Alice

by Christina Henry

  “That’s Cheshire’s place,” Hatcher said, and there was a note of pride in his voice. “I knew I could find it again, even if I couldn’t remember properly why.”

  “But the roses,” Alice said. “How can those roses be there, like that, in the middle of all this filth and fog?”

  Hatcher gave her a crooked half smile, his grey eyes glinting in the morning light. “Magic.”

  CHAPTER

  7

  Alice sucked in her breath, astonished. “You mean Cheshire’s a Magician? How can that be? Why wasn’t he driven out with all the other Magicians?”

  It seemed incredible that such a blatant display of magic would go unnoticed by the City officials.

  “No, he’s not a Magician,” Hatcher said. “But his house was built by one, and Cheshire moved in when the Magician left.”

  “How has he managed to keep it?” Alice asked. Given the fighting she’d already seen over money, territory and girls, how was it that Cheshire’s house hadn’t been snatched up by the local boss?

  Hatcher gave her a slightly sneaky sideways look, as if he knew she was not going to pleased. “Cheshire’s the head of this area.”

  “He’s a boss?” Alice asked. “You’re taking me into the house of one of those—those people?”

  “No, no,” Hatcher said hastily. “Cheshire doesn’t deal in girls. He’ll have no interest in you—leastways, not like that. He deals in information. So be careful what you say to him, or around him. No matter how he seems, Cheshire is not your friend. He’ll sell you out in an instant if he thinks it will benefit him.”

  “Hatch, that does not comfort me in the least,” Alice said.

  “Just talk as little as you can,” Hatcher said, walking to the edge of the roof and peering down. “And it may be a good idea for you to keep being Alex.”

  “Right,” Alice said.

  She’d half forgotten the clothes she wore were meant to be a disguise. Nell had seen through the fiction so easily that Alice hadn’t practiced being a boy in actual company yet.

  “There’s a balcony just below here,” Hatcher said, indicating with his hand.

  “Don’t people live there?” Alice asked in a whisper.

  “Likely,” Hatcher said. “But we’ll only be there for a moment and then we’ll be on the ground.”

  “And what if someone sees us and starts screaming?”

  “We need to get to Cheshire’s house. We can’t land on his roof from here. Well, come to think of it, we can’t land on his roof at all.”

  “Why not?”

  “I told you, those roses have magic,” Hatcher said. “They keep intruders away.”

  “And how do they do that?” Alice asked. The roses appeared less beautiful to her now, the gleaming petals less obvious than the pointed thorns and malicious vines.

  “Just don’t get close to those flowers until Cheshire has approved you,” Hatcher said. “I’ll swing you down here. As soon as your boots touch that landing, you climb over the side and drop to the street. I can’t go down there until you move; there’s not enough room. Hurry it up, Alice. The sun’s coming up and folk will be about their business soon. We’ll be seen.”

  Hatcher grabbed Alice under the shoulders and swung her over the edge of the roof before she had a chance to look the situation over properly. She had a terrible moment of fear that the landing was not below her, that Hatcher would release her and her feet would kick wildly in the air and find no purchase. But then his hands slid away from her and the balcony was there a second later, just as he said it would be, and she made less noise than she expected.

  Washing hung out to dry on a line—a woman’s underthings, and a couple of men’s shirts. There was a grimy window and a wooden door that wouldn’t have kept out a curious cat. Inside, the occupants stirred, the slow shuffle of morning feet on bare floor.

  Alice swung her leg over the side and made a concerted effort not to think about what she was doing. Going up on the roof had seemed like such a smart idea when it was dark and she couldn’t really see how high she was. She glanced down just long enough to make sure she wasn’t about to land in a coal cart or on top of someone’s head. The ground looked very far away.

  “Alice!” Hatcher hissed.

  She closed her eyes and pushed away from the side and hoped she would not break her legs. Or her nose.

  Somehow a miracle occurred and the ground did not take a bite out of her. A moment later she stood in the street in front of Cheshire’s house, on her own two feet and nothing broken. There was a faint warmth at her chest, and she lifted the shirt a little to see the rose pendant that Bess gave her glowing with a faint light, though it faded so quickly that she wondered whether she’d imagined it.

