The Hatter's Wife
Page 1
Anna B. Madrise
This is a work of fiction. The settings, characters, incidents, and dialogues are a product of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to an actual person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Anna B. Madrise
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or transmitted in any printed, electronic, mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without permission except in the case of quotations embodied in articles and reviews about the book. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
Edited by Bethany Pennypacker
Cover by Anna B. Madrise and HWCC Author Services
www.annabmadrisecom
Published by:
Black Quill Enterprises LLC
3760 Sixes Road Suite 218-126
Canton, GA 30114
ISBN: 978-0-9965677-8-7
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016961524
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
My dauntless ramblings are bequeathed to Alice—if you happen to espy
the Queen of Hearts before I do, give her hell for me, my darling.
Give her hell.
Regards with tidder-winks,
Mad Maddie Milner
Below is an invaluable road map for navigation, pilotage, seafaring, and any other means of known transportation that you may decide to utilize in order to read this book:
Insanity – (noun) the derangement of the mind that is completely objective and entirely an opinion of one’s state, depending on who one is talking to.
Homophone – (noun) two or more words that sound the same but mean different things and have different spellings.
Linguistics – (noun) the science of language that included phonetics, phonology, syntax, semantics, and other pragmatics, which may or may not be considered practical, at any given time.
Semantic – (adjective) of, relating to, or arising from the different meanings of words, getting one’s point across to another.
Synonym – (noun) a word or phrase that means almost exactly, kind of, nearly, or sort of the same as another word or phrase in the same language.
Wonderland – (noun) a place that, according to well-known sources, is neither wonderful nor quite the landscape that everyone has made it out to be. They are all lies.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 – Topside
Chapter 2 – The Duchess’s Tea Party
Chapter 3 – The Watchmaker
Chapter 4 – The Chittering Chalk
Chapter 5 – A Yew in Time
Chapter 6 – Tarts in the Kitchen
Chapter 7 – Hearts vs. Spades
Chapter 8 – The Ungrateful Court
Chapter 9 – Wilds of Wonderland
Chapter 10 – An Identity of Crisis
Chapter 11 – En Passant or Not
Chapter 12 – Twiddle-Da & Twiddle-Do
Chapter 13 – The Queen of Clubs
Chapter 14 – Tippery’s Tea Party
Chapter 15 – Topside or Bust
Chapter 16 – Home Squid Home
About the Author
Other Works by Anna B. Madrise
“Mad Maddie Milner.” That’s what they used to call me.
I was happy once, or at least I thought I was happy.
I’ve been stuck in Topside for so long that I can’t remember.
It’s not a bad town, really—Topside, that is. It’s a touch on the small side, and at times, can be hard to find—quite literally, if you blink, you’ll miss it. Topside sits precisely at the point of where the counties of Kent, Essex, and New London meet. It’s best viewed on the fifth Tuesday of every other month—respectfully, of course.
Unless it’s a leap year.
If it’s a leap year, then you’ll have to start completely over from the beginning—which very much resembles the end, but I digress.
If you are fortunate enough to stumble upon our quaint town, do remember to mind the tree holes. They are too numerous to count and deceptively deep, but how would I know? I wasn’t allowed to go there.
I was deemed “not crazy enough.”
Can you believe it?
Me—Maddie Milner – wife of Tippery Milner—the grandest of grand, of all the milliners, in all of England.
Tippery, the Hatter, my husband—oh, how they loved him. Which reminds me, if I ever find that Queen of Hearts, I’m going to wring her bloody neck. Built like an ostrich, she is—bulbous and fat with a scrawny, long neck.
Snap!
Oh. You’re still here? I beg your pardon. I do get carried away sometimes. But it’s to be expected. There’s hardly anyone left in Topside anymore.
They all left for there.
I can’t even bring myself to say its name, and believe me, there’s nothing wonderful about that place. So, I guess you are stuck with me, and I’m stuck with you, which suits me just fine, of course.
I mean, who are you going to tell?
After all, you only live in my head . . . sshhh, don’t tell a soul.
It will be our secret.
I’ve waited this long, and all of the pieces are in place—well, almost.
They thought they left me behind, but I will have my revenge.
I hate tea.
I absolutely despise it.
I think that was the start of my problems. One simply does not live in England and not drink tea. But this is Topside, and the rules are different here, or at least they should be.
However, the mere thought of drinking the dregs of plant leaves turns my stomach, which is saying something because I can just about stomach anything else—newt-and-nut muffins, fried cockscomb, even grasshopper wine—but tea?
Bleh!
I can’t do it.
Which is why I was still stirring the murky, liquid abomination that had been passed over to me at the only tea party left in town—the Duchess’s party.
The seventh Duchess of Bedford had started the tradition of afternoon tea, but this wasn’t her party. No, this was the party of the once ninth Duchess of Bedford, Eleanor Russell, who lost her way, traveling from Maidstone to Bedford, and ended up in Topside. She liked Topside so much that she decided to stay, much to the chagrin of the royal family, who only acquiesced her request if she agreed to give back a portion of her title.
