The Curious Case of Mary Ann

by Jenn Thorson

  She decided the direct route was the way to go here. “What can you tell me about that?” Mary Ann said and pointed to the axe.

  A crease formed between the cat’s eyes as he stared at her. “Your finger?”

  “No, not my finger.” Because apparently even insightful, magical cats who smile and can disappear-at-will have some issues with how pointing operates. She instead walked over, grabbed a chair, hopped onto it and tapped the wall underneath the weapon in question. “This axe.”

  “Ah,” said Chester, the smile growing broader, “then you heard the news.”

  “What news?”

  “That the axe, too, can come and go unseen,” said Chester, licking a paw.

  “Actually, I did,” she said. “And I’d like to know what prompted its disappearance.”

  “Then you have your first thing in common with Queen Valentina,” said the cat.

  “What?” Mary Ann blinked. “She didn’t know?”

  “She was …” The cat pushed a word to her. The card read: VICIOUS. “And …” He pushed a second card: WHINY. “She accused everyone and anyone she could think of, but then, the item in question was back the next day. After that, some jam tarts went missing. She still hasn’t recovered those, though, despite the trial.”

  “She didn’t know who took the axe …” Mary Ann muttered, the truth of it sinking in. “It wasn’t on her orders …”

  “‘Epiphany’ is a good word,” said Chester. “You look as though you’re enjoying it now.”

  “You wouldn’t know where Jacob Morningstar’s quarters are?” Mary Ann asked.

  “I’m afraid,” said the cat stretching, “that I am not invited into the castle often. But to be honest, I was not invited today, either.” And the cat smiled. “Frabjous seeing you again. Just make certain no one else does. I hear your name has been rather sullied here in Neath. A shame …” And the cat disappeared. She thought she heard his voice say, “She didn’t look a bit like you.” But then the sound was gone, too.

  Mary Ann decided to seize her chance — while everyone was occupied at the Unbirthday festivities — to search the castle for the valet’s room, as well. The wonderful thing about castles, thought Mary Ann, was their tendency toward tradition. And tradition meant that the lord and lady of a house would have chambers on the uppermost floor and their closest servants nearby. It narrowed down things considerably.

  With the castle empty, this gave Mary Ann the opportunity to stroll the halls unhindered. So it wasn’t long before she was upon the third floor, inside the chamber of King Rudolf. She had grown used to a certain amount of red in the décor from her time in Lord Carmine’s manor, and it appeared King Rudolf used the same decorator. The difference was the repetitive hearts motif, and on that, it was wall-to-wall streamlined representations of the interior organ.

  The valet had a small room off of this and like those of most servants, there were not many personal possessions to assess. A small chest of drawers had been provided, and a careful search of that revealed only some very well-cared-for clothes in fine fabrics.

  Next she searched a trunk at the foot of the bed, containing blankets, but underneath she found a few books (nothing dear tucked between their covers), an old cutlass and some maps. She looked under the pillow: nothing. She felt around under the bed mattress: empty. She peered under the small table: clean.

  She glanced around the room. There simply was nowhere else to search. She caught her own face in the mirror, looking even more deeply disappointed than she thought she felt. The act somehow aligned the mood to the expression. What a fruitless trip it had been! Then she noticed the shadow that the mirror made on the wall. Odd … It looked deeper than the frame itself would suggest. She peered along the mirror and —yes! The backing seemed to be slightly too thick. She struggled to unhook the mirror from the wall and now there was no doubt. Something had been fixed to the back. A small stack of paper, tied in string, dangling from a nail.

  She moved to sit on the bed and then unwrapped the package. In it were several notes in red ink and a wide, loopy, almost childlike handwriting. She unfolded the first one:

  Blood is red

  Love is to cherish

  Blood loss, love lost,

  Two reasons to perish

  Mary Ann made a face. Was it a love poem or threat? She supposed it was up to the recipient to decide. She moved on to the next one. It was an accordion-folded piece of heavy paper in the shape of a heart. On it was printed:

  To My Number One Fan.

