Other Alice

by Michelle Harrison

  Piper.

  I glanced at the boy sleeping nearby. He’d shifted in his sleep and his arm was tucked round his flute case, holding it protectively.

  A coldness spread over my skin like river water.

  I was now almost certain that Alice had used these fortune cards to plan out her story.

  15

  A Trail of Breadcrumbs

  I WOKE TO THE SOUNDS of something breaking and sat up in a panic, at first wondering where I was. My head felt as though it were full of sand, my eyes gritty and my mouth sour. It had taken me a long time to fall asleep and when I finally had it was uneasy.

  There was another crack from the kitchen. I looked up, aware that I was alone in the snug. There was no sign of Piper or the cat, but Gypsy had her back to me in the kitchen.

  Instinctively, my hand shot under my pillow, checking the box was still hidden. It was. I’d slept with it there all night.

  ‘Where’s Piper?’ I asked, getting up. ‘And Tabitha?’

  Gypsy nodded to the window above the sink, then turned, whisking a basin of eggs.

  ‘They’ve gone out?’ I stumbled to Gypsy’s side. ‘What if they disappear?’

  Gypsy stopped whisking and picked up some chalk to write on a slate hanging up nearby. I’ve been watching them. I’m not letting Piper out of my sight.

  I looked out of the window, searching the riverbank. Piper was kneeling in the grass, fiddling with something. There was no sign of the cat. I sat down at the table, chewing my thumb. A couple of minutes passed and then Piper’s voice carried down into the hold, making me jump.

  ‘Miss me?’ He grinned, stepping down into the kitchen.

  Gypsy snorted.

  ‘Thought so.’ His smile widened obnoxiously. ‘Never been so popular. I’m starting to get used to this.’

  He shook a jumble of mushrooms out from the scrap of cloth he was carrying. ‘Is that any way to greet someone who’s just brought in the breakfast?’

  ‘Mushrooms in February?’ I said, eyeing them doubtfully. ‘You sure they’re not poisonous?’

  Piper laughed. ‘You sure you’re awake yet? It was September last time I checked. Right, Gyps?’

  Gypsy nodded, but didn’t turn round. Piper went to the sink and began washing the mushrooms. September? So they’d come from another season – though they didn’t know it yet – and brought some of the autumn with them.

  ‘If they were poisonous, I’d be dead,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘I’ve been foraging for years. I know what I’m doing.’

  Gypsy put a pot of tea and four cups on the table. We poured it in silence, which was broken by a lovely hiss as she threw a scoop of butter into the hot pan, then added the eggs and mushrooms. Minutes later, we were each served a fluffy, golden omelette with crusty bread. I couldn’t wolf it down quick enough.

  I’d just put down my fork when Tabitha appeared at the window behind Gypsy with a dead bird clamped in her jaws.

  ‘Seconds, anyone?’ Piper said, stuffing another crust into his mouth.

  A muffled sound came from the other side of the window.

  ‘Did you say something, puss?’ Piper asked the cat.

  Tabitha nodded vigorously. A feather came loose and stuck to the glass, smeared with blood. ‘Et ee in!’

  ‘I think she wants to come in,’ Piper told Gypsy with a smirk.

  Gypsy wrinkled her nose and shook her head, then put her fork down on her plate with a couple of bites still unfinished. I felt my own breakfast lurch in my tummy. I was used to seeing Twitch kill small creatures, but it seemed different with Tabitha: a cat you could speak to and reason with . . . and who’d been munching happily on candyfloss only last night.

  ‘I reckon that’s a no,’ Piper called. ‘It’s breakfast al fresco for you, Tabitha!’

  Tabitha’s golden eyes narrowed, then she vanished from the window, leaping on to the roof above. Once or twice, her long black tail swung into view and a couple of feathers floated down.

  When she returned to the window, her mouth was empty.

  ‘May I come in now?’ she asked coldly.

  Gypsy unlatched the window.

  ‘Hope your whiskers are clean,’ said Piper, grinning.

  ‘Of course they’re clean. What do you think I am, some kind of savage?’ Tabitha strolled in, bringing a cold draught with her, and jumped straight on to the table. ‘Is there any tea left in the pot?’

