(Re)Visions: Alice ((Re)Visions)

by Kaye Chazan

  Mary Ann lay dazed on the floor, face pressed to the stone, and stared into the darkness. Above her, Mister John worked at her petticoat and stockings, not bothering to check with his fingers before thrusting himself into her. Her eyes felt dry and sandy; she had to sweep this floor more often.

  The back door began to open, whispering along the floor, and Samuel stood there, mouth open as if he were about to call her name. She jerked at the waist, but Mister John tugged at her hips and realigned her to him. He was facing away; perhaps his eyes were closed. And that was why he didn't notice. Perhaps he didn't care.

  "Uhssss," Mary Ann said, but instead Mister John shoved hard and she bit the inside of her mouth.

  Samuel didn't let go of the door latch. Mary Ann blinked and tried to open her mouth, but her tongue was heavy, her throat tight, as if she had stuffed it with crackers. Her left hand twitched in some sort of gesture, the very most she could do as Mister John worked into her.

  Samuel's hand twisted the latch, and then he closed the door behind him as silently as he had opened it. Mary Ann slapped her hand on the floor. One of her knees skidded and scraped.

  Every thrust he made sent her closer to the bottom of the oven, and while it wasn't warm, she wondered if it might burn her cheek were she to press up against it from down here. Underneath it she could see a withered fingerling potato she must have dropped ages ago. On the other side, closer to the baseboard, some sort of rodent peered at her with shiny eyes.

  And there, all the way in the back, next to the vent, a cat head of cheese, green stripes of mold on its aged face, still whole and unmelted despite the heat of resting close to the oven. Something crawled out of one semi-hollowed eye. She blinked a few times and bit her tongue when Mister John grunted as he finished, all but sending her scuttling across the floor. There was a split-second of nothing, and then a gaping emptiness and a slap on her arse.

  "Good night, Mary Ann," Mister John said, and closed the kitchen door. Mary Ann closed her eyes and unfolded herself to lie on the floor, her backside throbbing, something warm trickling down the inside of her leg. If she didn't look at anything, then she didn't see anything. But when she opened her eyes again, something all but glowed.

  "Oh dear," said the smiling cat head, "it seems as if you've run into a spot of bother."

  The Queen wasn't far down the path when the leaves began to shake, even though there was no wind. The whistling of the hollow-reed trees was sharp and loud, and she stopped, letting the sensation guide her focus through the branches above.

  "You're here," she said. "You know you can't hide from me."

  The smile appeared—a sickle without a handle, a cradle without a child. It rocked back and forth until the grinning Cat faded into view. "Am I hiding?"

  "When aren't you hiding?"

  "I'm always where I was put, you know," the Cat replied. "But sometimes I don't remember where that is. Or you don't remember, because I wasn't there in the first place."

  The Queen shook her head and sat on a log. "I don't want to argue with you." She wiped at her forehead and stared at the white greasepaint that had come away on the back of her hand. "I cannot abide arguing with you."

  The Cat licked his lips. "Shall we relive old times, then, just you and I?" It stood on the limb and stretched to the tips of its toes, arching its back and rocking on its haunches, and then jumped, landing in the Queen's lap.

  "Please, don't."

  "Very well then, a riddle." The Cat kneaded her skirts with its claws, eyes heavy-lidded and looking entirely quite pleased with itself. "It should be very easy for you, because you already know the answer. 'It's warm where I was, but not where I am, and I'm only part of what I once was, yet still not what I should be'," the Cat said, flicking a tail into its face and not seeming to be bothered by it in the least. "Where am I?"

  "Where you're not supposed to be," the Queen answered.

  The Cat yawned. "You guessed it! Is it a guess when there's only one answer?"

  "She's not supposed to be here," the Queen whispered to the Cat in her lap, a head that glowed with a smile. "That was what you told us."

  "Ooooh," said the Cat. "Has someone been naughty? Was it me?"