  From the Heart,

  Tina

  They’re not getting any better, are they? Mary Ann thought. Then she opened the last one:

  How do I love you?

  I count the reasons here

  Your chiseled jaw,

  The way you tuck your hair behind your ear

  You understand my beauty,

  You love to see me shine

  You’re my morning star, you are!

  So glad to know you’re mine

  Mary Ann put it down and considered that, perhaps, it was just as well that the Queen had gone into acting and not writing. After that last poem, she wasn’t sure she wanted to even know what the rest of it was. But for the sake of thoroughness, she pressed on.

  The next item in the bundle was a small, watercolor portrait of Queen Valentina. There was also a red handkerchief and several yellowed slips of paper. They were receipts. One for a ruby brooch, one for ruby earrings, and the last one … The handwriting was instantly familiar. It was a receipt from J. Sanford Banks to one Jack Clover, in regards to a carved chaise longue with a heart motif. It was on her father’s and Banks’ stationery and Banks’ address was circled on it.

  Jack Clover … Mary Ann remembered that name from the books. As far as she could recall, the project had been paid and delivered some time ago.

  “Jack Clover.” She said it aloud. She hadn’t picked up on it at the time, but it certainly appeared to be a pseudonym for the Knave of Clubs. So he had purchased furniture directly from Mr. Banks, thereby creating a connection between the valet, Banks and Rowan Carpenter …

  But it was so long ago. What could have gone wrong with the deal? And was this the only entry under Clover’s name?

  She took a desperate moment to think but simply couldn’t recall. A chaise, though … Finding the item couldn’t be too difficult, could it? Her father’s work was distinctive.

  Mary Ann tucked all the items back together and bound them up as they had been, then hung them on the nail. In a moment she had replaced the mirror, wiped a few smudges and straightened the coverlet where she’d sat down. Then she moved back into the King’s quarters.

  It was no surprise that the chaise was not there. She moved to a more likely spot, the Queen’s abode. This was an adjoining space and so lush and lavish, scented and gilded, Mary Ann found it almost nauseating in its Muchness. Why, it was precisely the décor version of the woman’s love poetry. There was so much desperately begging for attention, it was almost hard to even see if the chaise were there.

  She thought she had it for a moment, tucked in the corner and covered in blankets. But upon closer inspection, she discovered it was several dresses, carelessly tossed, covering a large bronze of a peacock, its tail extending behind it in closed, hand-painted splendor. That was when she heard a noise in the hall, and a second later, she had ducked behind a curtain.

  “Oh dear!” an elderly female voice said. “Why are those still out?”

  There was a rustling of skirts. A second, younger voice said, “She was in such a tizzy, ma’am, I didn’t get round to putting them away. It was labor enough getting her dressed and out the door, it was.”

  “Well, do it now. We can’t have her see them like that. Double-quick!”

  Mary Ann didn’t dare breathe as the lady’s maid bustled around the chamber. She prayed that the red of her own skirts was enough to blend into the red draperies. She prayed the red of her shoes couldn’t be discerned from the red rugs
.

  And after what seemed like a very long moment, the Queen’s maid sighed and left. Mary Ann peeked out from her spot and darted to the door, then checked the hall and made her escape. Her uniform wasn’t particularly helpful for running, unless the skirts were hiked up. It seemed that Mary Ann could have speed or modesty but not both. And in a flash, and flashing her legs to half the castle, she was back outside, deep into the Unbirthday crowd. Queen Valentina was wrapping up her short soliloquy.

  The audience applauded with an enthusiasm that seemed genuine.

  “Thank you, my dear hearts,” said the Queen. “Thank you all!” And she blew kisses to the crowd and someone handed her a bouquet of roses. Red ones, of course.

  Mr. Rabbit was on stage now and followed a short blast of his trumpet with, “Next, in honor of Queen Valentina’s late spring Unbirthday, we shall have a croquet match in the garden. Anyone wishing to participate, please report to the garden now.”