  Then Hatcher was at her side, light-footed and sure. She rearranged her clothing so the pendant was well hidden and followed him to Cheshire’s doorstep.

  The roses’ perfume was stifling at this distance. It permeated the air around them, pushed away the usual stink of sweat and food and offal that hung in the air. But it wasn’t necessarily a better smell, Alice thought. There was something not right about that sweet, twining scent, something that snuck up in between her eyes and made her head ache.

  The cottage—for that was what it was, really—was covered so completely in roses that not a sliver of the outside wall was revealed. Only the door—painted white like a gleaming tooth—and a scrupulously clean four-paned window escaped the pervasive touch of the flowers.

  Hatcher knocked three times on the door, his hand dark and filthy against the shimmering white paint. Only after Hatcher knocked did something occur to Alice.

  “Perhaps it’s a little early to come calling?” she asked. “The sun has barely risen. Won’t Cheshire be angry at being woken?”

  Hatcher shook his head, not chagrined in the least. “He won’t be angry if he thinks we’ve brought him something interesting.”

  “What do we have that’s interesting?” Alice asked, but she never found out the answer.

  The door opened then, smooth and silent on oiled hinges. A very large man stood there, about as tall as Hatcher but much better fed. He was dressed in unrelieved black and held a short coil of silver wire in one hand. There was a tattoo of a smiling cat on the back of that hand, between the last knuckle of his thumb and the thick bone of his wrist.

  His eyes were as black as his clothes, and they took in Alice and Hatcher’s ragged appearance in one glance.

  “Get off with you,” he said, and started closing the door. Hatcher reached to stall him, his hand stopping the door halfway. The man looked from Hatcher’s hand to his face, those black eyes calm and endless and unyielding. Hatcher returned the gaze with the same calm, though Alice fought the impulse to tug at Hatcher’s arm and pull him away.

  “We’re here to see Cheshire. Tell him Bess sent us,” Hatcher said.

  “Mr. Cheshire don’t have time for the likes of you,” the man said. “Now, I’m telling you for the last time, get off and stay off.” “Cheshire will be very unhappy if you don’t tell him we’re here,” Hatcher said. “And if I remember right it’s not a pretty sight when Cheshire isn’t happy.”

  Fear flared in those black depths, a flash so quick that Alice thought she imagined it. The guard’s expression never changed. He and Hatcher continued to stare at each other for a moment longer. “Wait here,” the guard said, and shut the door.

  “Hatch, what is it we have that Cheshire will find interesting?” she asked again.

  “Us, of course,” Hatcher said.

  “But I thought you said not to say anything in front of him,” Alice said.

  “I said to watch what you say,” Hatcher said. “Cheshire likes information, and you don’t want him to have any information that you don’t want him to have.”

  Alice shook her head, not sure whether the conversation was actually going in circles or whether the roses were making her feel like it was.

  “But he likes new things, and new people.
And he likes Bess, or he did. He helped her once,” Hatcher said.

  “Are you remembering more?” Alice asked. Hatcher seemed a wealth of information all of a sudden.

  He tilted his head to one side, thinking. “No. Just what I need to remember. There are still black spots where other things were.”

  Alice wondered about the black spots in her own memory, and whether Cheshire could tell her if the Rabbit were dead. If he was such a fountain of information, then he was sure to know. But Bess had told her to stay away from the Rabbit and anything to do with him. And Hatcher said not to tell Cheshire anything. If Cheshire did know about the Rabbit’s fate, then he would wonder why Alice wanted to know. And that might lead to other questions. No, it was better not to bring up the Rabbit at all.

  Behind them on the street people were going about the business of their day. Alice heard a noise above them and glanced behind and up. A careworn woman of indeterminate age was removing the washing from the landing that Alice and Hatcher used to climb down from the roof.

  The door swung open again, and the guard stood there. Alice thought he appeared sourer than before, as if he’d eaten something that didn’t taste very pleasant.

