The Looking Glass Wars

by Frank Beddor

  No sooner was the concert over and Leopold gone than Mrs. Liddell voiced what she’d been trying to communicate to Alice with her eyes.

  “He’s a prince! A prince! And he’s taken a fancy to you, I’m certain!”

  “We were only talking, Mother. I talked to him as I would have talked to anyone.”

  But her mother’s awe and enthusiasm were difficult to ignore, and she started running into Leopold all

  over town. If she strolled through the Christ Church Picture Gallery, she found him gazing intently at an oil painting by one of the old masters. If she visited the Bodleian Library, she found him thumbing through a volume of Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (which she had read in its entirety).

  He’s handsome enough, I suppose. And obviously well bred.

  Yes, but so were many of the men who vied for her attention. At least he didn’t stroke his mustache with impatience as she talked of the need to provide for Britain’s poor.

  “A nation should be judged on how it looks after its more unfortunate children,” she explained. “If Great Britain is truly to be the greatest kingdom in the world, it is not enough to flaunt our military power and our dominance in industry. We must lead by example and be more charitable to and protective of our own.”

  Prince Leopold always listened to her judiciously, weighing her arguments and reasonings with seriousness. He never agreed or disagreed with her.

  Mother may be right. I could certainly do worse than marry a prince. But although Alice tried to feel something for the man, her heart remained unconvinced.

  Three months after the concert at Christ Church Meadow, while taking a ride in his carriage to Boar’s Hill, Prince Leopold said, “Your father tells me that you’ll be visiting the Banbury Orphanage tomorrow afternoon. I’d like to come along, if you’ll have me. One never knows what sort of troubles might beset a young woman there.”

  “If you think it best, Your Highness.”

  He offered to take her in the carriage, but Alice said that she’d prefer to walk.

  “You see so much more of the town when you walk-a little curiosity shop or a snatch of garden where you wouldn’t think it possible to have a garden, choked as it is by city things. In a carriage, you hurry past these treasures without noticing them.”

  She didn’t take the slightest quirk of mankind for granted, but viewed it as a small miracle and cause for celebration, and the prince had begun to love her for this.

  At Banbury, the orphans crowded around Alice, hugging her skirts, all shouting at once. Alice laughed,

  held four conversations simultaneously and, to Leopold’s eye, set off against the soot-stained walls, the drab and loose-hanging clothes of the orphans, and the pale, bloodless faces of the wardens, she looked more radiant than he’d ever seen her. On a tour of the orphanage, a train of children following at their heels, one young boy refused to let go of Alice’s left thumb.

  Alice requested a thorough accounting of the troubles facing the Banbury Orphanage. The wardens pointed out floors rotten from overflowing sewage, the sagging infirmary roof, the time-worn mattresses as thin as wafers. They showed her the pantry, empty save for sacks of dried kidney beans and uncooked rice.

  “The children have had nothing but beans and rice for two weeks,” one of the women told her. “We were supposed to be getting a supply of beef ribs, but so far…nothing. This sort of thing happens rather frequently, I’m afraid.”

  Prince Leopold had been silent for some time. He cleared his throat. “What of the warden responsible for ensuring that Banbury receives the food and clothes the children need?”

  “The chief warden is very selective as to who gets what and how much of it, Your Highness,” the warden explained. “He says we take in too many children and that perhaps they are not so deserving. For example, that one there”-the warden pointed at the boy holding on to Alice’s thumb-“he has a real talent for thieving, though often as not what he steals is food because of how hungry he is. They all are.” She gestured at the surrounding orphans.

  Alice looked at the boy clutching her thumb, suddenly reminded of Quigly Gaffer. What’s become of him and the others? Andrew, Margaret, and Francine were hardly old enough to dress themselves, never mind living on the streets without the love and support of family.

  The mournful, faraway look on Alice’s face had a profound effect on the prince. “I shall talk with the queen,” he said after several moments. “I think we might establish a Commission of Inquiry into the matter and, in the meantime, arrange for an increase in food rations. How does that sound?”

  “It sounds like generosity rarely met with among the living,” said the woman.

  “Well, no one here shall soon discover if it’s to be met with among the dead either, if I can help it.”

  The orphans blinked and said nothing, hardly believing what they had heard: Queen Victoria and Prince Leopold were going to work on their behalf! The wardens offered the prince their thanks many times over, while Alice looked on and smiled, which was all the thanks he desired.

  On the walk home, they stopped to rest in the university’s botanic garden, where Alice found herself sitting on a bench with Leopold suddenly kneeling in front of her.

  “No matter what you decide, Alice,” he was saying, “I want you to know that in the coming years I will be only too glad to assist you in your charitable endeavors. But I hope with all my heart that you’ll allow me to do so as your husband.”