She did exactly that.
Now she is the “eighth and a half” Duchess of Bedford, who much prefers to go by Ellie.
Ellie’s a strange bird, which, I assure you, has nothing to do with the sleeping bird in her hat, sitting on top of her very almond-shaped head.
Or maybe her head was more cashew-like.
I couldn’t tell.
It was all I could do just to get past her loony laugh.
“Bwahahahaha! Maddie, you haven’t touched your tea!” Ellie swung her spoon around in the air, causing her hat to slump forward. “Bwahahahaha!”
The bird woke up.
“Ellie, all I do is touch the tea.” I was undeterred.
“Touch the tea! Touch the tea!” Squawk!
I hated that bird almost as much as I hated tea.
“Will you shut up?” Ellie whacked her spoon at the bird with the striped beak. Feathers began flying everywhere. “I’m trying to have a conversation here!”
Squawk! “Conversation! Conversation!”
“Go back to sleep, you insolent dodo!” Ellie pushed the oversized brim of her hat up off her face. “Birds! Bwahahahaha!”
“Maaddiiee, could you pass the crumpets, please? Maaddiiee?” Prince Bufo Bufonidae croaked at me from across the
table.
Yes, he really did croak.
I had briefly considered having a summer fling with him once, but I drew the line at the idea of actually kissing a frog. Though, he did make for a handsome portrait in his bowler hat, checked vest, and glass monocle which always sat in front of his right eye—never his left. Monocles are never for the left eye. It’s simply not done.
“Of course, Prince Bufo. Fish roe or squid?” I held out the plate.
“Fish roe, Maaddiiee.” Then Prince Bufo’s tongue shot out and wrapped around a crumpet, and he gobbled it down his throat.
“Prince Bufo! Where are your manners?!” Lucy Lop, the only English rabbit still residing in Topside, said angrily.
Then she knocked over the salt shaker.
“Bwahahahaha! Oh my!” Ellie cackled.
“Oh no!” Prince Bufo echoed.
“It’s not even Wednesday!” I huffed.
At once, everyone at the table tossed their forks over their right shoulders.
“Crisis averted! Bwahahahaha!” Ellie stabbed at a petit four with her knife.
“Maddie has an announcement! Maddie has an announcement!” Lucy Lop sang out. She hiked her pink petticoat up another tick, which was the proper thing to do since she was the second cousin, twice removed, from that other hare.
We never mention that other hare.
I cleared my throat while covering my teacup with a napkin. I couldn’t bear to look at it anymore. “I was going to wait till the third Thursday of the month.”
“Bwahahahaha! Out with it Maddie; royalty waits for no announcement!” The bird in Ellie’s hat stirred again.
“Make an announcement! Make an announcement!” Squawk!
“Will you stop speaking?!” Ellie whacked her spoon at the bird, but he slyly grabbed it in his beak and then spit it onto the ground.
Ellie picked up another spoon from a vacant place setting, readjusted her hat, and stewed.
Birds are just one of the many reasons why I do not wear hats.
“Tell us, Maaddiiee.” Prince Bufo’s tongue lunged out at another crumpet. “Soorryy,” he added when Lucy Lop snatched the plate from the table.
“My announcement is”—my voice was getting shrill with excitement—“I’m going to restart time.”
Everyone gasped.
Teacups clattered onto the table.
In the distance, I heard a pin drop.
“Restart time . . . in . . . Wonderland?” Ellie replied, awestruck.
I cringed while smoothing my hand over my hair.
Hearing that name was akin to nails on a chalkboard.
“It can’t be done, Maaddiiee,” Prince Bufo added. “Time doesn’t like to be tampered with, Maaddiiee.”
“That’s what I told her.” Lucy Lop untied her purple bonnet and then retied it again. “Time waits for no one, and he’s certainly not going to wait for you to restart him there.”
“You’re all wrong. It can be done.” I was defiant. “I’ve found a way.”
“Is this because you won’t wear hats?” Ellie questioned. “You really should wear hats, dearie.”
“Yes, Maaddiiee. Wear a hat, Maaddiiee,” Prince Bufo agreed.
“I can give you my bonnet!” Lucy Lop started to untie the bonnet strings.
I could feel the sliver of a red-spell coming on.
“I . . . do . . . not . . . wear . . . hats . . . ever!” I shrieked, standing up abruptly.
The teapot on the table cracked.
“How rude!” Ellie admonished, “That’s the fourth teapot you’ve cracked this month!”
“You must control your temper, Maaddiiee.” Prince Bufo pulled his own teacup closer to his chest.
“This is why they wouldn’t let you go,” Lucy Lop chastised.
“I’m going to restart time,” I repeated, flattening the folds in my dress while briefly admiring the fancy silver brocade on my sleeves. Tippery had given me this dress. It was the only thing I wore anymore. “And I am going to get my husband back, with or without your help.”
Haughtily I knocked over the pepper shaker before stalking off.
“Not the spoons!”
