. In fact, he’s asked me about them again, just now, and he’s waiting patiently for my answer.

  “They’re flakes of paint,” I tell him. “Created from age and lack of upkeep.”

  As he chuckles softly, the thick mustache that hides his lip twitches. “Always the literal one.”

  I keep my eyes on his face rather than in the area he’s quizzing me about. It taunts me though, just over his left shoulder. “Why shouldn’t I be? Word games are silly and are best left for children or the elderly who seek to hold on to their wit.” The muscle inside my chest works in overtime as I tell him this. He’s heard my ravings, and knows my struggles.

  “And you are no longer a child?”

  I lean back in the still wooden chair, delighting in how its discomfort bites into my bones. “I hardly think a woman of twenty-five is a child, Doctor.”

  In direct opposition to his faint yet genuine smile, pudgy fingers stroke his bushy mustache downward. “Many ladies of your standing are long married with family.”

  Hey says many when he means most. I smooth the stubborn wrinkles on my gray skirt. “It’s a little hard to meet prospective suitors in. . .” I glance around the room, eyes careful not to settle too long above his head. “A fine establishment such as yours.”

  Neither of us mention where’d I’d been before here, or what I’d seen and done and experienced.

  Another chuckle rumbles out of him. “Too true, dear. But you will not be at the Pleasance much longer. What then?”

  My fingers knot tightly together in my lap. “I imagine I will be sent to rusticate at our family’s summer house near the seaside. Perhaps I will find a nice stableboy to court me, and by the ripe age of twenty-six, we will be living out our bliss amongst seashells, ponies, and hay.”

  Featheringstone sighs, his face transforming into a look I could sketch from memory, it’s given so often to me when I offer up an answer he doesn’t like. I call it Disappointed Featheringstone.

  My eyes drift to the one window in the room. “I am still not positive my release is the wisest course of action.”

  “You’ve been here for over half a year,” the doctor says. “Most people in your position would be clamoring to taste freedom.”

  A thin smile surfaces. That’s the problem. I’ve had a taste of freedom, true freedom, and I’m loathe to accept anything other than such.

  “You are in good health,” he continues. “Your need for confinement is gone. Your nightmares have decreased significantly.” His chair creaks beneath his significant girth as he leans forward. “It is time for you to resume your life, Alice. You cannot do that here at the asylum. You are, as you pointed out, twenty-five years old. You still have many years of experiences ahead of you.”

  I have many years of experiences behind me, too.

  “Perhaps I ought to become a nurse,” I muse, keeping the edge of my sarcasm soft enough to not wound. “What a story mine would be: patient to nurse, a grand example of life dedicated to the Pleasance.”

  “I think nursing school is a grand idea.” His ruddy face alights. “There are several reputable ones in London you could attend.”

  It’s my turn to give him a patented look, the one he affectionately calls Unamused Alice.

  “Your father has sent word he will come to escort you home at the end of the week.”

  Unamused Alice transitions to Curmudgeonly Alice.

  Featheringstone stands up, glancing up at my past before shuffling over to pat me on my shoulder. He is a nice man, whose intentions for his wards are sincere. It’s for this I both appreciate and resent him. An old schoolmate of my father’s, he was selected upon my return sorely for this purpose. Too many horror stories about hellish asylums and nefarious doctors rage about England, but my father knew his friend would treat me with kid gloves. While the Pleasance may be physically showing its age, it’s amongst the most sought after when it comes to those in the upper class due to its gentle hand and discreet employees.

  Sometimes I wish my father hadn’t been so kind. It might have been easier had he thrown me into one of the hellholes, where I could have gotten lost amongst the insane.

  Mandatory strolls are required of all patients at the Pleasance as, Dr. Featheringstone believes, “fresh air is the tonic to many ails.” At first, I was resistant to such outings, preferring to stay in my snug room with the door closed, but after several tours with the good doctor and a team of nurses and orderlies, I determined he perhaps had a point. There is a nice pond that is home to a family of ducks, a small grove of trees, and a handful of boring, quiet gardens that house no red roses after the good doctor had requested them removed. Worn dirt paths lined with benches connect the Pleasance’s outdoor pleasures, and one can experience everything in as little as a half hour. We patients are never left to our own devices during these Fresh Air Hours, though. Nurses and orderlies mingle amongst the residents, setting up tables for games of checkers, chess, or croquet, although I naturally recuse myself from such frivolity.

  Half a year in, and I am still a stranger to most of the folk here. That was by my choice; many of the residents did their best to welcome me into the fold, but I was determined to keep my distance out of early fear of spies.

  There is nowhere you could go in which we could not find you, little bird.

  “A letter, my lady.”