  So he comes down when I'm out and you didn't see fit to say anything, did you?" Samuel said, not looking up from the hoof he was picking.

  "It's not..." Mary Ann began. Her face felt hot. "I didn't do anything, Sam—"

  The horse shook its head, as if it were an extension of Samuel's displeasure; its massive mane flowed up over its face, and Samuel steadied it with one palm, releasing the foot and sitting back on the stool.

  "It looked like something from where I was," he said, wiping his brow on his sleeve. His shoulders slumped a little.

  "What was I supposed to do, Samuel? What am I supposed to do?"

  "Hand me that tartar emetic," he snapped, reaching back with one hand without looking at her. His other hand tugged the halter, and the horse jerked its head again.

  Mary Ann studied the bottles on the shelf next to her until she found the right one. The little paper label hanging from the neck read Tartar emetic, Poison. "You're going to kill the horse," she said slowly.

  "It's not poisonous to horses," Samuel said, tipping out the bottle and emptying the crystals into the water. "Just people. And his worms." The horse lowered its head and began to drink, pulling its nose out of the pail long enough to snuffle a carrot from Samuel's outstretched hand.

  Mary Ann twisted her fingers with her other hand and leant against the doorway to the stall. "You have to believe me, Sam, he just came downstairs and he, well, he, you saw–"

  "I saw," Samuel said sharply. "I heard, Lord, I heard it."

  Mary Ann moved the lamp so that she could follow him down the row of stalls to the next horse. "Maybe if we said that we were getting married, he'd stop," she said, setting the lantern on the next ledge and watching him administer the emetic to the second horse. "He would have to stop then."

  Samuel handed her the bottle. "Be careful, and wipe your hands," he told her, not acknowledging what she had said. The horse whinnied and went back to its supper.

  "We could go back to your Tad's. We could take over the farm," she pressed. "It can't be that hard, you know, and together we could... we could..." She trailed off when he turned to her, shaking his head.

  "I can't, Mary Ann," Samuel said, wiping his hands on a rag. "I just can't. Not when he... not that. I'm sorry."

  Mary Ann glanced out across the grounds to the kitchen, where a shadow slid across the window by the hob. The smell of Macassar oil popped up in her memory, the grease and the coconut oil, something floral, like violets. If she could, she'd burn all the violets in the garden. The shadow moved over the window again, and then the lamp in the kitchen went out.

  She pocketed the bottle.

  There was no point in going further. The Queen sat on the log and stared at the slithy tove as it gyred across the path. The Cat stretched and licked its jaws as it turned in her lap.

  "I was once told that the cat would mew and dog would have its day," the Cat said cheerfully. "But cats mew all the time, and dogs have days every year. Sometimes even weeks."

  "Hush," she whispered, not looking at it. The tove disappeared from her sight, off to the wabes, no doubt. Many things would need to be gymbled today, if they hadn't been already. There hadn't been rain in days, and the ground was still soft. Easy to move through.

  Her hand slid along the Cat's spine, and every time she stroked it, its back haunches raised. A strange smell wafted up as she petted it, as if the cat had rolled in spoilt milk, or eaten something rotten and then cleaned itself.

  Somewhere a mome rath outgrabed.

  "Where did she go?" shouted the Hatter as his head stuck over the hedges. "I still don't know why a raven is like a writing desk—oh, you." And his head popped back down and began to speak in hushed whispers to something on the other side. The Queen shook her head; it was the March Hare, and anyone who might
have guessed differently would have been wrong.

  "That one is easy," the Cat said to her. "'Because each begins with e."

  The Queen smiled. "'There's a b in both, and an n in neither'."

  The rustling on the other side of the hedges stopped, and the hat popped up again, followed by a small Dormouse head. The hat didn't quite fit him properly, and only his ears kept it from falling down over his eyes. "Oh, you are clever, your Majestery," a high-pitched voice said, shaking the Dormouse as if he was talking. "So very clever all the time."