  The crowd began to disperse, leaving Mary Ann ill-at ease about being out in the open and recognized. So she scanned for Lady Carmine and when she found her, she stopped short and froze.

  Lady Carmine was talking to Mary Ann’s mother.

  There was no doubt about it. For years, Mary Ann had struggled to picture the woman who had left her and her father when Mary Ann was a small child. She had retained only the vaguest images in her mind — a gesture, a turn of the head, a smile, a scent. But now the haze had cleared and the image crystallized before her eyes. And Mary Ann had no sooner taken it in, than Lady Carmine waved her over, calling, “Tamsin, there you are! Let me introduce you to Clarissa Snow.”

  Mary Ann stood rooted to the spot. If there were a thousand possible ways to blow one’s cover before cake, this scene surely ranked in the top five.

  “Oh, it’s all right. Come, dear,” cooed Lady Carmine, waving the maid forward like she might coax a timid puppy. She turned to Clarissa Snow. “My new lady’s maid. Lovely girl. She’s been a great help to our household. Very skilled in healthcare and meteorology, as well as Jabberwock fighting. But somewhat nervous in the interpersonal skills.”

  Mary Ann saw now that dodging the encounter would be far more obvious than simply joining them, so she thawed her legs and moved to the group. She curtseyed and bowed her head. “Madam Snow.”

  “Tamsin, a pleasure,” Clarissa Snow said. Her hair, Mary Ann noticed, was the same dark blonde of her own but with more of a wave to it. It had been arranged with some care and topped with the white, knobbed cap of a White Turvian pawn. She wore it far back on her head, framed by an array of coordinated plaits, the rest hanging loose. “You know, I once lived in Red Turvy for a time. Some beautiful scenery there.”

  Lady Carmine said, “Oh yes? And what brought you there? I thought you were White Turvian from birth?”

  “I am.” She smiled, a wistful one, fragile like spring flowers. Mary Ann had not gotten those genes. “I had fallen for a Red Turvian artisan,” the lady in white explained. “Or I should say, I fell for art. Sadly, I learned that art may be nourishment for the soul, but it is not a fine conversationalist on a winter’s night, or a loving hand upon one’s face. The art is sometimes the best part of the artist.”

  “And that’s why you left?” Mary Ann jarred as she heard her own voice.

  But Clarissa Snow did not bat an eye. “Oh, I was young, and the battle drums of my homeland called, and I became swept up in this idea of changing the world. Or at least my circumstance within it.”

  “It must have been quite easy to do,” said Mary Ann, “if there were nothing to detain you.” She cast it out there, a vague hope tied to the end. It was a question she’d contemplated in some form or another for most of her life.

  “Oh,” said the woman, with a wave of her gloved hand, “we all have our minor bumps in the road. Yet we roll past — do we not? — by giving it greater drive and retaining a sharp eye on the horizon.”

  “It depends,” said Mary Ann, “whether one is the carriage driver or the bump.”

  Clarissa Snow’s expression was blank for a moment, then she let out a tittering laugh clearly designed to cover up any lack of understanding. “Well, I am so glad of the peace between Red and White Turvy,” she continued. “Long may it prosper! I believe events such as this prove our collective dedication to continued unification.”

  “Agreed!” said Lady Carmine, who looked like she thought something had happened between them but couldn’t say just what. “How fortunate we are for these years of reconciliation.”

  “Yet …” began the Snow, “I meant to ask.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “What is going on in your part of the realm? First, I’d heard something about a mass tove suicide and then a questionable boating accident of that door-to-door walrus fellow.”

  “Oh, that.” Lady Carmine looked embarrassed. “Well, yes, that’s something of a muddle at the moment. But it’s being handled by the best investigators in the land.”

  Mary Ann turned her laugh into a discreet cough.

  “I’m sure you’ll sort it all out,” said the Snow, not sounding sure of it at all. “I only ask because I knew the gentleman peripherally. Sandy Banks, I mean.”

  “Oh, did you?”

  She nodded. “Business partner of the artisan I’d mentioned. I cannot imagine he is taking this well.”