  “Mr. Cheshire will see you now,” he said. His grip tightened on the silver wire he held, as if he were itching to use it.

  They were led through a very tiny foyer with a marbled floor into a small parlor, with the most exquisitely carved furniture Alice had ever seen, all of it white and spotless like the front door. A beautiful little round table with elegant curved legs sat in the middle of the room, four matching chairs arranged around it. The chairs had plump embroidered cushions on the seat and the backs were carved filigree.

  All around the walls were smaller tables and fat cushioned ottomans, and everywhere there were roses. Roses in vases on the tables and roses painted in pictures and hung in frames. Roses were sewn into the chair cushions and multiplied in patterns on the wallpaper. The same heavy scent that hung outside the house was even more pronounced here, despite the presence of fewer flowers. The windows were shut, keeping the perfume contained in the small space.

  On the table were several cakes shaped like roses, and small sugar candies carved in the same likeness. There was a pot of tea, steam curling from the spout, and three cups set out for pouring. Alice wondered that all of this was put together so quickly, while they stood at the door and waited. It was almost as if Cheshire had known they were coming. But that couldn’t be. They’d discussed their plans with no one but Bess.

  In the midst of all this petaled splendor was a man, standing near the center table and grinning an oversized grin. Everything about this man was unexpected. The huge guard had appeared scared of Cheshire’s anger. Alice thought a man who wielded so much power and frightened such a large man would be large himself, that he would appear a strong man not to be crossed. But Cheshire was nothing like that.

  He was as small and neat as the parlor he stood in. His head would come to just above Alice’s elbow if he was close by her. That head was covered all over with golden brown hair carefully curled in ringlets. His eyes were bright and green and curious and he wore a velvet suit of rose red. It seemed so soft that Alice longed to stroke it with her fingers.

  Cheshire’s grin widened as he looked them over, a glint of recognition in his eyes when he saw Hatcher. Alice decided she didn’t like that grin. It wasn’t happy. It was more like a predatory animal baring its teeth.

  Cheshire waved at the guard. “Thank you, Theodore.”

  Alice glanced behind her as the guard left. He did not appear pleased at being sent from the room.

  “Well, well. Bess Carbey’s grandson. What are you doing out of your cage, little bird? I heard a long while ago that you did very bad things and they sent you away, away where all the mad little birds are kept.”

  Hatcher started in surprise. “How do you know that? Bess didn’t even know where I’d been.”

  “Oh, I know many things. Many things,” Cheshire said, pulling out a chair and seating himself. “Please join me.”

  It was not a request. It was spoken in the same cheery tone as everything else, but Alice heard the steel underneath it. She and Hatcher maneuvered into the little chairs, both of them so tall that their knees knocked against the table.

  Cheshire poured out the tea, his eyes roving over them all the while. “Yes, I know about Nicholas. But I don’t know you, my lad. And quite big and dangerous-looking you are with that scar. That scar. Hmmm.”

  Alice didn’t like the thoughtful look on his face. In fact, she was quickly realizing that she did not like anything about Cheshire at all—not his rose-covered house or the heavy perfume of roses that made her feel sick, not his knowing smile or the speculative way he peered at her scar. She didn’t want to have tea with this man. She wanted to find out what they needed to know and then leave.

  “This is Alex,” Hatcher said, before Alice could speak.

  “Alex,” Cheshire said, rolling the name around in his mouth like he was tasting it. Then he shook his head. “No. That is not your name.” The grin was gone now. The merry eyes were flat as a snake’s. “It is not polite to tell lies, especially when you are my guests. I do not care for lies.”

  He had not threatened them, and the idea of this little man physically overpowering them both was absurd. Yet Alice felt a distinct chill in the air, a threat of menace that had not been there before. This man was dangerous, more dangerous than she’d thought.

  She took the cap from her head, thinking quickly. “It’s not Alex. It’s Alice. And I hope you’ll forgive us for the deception, sir. It’s only for my own safety.”

  Hatcher gave her a quick, annoyed look, as if to say, Why pretend to be a boy if everyone you meet knows you’re a girl? And Alice didn’t disagree. But it seemed far more dangerous to lie to Cheshire.