  "It's over," she said to the hedges. "You are a simpleton."

  "No, my name is Simon," said the Hare, his head popping over the hedge before a hand reached up and yanked it back down by the ears. "What? She can't chop anything she can't see—oh."

  The Cat smiled. "They are good company when it's not teatime," he told her. "Or singing."

  The Queen ran one finger down its spine and along the tail. "It's always teatime."

  At that moment, the Dormouse awoke and opened his eyes, yawning sleepily. He looked about, his gaze finally settling on the Queen and the Cat. The poor thing's eyes widened and he staggered as his tremulous legs tried to run away. Instead, he simply must have trampled on the head of the person holding him aloft, waving his arms and squeaking unintelligibly. He wobbled and then fell backwards with a crash.

  The Queen sighed again. The rustling ceased and there was a sound of distant footsteps. Just as well. They should be far away when—

  "You're still queen, here, aren't you?" the Cat said then. "If I recall, we stuck it to him once before." His tail began to disappear, and when there was just a head left in her lap, she blinked at the ear, notched as if someone had broken off a corner of it. Then even that was gone, leaving her hand hanging in mid-pet.

  "I am the Queen of Hearts," she whispered, something stirring inside her, a heat made of oil and hate.

  The Cat reappeared quite suddenly. "Did you say 'queen' or 'spleen'?"

  The Queen's lips twitched as the old anger moved through her like putting a hot brick in a bed and feeling it suffuse the blankets with warmth. "I'll have your head."

  The teeth rocked back and forth. "You already have it. In your pocket."

  The Queen patted her skirts to find her concealed inner pocket and she pulled out the moldy cheese head, staring at it dumbly. "Oh."

  "Be a dear, your majesty," the Cat purred. "Be a dear to me." Then it crumbled to the dirt and sank into the ground.

  "Yes." She stood and took such a deep breath that her corset groaned, all whalebone and satin. "Off with his head."

  This was the third time she'd sicked up this morning. There was no use arguing with her body—something was horribly wrong, and it would only be a matter of time before she couldn't hide it anymore. She watched the water boil on the hob and thought about what she could do from here. Samuel had left service a few weeks prior, no notice of what he would be doing or where he would be going.

  They'd never really said much after that night in the stable, never really discussed what she'd done, or what he'd seen. Coal had still needed to be delivered, horses groomed, meals cooked and eaten; the washing and mending and her myriad other duties consumed her days. She found excuses not to be in the kitchen after dark, getting up earlier than she ever had before to do the previous night's work. Occasionally dishes piled up and food went sour.

  And now, well.

  "What I liked about it, really," the cat head said from her pocket, "was the screaming. Did you know he'd scream that much?"

  Mary Ann slapped the soft lump with her hand. "Hush."

  "I wager his guts look like the inside of a cherry tart. Do you like tarts?"

  Mary Ann stirred the soup. "I do like cherry tarts," she said, "though I've only ever had the one."

  "You should make some, some day in the summer," the cat said. "No one's stopping you."

  Mary Ann was about to reply when the door to the kitchen creaked, a noise that she had encouraged in the hinges a'purpose. Mrs. Liddell, long recovered from her convalescence, stood in the doorframe, one hand on her waist, the other clutching a wadded handkerchief.

  "Ma'am? Will you—"

  "Just serve me tea down here," Mrs. Liddell murmured, eyes flitting across the shelves and dirty dishes. "Are you ill?"

  Mary Ann straightened. "No, ma'am, just a little shocked, is all."

  Mrs. Liddell seemed to find this answer satisfactory, for she nodded and stared at a half-wheel of cheese on the table. "No Cheshire?"

  Mary Ann reflexively slapped her apron pocket. "None this week, ma'am." She set a cup and saucer on the table and poured in a spoonful of tea leaves to the pot before the hot water. She had been making up the tray for the upstairs when Mrs. Liddell had arrived, invading the downstairs in a parody of her husband. "Are they gone, then?"