  I poured a cup for her. ‘Need to wash something down, do you?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, yes,’ Tabitha replied sarcastically, dipping her head to drink. ‘Nothing worse than having fleas and feathers stuck in your teeth.’

  ‘Why didn’t you have an omelette?’ I asked. ‘You drink tea like the rest of us.’

  ‘Tea doesn’t keep me alive,’ the cat answered. ‘It just helps make my situation more bearable.’

  ‘So you don’t have a choice?’ I asked.

  ‘If I did, do you think I’d choose to crunch up bones and beaks?’ said Tabitha. She hiccuped, looking gloomy. ‘It was a scrawny thing, too. That’s the price you pay, I suppose.’

  For what? Gypsy wrote.

  ‘Having nine lives. The food is terrible and takes ages to digest,’ she grumbled. ‘Speaking of which—’ she yawned, ‘—I need to do some of that now.’ She jumped off the table and strolled lazily to the snug, flopping down on a pillow.

  I watched her for a moment, unsettled, then went outside on deck into the frosty morning. It wasn’t so much the killing of the bird that bothered me, but the realisation that I didn’t really know much about Tabitha at all.

  Every character in a story must want something, Alice had explained to me once. That’s what makes the story work and gives it conflict.

  Besides Gypsy, who I guessed must want to break her curse and get her voice back, and Ramblebrook, who wanted his museum, I had no idea what the others were after. Piper and the cat were still a mystery to me and, without the story itself, I only knew whatever they chose to tell me.

  I didn’t trust either of them.

  Perhaps the pages Piper had stashed would hold some extra clues, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop Gypsy reading them. When she did, there was every chance she’d find out the truth, about who and what she was. I considered telling her, but it didn’t seem like something she’d believe. Either way, it couldn’t stay hidden much longer. Once she knew, once Piper knew, what would they do?

  I tried to imagine someone telling me something quite so shocking about myself. It would be like finding out I was adopted and everything in my life was a lie. Yet this still didn’t compare to finding out that you yourself were a lie, entirely dreamed up by someone else.

  I heard footsteps beside me and turned. Gypsy stood there, watching me with her notepad in her hand.

  We’re going soon, she’d written.

  ‘To get the pages Piper took?’ I asked.

  She nodded, staring across the water. I gazed at her. Her skin was smooth and rosy. I searched her jawline for a small scar that Alice had from the time she’d had chickenpox as a baby, but it wasn’t there. I reminded myself that this wasn’t Alice, and thought of the fortune cards. The spinning wheel with its cursed spindle, the black cat, the Pied Piper.

  ‘What happened between you and Piper?’ I asked.

  He betrayed me, she wrote. Her eyes clouded a little and she blinked. It was a long time ago.

  I remember the notes Alice had written on Gypsy. They had said she’d been betrayed by a boy she loved. Surely this couldn’t be Piper?

  ‘He could still betray us both now,’ I said. ‘We only have his word that he hid those pages. He could be leading us into a trap.’

  She frowned. What kind of trap?

  ‘He could be working with Dolly. If she wanted it enough to steal it, then perhaps she wants to make sure no one else can come after it. Perhaps she wants us out of the way.’

  Gypsy narrowed her eyes. You still haven’t asked me why I want the story. Why is that? />
  I looked away, unable to meet her gaze. ‘I just . . . it’s none of my business,’ I muttered.

  She waited, unconvinced.

  I shrugged. ‘I thought, if you wanted to tell me, then you would. And . . . and I wanted you to help me. I guessed I had a better chance of that if I didn’t seem too nosy.’ My face burned at the lie and I rushed on to change the subject. ‘I say we ditch Piper as soon as we get those pages. He’ll just lead us into trouble.’

  ‘I reckon I’ve been pretty helpful so far.’

  I spun round, horrified.

  Piper was on the steps, leaning casually against the roof. He didn’t look pleased, but nor did he look especially angry, either. ‘Don’t worry, I’m used to it,’ he said. He buttoned up his coat and blew into his fingers. ‘And I only heard the last part of what you were saying, in case you’re wondering.’