  My head snaps up sharply to find one of the orderlies standing over me, an envelope in his hand. I eye the object warily; outside of my parents, whom I requested not to write to me during my stay, no one else of my acquaintance knows I’m here. “There is no need to be so formal with me. We are at an asylum after all.”

  I think his name is Edward, but it could easily be Edwin, too. Or perhaps even Edmund. A mere incline of the head is given, but I highly doubt my bitterly voiced suggestion means anything to him. The staff here is the epitome of propriety.

  I don’t want what he has to offer. “Toss it into the fire.”

  His smile is patient and kind, one borne of tempered familiarity. “Dr. Featheringstone has already previewed its contents.” The open flap is jiggled. “Would you like me to open it as well?”

 
I sigh and set my sketch pad on the bench next to me. The ducklings in the distance scatter across the pond, leaving me without subject to capture. “Go ahead and read it aloud.”

  A slim piece of paper is extracted. Through the afternoon’s golden sunlight, I can determine less than a quarter of the sheet is filled with thin, spidery calligraphy. “Dear madam,” E reads, modulating his voice so it sounds very dignified, indeed. “It is my great hope that I may come and speak to you tomorrow afternoon about a matter of great importance. Yours sincerely, Abraham Van Brunt.”

  “That’s it?” I ask once the paper is refolded.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  What a curious letter. “I am unacquainted with an Abraham Van Brunt,” I tell the orderly. And then, as I reclaim my sketch pad, “I suppose Dr. Featheringstone has already sent off a missive telling him not to bother coming round.”

  Naturally, he does not know whether or not the doctor did just such a thing. “Would you like the letter, my lady?”

  I’m already turning back toward the pond. “No. Please burn it.”

  The crunch of twigs informs me of his retreat, allowing me to reclaim my solitude. The ducks long gone, I spend my time perfecting the tufts of grass and reeds growing at water’s edge on today’s landscape.

  Alice.

  I focus harder, my charcoal furiously scraping across the paper until I remember I don’t want to do anything furiously. Not any more, at least.

  Alice.

  I close my eyes, focusing on the red and orange kaleidoscopes that dance across my lids.

  Alice?

  The paper in my hand crumples as easily as my heart. I leave it behind on the bench when I make my way back inside, because I’m positive there was an H etched into it. And to think that Featheringstone is convinced I’m sane.

  I haven’t been sane in over six years.

  “TRY TO KEEP AN open mind, hm?”

  I’m sitting in Dr. Featheringstone’s ode-to-wood office, my hands folded primly across my lap. “Do my parents know about this?”

  The corners of his mustache twitch upward. “As you’ve pointed out numerous times in the past, Alice, you are not a child. There was no need to inform your father about this as he is not your legal guardian.”

  My smile is tight. “If that’s the case, then I must insist you turn the gentleman away at the door. I simply do not have the inclination to entertain a visitor today.”

  The good doctor is undeterred. “Since arriving at the Pleasance, you have spent very little time conversing with anyone outside of myself and the staff.”

  I nod vigorously.

  “But Alice, none of us live in a vacuum. Mr. Van Brunt’s visit could be an excellent chance for you to practice your conversation skills.”

  “Do you find my ability to converse lacking, Doctor?”

  He chuckles softly, no doubt remembering how I wasn’t chatty with anyone, himself included, for the first month of my stay. To be fair, it was difficult to carry on an invigorating discussion when one is shaking so hard from withdrawals they fear they might shatter into thousands of painful pieces before a single word can be uttered. Plus, there was the tawdry truth of how once I did open up, I raved liked a lunatic about things no normal person could imagine being true.

  “Certainly not,” he says to me. “But as I must stay at the Pleasance and you must go forth into the world, it will do you good to practice on a somebody new.”

  “Then send in one of the orderlies. Or one of the nurses. I’ll happily chat with a staff member.”

  One of his bushy, out-of-control eyebrows lifts high into his forehead.

  “There are people out there who are quite content being solitary,” I point out. “Who do not need to converse with anybody but themselves and their dogs.”

  He sets his pen down. “What about cats?”

  Rigor mortis sets in ever so briefly at this question.

  “Your father said you were quite fond of cats growing up. There was one in particular that you favored. Dinah, was it not?”

  “I’m—” I have to clear my throat. “Lately, I wonder if perhaps I’m more of a dog person after all.”

  The mustache hides nothing. I’m patently aware of how the corners of his mouth turn downward. “Nonetheless, Alice, I’m afraid I must insist you allow an audience with Mr. Van Brunt.”

  Irritable Alice emerges. “Do you know this gentleman?”

  “I do. He and I go way back.”

  “As far as you and my father?”

  “Not that far.” The frown gives way to another soft chuckle. “But far enough. He would not come here to talk to you if he did not have something important to say.”