  "Not as such," Mrs. Liddell said wanly. "The constable wishes to have another word with you. Doctor Boone is with him, so if you would be so kind as to take in tea when you go…" And then she sat down at the table and folded her hands on the wood, staring at the crock of clotted cream.

  Mary Ann added two sugar cubes to Mrs. Liddell's cup, stirred it, and set it in front of her. "Right now?"

  "They're going to ask you about Samuel," she told Mary Ann. "So please, if you know anything, anything, you must tell them."

  Mary Ann nodded. "Ma'am."

  The two men were settled in chairs by the small day fire, speaking in hushed tones that ceased when she entered. Doctor Boone waved her over and moved his Gladstone bag from the table so that she could set the tray down.

  "Mary Ann, I know that we already spoke," the constable said, "but in light of events this morning, this is likely become a murder inquiry."

  Mary Ann lifted the teapot and poured the tea in a stream that she thinned as she lifted the pot high up and then widened as she lowered it back down to the cup, snapping it off in one swift, practiced movement, automatic after so many repetitions. Doctor Boone crossed his legs and settled back into the winged chair. The constable sat upright in the manner of a person unaccustomed to such soft furnishings.

  "You said that you set out the pitcher of water for Mr. Liddell that evening, after you trimmed the wicks and tended the coals," the constable said, clipping a cigar but not lighting it. Mrs. Liddell didn't allow cigars in her sitting room.

  Mary Ann set the teacup down in front of him. "Yes, sir." She proffered the plate of jam biscuits.

  "Please, have a cuppa," the constable said, gesturing. She poured two more cups with less fanfare and more tired economy and handed one to the doctor.

  "The tartar emetic that Mr. Liddell was administered most likely came from the stables," Doctor Boone told her. "Do you know of any reason Samuel Jones might want to poison Mr. Liddell?"

  Neither one of them was drinking the tea. Mary Ann's hands shook, and her cup rattled on the saucer. She sipped from her cup, and Doctor Boone watched her before drinking from his own. The constable merely raised one eyebrow, then finally lifted the cup to his mouth.

  "None, sir," she heard herself saying. "Even if he did, he couldn't have got up into the house that far. He was the groomsman and groundskeeper, and I haven't seen him in days, and he left service anyway..." she trailed off when she saw how they were looking at her. Her heart raced and her stomach turned. The constable bit into a biscuit and she caught a glimpse of jam. "I think I'm going to be ill, sir."

  "Oh, sit," said the constable, gesturing to one of the sitting room chairs. She'd never sat in one, actually, and the event should have been more significant, but instead, she barely registered when her bottom hit the cushion. The constable wiped his fingers on a serviette and set it down on the small table.

  "So you didn't see anyone where they shouldn't have been?" the constable asked. "And nothing strange until Mr. Liddell ran to the landing and shouted for warm water?"

  "No, sir," she mumbled, sipping her tea. It was hot and tasted like dust.

  "Dust-tea," the
cat said, and she looked over the constable's head to where the cheese was floating, just over his shoulder. "Everything is dusty in here." It sneezed, and the constable swatted his neck as his hairs fluttered. "Don't you ever clean?"

  She almost dropped her cup, but it simply rattled on the saucer. Doctor Boone leant forward. "Did you see something, girl?"

  Mary Ann's stomach rolled. Somewhere inside her, a little bit of Mister John was alive, clenching and punching her gut. "No, sir, I just... I might have eaten some bad rashers this morning." She set her saucer down and covered her mouth with her hand. "Please," she muffled.

  "Go, go, then," the Doctor said. The constable stood when she did, probably more out of reflex for any skirt than hers specifically, and she raced from the room, out the front door and to the side of Mrs. Liddell's roses, where she sicked up the three drams of tea she had swallowed. Her head swam and she felt hot.