  The hard glint in Cheshire’s eyes softened a bit as he considered. “Alice, is it? Alice. And that scar . . .”

  He drifted off, his eyes dreamy now as he sifted through the vast stores of knowledge in his head. Then he suddenly snapped his fingers and sat up straighter, that horrible grin returned.

  “Alice! Yes, of course. Another naughty little bird. You ran away, Alice, yes, you did. And you made the Rabbit so distressed, and he couldn’t find you.”

  Her body was stiff with fear. Cheshire knew who she was. It didn’t sound as though the Rabbit were dead. It sounded as though he were alive. And this man knew who she was, and who she was to the Rabbit. If Cheshire wanted, he could have his guard put her in a gunnysack and carry her straight to the Rabbit again.

  “But he marked you, didn’t he?” he continued.

  At these words Cheshire reached across the tiny table, the first two fingers of his hand extended. Alice knew what would happen and steeled herself not to show any emotion. Cheshire’s fingers, cold and slightly damp, stroked down the scar on her cheek. She swallowed the shudder of revulsion at his touch.

  “Yes,” Cheshire said. “He marked you so that he would know you again, and know that you belong to him.”

  “I belong to no one,” Alice said, her voice harsher than she intended. She would fight if she must, and so would Hatcher. Whatever power Cheshire wielded, he could not make her go back to the Rabbit.

  Cheshire giggled. “Oh, yes, there’s that spirit that the Rabbit liked, before you spirited away, that is. Then he was not so fond of your energy, particularly after what you did to him.”

  (a blade in a blue-green eye) Cheshire watched her carefully, and Alice feared he could read the thought that had gone across her face. She must be careful now, very careful.

  “Yes,” Cheshire said, taking a bite of rose-shaped cake. “I think the Rabbit would be very interested to know you’re in the Old City.”

  Alice didn’t know what to do. Should she threaten Cheshire? Should she tell Hatch to pay him so that he wouldn’t talk? He seemed the sort of person who might like knowing something another didn’t. He might like lordi
ng it over them in his own mind. Then, suddenly, she knew what to do.

  “The Rabbit and me is hardly news, is it?” Alice said lightly. “A very old affair.”

  “But one, I assure you, that the Rabbit thinks of every day. You made quite sure of that, my dear,” Cheshire said.

  Yes, if I did take his eye, I imagine he would think of me every day, Alice thought. She plunged on, aware that Hatcher watched the proceedings with a curious gaze. They were doing the precise opposite of what they’d intended—that Hatcher should talk and Alice should listen. But Hatcher was wise enough not to muddy the waters, and to wait until Alice was finished.

  “I think the more interesting news is the return of the Jabberwocky. Do you not agree?” Alice asked.

  It hadn’t seemed possible, but Cheshire sat up even straighter then. Alice thought he was surprised, but she couldn’t tell for certain. Cheshire was very difficult to read.

  “And what does the Rabbit’s lost toy know of the Jabberwocky?” Cheshire asked.

  Something in her heart burned when he called her a “lost toy.” She did not show it.

  “We have seen him,” Alice said, indicating Hatcher and herself.

  “Seen him and survived?” Cheshire asked, and now it was clear that he was surprised. “How can that be?”

  “Good fortune,” Alice said. She did not want Cheshire to know about the pendant or how Nell claimed she sent the Jabberwocky away.

  “Good fortune indeed,” Cheshire said, and he narrowed his eyes and looked between the two of them. “Of a kind not usually found in his presence.”

  “It is because of the Jabberwocky that we are here,” Alice said. “Bess told us that you could tell us how to trap him again.”

  The little man chortled. “Trap the Jabberwock? You are ambitious, aren’t you, little toy?”

  Alice said nothing. He was baiting her, hoping she would lose her temper and reveal something she did not want him to know.

  “Bess said the Jabberwock was searching for something,” Hatcher said. Alice noted that Hatcher did not mention his own connection to the monster. “And that you would know what that something was.”