“Never the spoons!”
“Maddie, you are terrible! That was my last spoon!”
I glanced back to see the spoons being tossed over their left shoulders before landing unceremoniously on the ground.
I smiled maniacally.
To hell with their tea.
Mr. Cogs lived on the westerly end of Topside, next to a malodorous marsh, in a round house, where each particular room rotated forward every hour, on the hour, according to mealtimes, work time, and nighttime.
I had a scheduled appointment that had taken months to acquire.
Watchmakers were so particular about their appointments—they only scheduled one a month, and for one person only. Apparently, it was all that they had time for. I do not even want to begin to explain what would happen to you if—of all things—you were to miss a Watchmaker’s appointment.
It’s better that you don’t ask.
At Mr. Cogs’s front door, he kept a basket of clothespins, which were an absolute necessity if one was going to survive entering The Watchmaker’s house.
The marsh, in the month of March, was a wretched place to be. Its olid odors were all too well known for straightening the curls right out of one’s hair.
This one was quite partial to her curls.
Clothespins, therefore, were the only defense against the onslaught of fumes. There was no getting around it.
Carefully I pinched a clothespin onto my nose as I waited patiently for the round clock, above his round front door, to strike five.
Ding!
Ding!
Ding!
Ding!
Ding!
At precisely 5:00 p.m., Mr. Cogs opened his front door. “Ratchet, barrel, arbor, and spring!” he clamored as he ran a comb through his straight hair. Impatiently he tapped his very straight foot while his lips formed a thin, straight line.
I rolled my eyes.
Watchmakers and their precision.
Bleh!
“Third wheel, fourth wheel, pinion, and ping!” I squeaked out in a nasally voice.
Obviously pleased with my response, Mr. Cogs stepped directly to the side. “Five paces forward, then shuffle five paces to the right, and spin around five times counterclockwise, please. You will find a seat on the fifth gear closest to the mainspring next to the fifth weight.”
I did exactly as instructed—I had to—otherwise, one tiny slipup and it was a steep drop to the bottom of the clock house where the Tallowers lived. The Tallowers greased all the gears in Mr. Cogs’s house.
Let me tell you one thing. Right now. If you take nothing else from our conversations, take this: do NOT visit the Tallowers—never, ever, never, ever, ever. The grease they spit up is downright impossible to get out of your clothes. Impossible. And since the last stitch-master moved to that other place, there’s not a single tailor left in Topside.
No tailors mean no new clothes.
You would be outta luck.
From what I am told, being “outta luck” is a very odoriferous place to be and apparently as equally as unpleasant as the marsh in March.
You get my drift.
Which is not to be confused with whiff.
Whiff is something altogether different, but again, I digress.
“I take it my pocket watch order is complete?” I sat up very straight in my seat on the fifth gear, as not to offend my host. The clothespin was making my nose numb.
“Indeed it is, Mrs. Milner.” Mr. Cogs reached for a gold box from the fifth shelf in his workroom. “Dare I say it is my finest piece yet?” He popped open the lid.
“A piece to end all pieces,” I nasally replied, inspecting his handiwork from my seat.
“Or in your case, to start all pieces over again.” He peered down at it over the bridge of his very straight nose.
“But this won’t get me
into . . . into . . .” Through clenched teeth I uttered the word, “Wonderland.”
I thought I was going to be sick.
Mr. Cogs’s straight smile reformed into a straight frown.
Poor Mr. Cogs, he hated that place almost as much as I did, which is why he was so agreeable to help me in the first place.
“No, it will not. You’ll have to pay Time his tax.” Mr. Cogs was grim. “In order to pay him his tax, you need to know where he lives.”
Politely I waited.
The minutes ticked by—literally.
“Well?” I finally inquired, exasperated.
“All I can tell you is that ‘Time is of the essence,’ ” Mr. Cogs began to re-comb his hair. “You’ll have to figure out the rest for yourself.”
“Which could also mean that ‘essence is of Time.’ ” I pondered this for a moment. Time was sneaky. Only his descendants—the Watchmakers—knew precisely where he lived.
Mr. Cogs knew, of course, but I could tell that he wanted me to work for it.
Crusty snot.
I stretched my torso a touch straighter—for brownie points. Square food is always the best course of action when trying to impress someone.
Remember that.
“I’ve got it!” I snapped my fingers together. “Essence is a plant extract. Time is a plant!”
Mr. Cogs stopped combing his hair and instead began to smooth out his straight eyebrows. It was a sure sign that he was impressed. “Very good, Mrs. Milner, but what type of plant?”
He knew I was close, and I knew that he knew that I knew I was close.
All of this knowing was making me giddy.
“He would be old. The oldest of old”—I twiddled my thumbs—“in all of Topside.”
Suddenly I gasped with illumination.
In the distance, angels began to sing.
“Time is a Yew tree!” I shot straight up out of my seat and then, promptly remembering my manners, sat right back down again.
Mr. Cogs grinned, revealing his perfectly straight, white teeth.