  There was no way of knowing if he was telling the truth.

  ‘Come on then. I’ll take you to the pages I hid.’ He bit off a fingernail, spitting it into the canal. ‘If they’re still there.’

  ‘They’d better be,’ I muttered under my breath

  It was still early when we arrived in the town square. The shops were starting to open, and road sweepers were out, clearing litter strewn across the cobbles from the Summoning the night before.

  We’d left Tabitha snoozing on Elsewhere. Gypsy hadn’t been entirely happy about this, but we’d decided that a cat trailing after us – especially one that couldn’t keep its mouth shut – was likely to attract attention.

  ‘Please tell me you didn’t leave those pages somewhere stupid,’ I said to Piper, seeing a discarded newspaper blowing all over the place.

  ‘They’re safe,’ he grunted. ‘In plain sight in a way. But I’m sure they’ll be fine.’

  ‘What do you mean “in plain sight”?’ I asked.

  ‘You’ll see.’ He strode on, towards the library, nearing the fishmonger who was taking a delivery. We hurried past the stacked crates outside and saw that Piper had stopped a little way ahead in front of a door set back in a row of crooked buildings. He rapped on the door and waited.

  ‘This place looks empty,’ I said, peering at the painted-out windows. The uppermost one was fogged up from the inside. ‘Wait. Someone’s in there.’

  Piper knocked again, louder this time. A light snapped on, flooding the cracked glass pane above the door. Then came the clipped sound of shoes on wood and a bolt sliding back. The door opened and there stood a man in a poorly fitting tweed suit. He had a severe nose and a neat, grey moustache.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I was here yesterday,’ said Piper, scratching the back of his neck. ‘I helped you carry some boxes in?’

  The man peered down his nose through gold-rimmed spectacles. Though he was neat, there was something about him that seemed neglected and undernourished. The only fleshy things about him were the puffy, grey bags under his eyes. ‘Oh, yes.’ His eyes swept over the rest of us, then back to Piper. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I think I dropped something,’ said Piper. ‘A watch my grandfather gave me. It’s not worth much, but it means a lot to me. Could I take a quick look around for it?’

  The man gave an impatient sigh. ‘As long as it is quick. I’m busy.’ He stood aside, opening the door wider. Boxes were stacked all along the hallway. Piper stepped past him. The man glanced sternly at the rest of us. ‘You’d better come in; it’s cold out there. But don’t meddle with any of these boxes, do you hear? There’s precious work in them, not things to be touched by sticky-fingered children.’

  We squeezed past him into the hallway. I caught Gypsy’s look of annoyance and could tell what she was thinking: she and Piper could hardly be called children, and I wasn’t exactly a baby.

  ‘Wait here,’ he told us. ‘And remember not to touch anything. I’m just next door.’ He vanished into a nearby room and, seconds later, there came the sounds of boxes being cut open.

  I stepped past a small table piled with unopened letters, looking for Piper. He was further down the hall, scratching his head as he looked at a pile of boxes. He appeared to be counting them and I guessed he must have stashed the pages in one.

  I stared round the hall as we waited in silence. It was a grand space with a high ceiling, a bit like my school, but it needed a good lick of paint. There was no carpet and everything was bare except for thick cobwebs that hung from the ceiling and windows like dusty chandeliers.

  My eyes rested on Gypsy, who was crouched down and looking intently at a box on the floor. Her eyes were wide and I could see she was trying to peek inside it without making a noise and alerting the man next door. I knelt by her side.

  ‘What is it?’ I mouthed.

  She pointed to something printed on the side of the box:

  LOTTIE CHURCHILL’S TYPEWRITER

  I shook my head, confused. I didn’t know any Lottie Churchill. Gypsy finally lifted the lid and we both looked inside. There, carefully padded with bunched-up paper and bubble wrap, was a beautiful old typewriter, like Alice’s. Gypsy held her hands up, using her fingers to create a heart shape.

  ‘Love?’ I whispered.

  She shook her head, then, again using her hands, mimed opening a book.

  ‘Favourite book?’

  Then I got it. ‘Favourite author.’