  “How do you know it’s him?” I ask. “How do you know the missive was not forged?”

  Concern fills his dark eyes.

  I push my advantage. He must be wondering if I’ve gone mad again. “What if it’s one of the Courts? Or their assassins?”

  Fingers tap against the felt mat guarding the top of the wooden desk as he studies me. Just as I feel victory is within my grasp, he says, “You will take the meeting, Alice. Hear Mr. Van Brunt out.”

  I slump back into the padded chair. I don’t wear defeat well.

  A new note arrives late into the night, accompanied by a carriage. My mother has taken ill. Dr. Featheringstone needs not to say it, but we both are aware Henry Liddell would not send for me if he did not believe his wife’s situation serious.

  An orderly packs my belongings whilst I ready myself to re-enter English society—not as a queen, but merely as Alice.

  Do I even know who that woman is any longer? My stay at the Pleasance has not brought me any closer to her. Rather, I am someone in between, someone lost without a purpose.

  When I arrive in London, I am too late to bid my mother farewell. Setting aside my own grief and losses cultivated over the last year of life, I insert myself as the lady of my father’s house as he succumbs to his sorrow. Filial duty accepts no other response. There is no talk of my recent stay at the Pleasance. If the servants know of my history, they do not dare mention it in my presence. There is no discussion of my six-year absence. My reappearance draws no outward suspicion from the staff, although it does raise some discreet eyebrows from society.

  I care not a whit. My focus remains on the task at hand. I am the one who takes charge of ensuring my mother is laid to rest in her favorite gown, and that her hair is immaculate. I am the one to oversee her memorial and to converse with our guests, as my father cannot be roused to do so. I handpick the flowers and arrange for payment of both headstone and burial plot. I do not wallow on Wonderland and what once was. There is precious little time to do so, and for that I am grateful. Even in the late of night, as sleep folds me in its arms, I fail to dream of all I have lost. In the weeks and then months that pass, I rule the household as I did my palace at Court, and soon, the Liddell homestead is in tiptop shape. When it is time for my father to return to work at University, and he cannot because grief refuses to leave him be, I am the one to arrange for an extended leave of absence.

  When the weather warms, I arrange to close up the London residence. The greatest city in the Western world has nothing to offers us. We Liddells will make our way to our summer home on the Welsh coast.

  As our carriage trundles westward toward Penmorfa, my father says to me, his voice as quiet as his zest for life, “You are a good girl, Alice, to care for your papa so.”

  Girl.

  I am a woman of twenty-six. A displaced queen who once ruled a mighty land and fought bravely with a fierce sword. Now I am a nursemaid.

  I kiss his cheek and pat his hand. I tuck a blanket around his lap.

  We must take what life gives us, the Caterpillar once said. And you, particularly, as a Queen, must take it and make it worthy of yourself.

  I sent word for staff to be hired and to clean and air the house out, as my mother’s maid shared that it had been some time since anyone had used it last. The housekeeper
did an excellent job, for everything is exactly as it ought to be.

  I take my father’s arm as our trunks are carried in. “Let us take a stroll down to the waterline.” The air is soft and tangy, the roar of the waves pleasantly loud. My father walks slower than I remember, as if when my mother died, she took part of him with her. Or did he lose himself during my absence?

  For weeks, our days replicate themselves at a steady, unvaried pace. We stroll the same paths, look at the same seashells. We read by the fireplace, we dine at the same table. The monotonous routine comforts him. I go to town while he dozes with his papers, inserting myself into society, all the while struggling to both fill the hollowness and combat the agitation threatening to shred my skin off all at once. I allow myself to cultivate a few new acquaintances. Although they term me dear friend, and agree to go to regular teas, I cannot find it within me to find the same empathy. I engage in small talk, and when ladies discuss advantageous marriages, I want to gouge my eyes out with the butter knives upon the table.

  I fought in wars. I defended my peoples. I created schools of high learning. My lover was a king.

  I remind myself: This is what ladies do here.

  I even reluctantly allow a few men to call upon me, which inordinately pleases my father—or at least pleases him as much as one whose joy drained away can be. One man attempts to steal a kiss, and I punch him squarely in the nose.

  He does not call on me again.

  One afternoon, as my father naps, I hike up the hills behind the house, up to where the shrouded, sleepy hole a hypnotized White Rabbit crafted me lies. I do not wander too close. I am weak, after all. I am an addict not a year from her last hit. It was foolish of me to come to Wales, but I suppose I figured both my father and I needed comfort in days such as these.

  I lower myself into the long, wavy grass and gaze at the rocks and hidden hole in the distance. My fingers curl tightly into fists, until my nails dig into my palms and draw blood. I do not cry, though. I cannot. Something within me is broken.