  “As I understand, he’s not taking it at all,” said Lady Carmine. “He’s passed.”

  At this, Clarissa Snow’s eyes went wide. “Passed? Rowan Carpenter? When?”

  “Quite recently, it would seem.”

  “Madness!” Her eyes seemed to be retaining an excess amount of moisture. “It wasn’t also in the boating incident, was it?”

  “I’m not really able to share information at this time,” said Lady Carmine.

  Especially since no one’s been briefing her, Mary Ann thought.

  “Well,” Clarissa Snow dabbed at her eye with a handkerchief, “that’s sad news about Rowan. We were a poor match, but I certainly didn’t wish him ill.” And a light crossed her face. “His daughter. She lives here in Neath, I believe. Someone should tell her.”

  “I’m sure they’ve taken care of that very thing,” said Lady Carmine.

  His daughter. Mary Ann looked at the ground.

  Trumpets sounded in the distance.

  “That’ll be the croquet match!” said Clarissa Snow. “I do love a good game. Will you come?”

  “I’d love to,” said Lady Carmine and they started off together. Lady Carmine turned, seeing Mary Ann had not moved from the spot. “Tamsin, dear — are you joining us?”

  “I’m not feeling very well,” Mary Ann said. “If you could spare me for an hour, I might spend some time out of the sun.”

  “Of course, dear.” Lady Carmine’s face was all sympathy. “I’ll see you after the game.”

  “Thank you, My Lady.”

  And Mary Ann watched them, Red and White, take the path to the Queen’s croquet garden.

  20

  Truthfully, Mary Ann was feeling a bit tired and queasy. It’s all very well to go through life with the sense that you’re unwanted and completely alone in the world. It was another thing altogether to hear it confirmed firsthand. She was heading for a cup of tea from the now-vacant tea tables — it appeared Mr. Milliner and his friends had taken their cups and a pot with them to the match, since that table had been picked clean — when a voice said, “There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you! Guess who I just spoke with?”

  Mary Ann didn’t need to look up. “I’m sorry, Sir Rufus, I’m not really feeling up to more jokes. May I pour you a cup?” She raised the pot.

  “Yes, please. And it’s no joke. Guess!” He pulled up a chair.

  Mary Ann sighed as she grabbed him a clean cup. “Amos Quito? Nana Yourbusiness? Mikey Doesntfitinthekeyhole?”

  “I said it wasn’t a joke.” This was a tone she recognized. The petulant one from his Depression days. “Oh, I see,” he said. “You’re still upset abo
ut our little interaction on the way here, eh? Yes, I’m sorry about that.”

  “You are?” She thought this might be the first apology she’d ever received in her life. It was certainly her first from him.

  “Yes, getting my sense of humor back was a bit of a shock to the ol’ system. You know, the humors need to adjust in the body. It was too much at once there at the beginning, but it feels like it’s evening out now.”

  “Aren’t you going to say it’s not evening at all, it’s daytime?” She dropped three sugar cubes into the cup.

  “No.” He slid the cup before him. “Though I wish I’d thought of it.” He grinned. “But since you won’t guess, I’ll tell you who I spoke with. I had a chat with Jacob Morningstar.”

  She almost spilled the cream. “When was this?”

  “Before the Queen’s surprise performance kicked off. You were probably unpacking Mother at the time.”

  “And?” She hopped into the chair next to him.

  “And he was terribly worried about the stage management aspect of things. Had he gotten enough roses? Did they need more candles? Where was the girl with the flamingo chorusline? That sort of thing.”

  “I see,” she said. The tea was strong but cold.

  “He doesn’t seem to have the axe on him. That I can tell you,” Rufus said.

  “No, it’s hanging in the Armory just like Ace said it would be.”

  Rufus blinked. “You were in the Armory?”

  “Just go on.” She waved a hand. “You spoke to Morningstar?”

  “Yes. So I cleverly managed to bring up the topic of mystical weaponry. I started with how the Vorpal sword had just shown up before I needed it, but then it vanished again — ”