  She nodded, reaching in to lovingly touch the typewriter, tracing her finger over the keys. She replaced the lid quietly, then stood up, her eyes roving over the rest of the boxes. They were less interesting, marked with letters like E–F and Y–Z. Occasionally, there were boxes that had a single name followed by the word ‘only’; obviously some sort of record-keeping system. I wondered if the man was an accountant; he certainly seemed organised enough, although it didn’t explain why he had an author’s typewriter. Perhaps he was a relative.

  I stood up, looking for Piper again, but he’d vanished out of sight. A name on a box further down caught my attention. I recognised it, but I couldn’t think where from. Slowly, I edged down the hall towards it, creeping past the door to the room the man had gone into. I glanced in to see him leaning over a desk, sorting papers from an open box with his back to me.

  I looked down at the box. Why did I know that name? Then it came to me in a tumble: it was the name of a well-known children’s writer. She’d died long ago, but her books were still popular and there were a few in my school library as well as several in Alice’s room. Carefully, I lifted the lid and looked inside.

  This time there wasn’t a typewriter inside the box. It was full of paper. I pulled a piece out and began to read.

  Once upon a time, it began. My pulse began to race. Stories? Typewriters?

  ‘You’re not touching anything, are you?’ the man called shrilly, still within the room.

  ‘No,’ I answered quickly. I slid the paper back inside the box and made my way back to the little table by the door. I picked up one of the unopened letters from the pile, my breathing shallow. I knew what the name on the envelope would be before I even saw it.

  Mr Sheridan Ramblebrook.

  16

  Paper People

  ‘RAMBLE BROOK?’ I BLURTED.

  I clapped my hand over my mouth, but the damage was done. Footsteps sounded nearby and then a surprised Ramblebrook appeared at the door.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Er . . . I, um . . .’ I searched for an excuse. ‘Did you used to . . . um . . . teach at Fiddler’s Hollow School?’

  ‘I’ve never taught at any school,’ Ramblebrook replied. ‘And I’d never set foot in this town until a few days ago.’ He rubbed a hand over his moustache. ‘I should be interested to know if there is someone locally by the name of Ramblebrook, though. It’s an unusual surname. I’ve never heard of it outside my family.’

  Because it’s made up, I thought. Alice was fond of inventing strange names.

  ‘You shouldn’t snoop,’ he added, scooping up his letters protectively.

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to. I
just noticed the name.’

  I tried not to stare at the lettered boxes piled up everywhere. Not boring accounts after all. They must be alphabetised authors’ names, and the contents had to be stories.

  Unfinished stories.

  ‘Why did you come to Fiddler’s Hollow?’ I asked. I wanted to get Gypsy and Piper out of this place before Ramblebrook said much more, but I also needed to know his plans. Was he intending to stay here, or just passing through? What had Alice written for him? Had she brought him here, like the others, or had he slipped through of his own accord when she got writer’s block?

  ‘Work,’ he answered, looking back over his shoulder as though he were aching to get back to it. ‘The rent is cheap here and it’s as good a place as any.’

  ‘So you’re . . . um, sticking around for a while?’ I asked.

  Ramblebrook nodded to the boxes. ‘Certainly. I don’t want to be shifting this lot again any time soon.’

  I looked down the hallway. What was taking Piper so long? Gypsy had pulled out her notebook and was writing something. Her face was alive with interest, and I knew she wanted to ask more about the typewriter and how it came to be in Ramblebrook’s possession. I wished now that I had told her the truth about the story, for if Ramblebrook made any mention of the museum it could ruin everything. Mostly her trust in me.

  For the first time since Alice had disappeared, I felt

  something other than worry for my missing sister. I felt pity for Gypsy and Ramblebrook, and even Piper. Alice may not have fully believed in what she was doing, but all this had happened the way she’d written it. Because she had written it. Her characters had always been real to her, but they were properly real now, and here. They spoke, they ate, they slept. If I cut them, they’d bleed.

  So what was to become of them when we found Alice? Would they be absorbed back into the story like ink sucked into paper? No longer existing except as words on a page?

  Was that what it would take to get my sister back? Perhaps. I guiltily realised that I didn’t care. I just wanted Alice to be all right.