  Alice didn’t understand.

  “I’m asking for your hand in marriage,” Leopold explained. “But…Your Highness, are you sure?”

  “That is not exactly the answer for which I was hoping. Alice, you are a most uncommon commoner, to say the least, and I would be proud to call myself your husband. Of course, you realize that you will not

  have the title of princess, nor be entitled to ownership of the royal estates?”

  “Of course.” Marriage? Again, she felt the tug of a long-buried affection for one who…She would not allow herself to think of him. She had to be realistic. The marriage would please her mother. She would do it for her mother, for her family’s sake. “I accept, Leopold.”

  She let herself be kissed, feeling the coolness of dusk settle in around her.

  “I have already spoken with the queen and I have asked for, and received, your father’s blessing,” the prince said. “We shall host a party to announce the engagement.”

  If she’d had time to think about it, Alice might have stopped herself, considering the idea too whimsical. But the words had a force of their own, and only after she said them aloud did she realize just how appropriate the idea was.

  “Let’s have a masquerade.”

  Yes, it felt right: a masquerade to celebrate the orphan girl’s impending marriage to Prince Leopold of

  Great Britain.

  CHAPTER 25

  T HE LONG, tortuous trail of publishers and translators led Hatter to Christ Church College in Oxford, England. He stood outside the door of a bachelor’s apartment in Tom Quad. The time was 12:30 P.M. He was closer to finding Alyss Heart than he had been in thirteen years. On the other side of the door: Charles Dogson, aka Lewis Carroll. He knocked.

  “Who’s there?” a voice called.

  “My name is Hatter Madigan. I am a member of Wonderland’s Millinery and I’ve come to find Princess

  Alyss Heart.”

  There was a long pause from the other side of the door, then, “I-I don’t know who s-sent you, but th-this isn’t fu-funny. It is Sunday, sir, and n-n-not a day f-for whimsy.”

  Hatter stood outside the door long enough to realize that Dodgson was not going to open it. Shwink!

  The blades of his left bracelet began slicing the air and he pushed them into the door. It splintered apart and Hatter stepped through the opening into a small, warm room where a fire burned in the hearth. Dodgson jumped up, spilling tea onto the rug and dropping his fountain pen, which dripped ink onto th
e pages of his journal.

  “I beg y-your-” Dodgson started, backing into a corner of the room.

  Hatter snapped shut his wrist-blades. The man before him had the brightest glow of anyone he’d ever seen. “Where is Princess Alyss?”

  “Wh-wh-who?”

  “Princess Alyss of Wonderland. I know you’ve been in contact with her. I’m in possession of your book.”

  As Hatter reached into a pocket of his Millinery coat, Dodgson whimpered.

  “Please, n-n-no!”

  But Hatter was only reaching for the copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. He returned the book to his pocket, strode to the writing desk, and flipped through the pages of Dodgson’s journal.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “I…I th-think I know who y-you’re s-s-supposed to b-be. But I can’t s-say that I f-find…find this a-at all amusing. Did A-Alice send you t-to make fun of m-me?”

  “I’ve searched many years for the princess-more than half her life-and made little progress. But now

  I’ve found you-”

  “Y-you c-can’t be s-s-serious?”

  “Oh, I’m very serious. And I will find her whether or not you tell me where she is. But it will be better for your health if you help me.”

  “But I’ve hardly s-seen her in n-n-nine years. She re-re-refuses t-to have anything t-to do w-w-with m-me.”

  Hatter considered the sadness, the mournful reminiscence, in the reverend’s tone. The man was telling the truth. “Where do I find her?”

  “Sh-she l-l-lives at…at the d-deanery here at Christ Ch-Ch-Church.”

  Hatter was about to ask where the deanery was, but his eye alighted on a newspaper spread open on the tea table. One of the headlines caught his attention:

  ALICE IN WONDERLAND WEDS

  Lewis Carroll’s Muse Alice Liddell to marry

  Prince Leopold

  Alice Liddell?

  “She goes by a different name?” he asked aloud, but more to himself than to Dodgson, who said nothing. There was urgency in his voice when he asked this time, “Where is the deanery?”

  “In…in the n-next quad. The b-b-blue door, but…” “But what?”

  “She is currently at K-K-K-Kensington Palace, prep-p-p-paring for-”

  Hatter snatched up the newspaper and bolted from the apartment, scanning the article as he sprinted in the direction of London. Why had the princess taken a different name? How could she pretend to be an ordinary, soon-to-be-married young lady of Earth? He hadn’t known what to expect when he found the princess: perhaps a young woman not quite ready to fulfil her destiny, a woman who would need convincing of her own powers, in whom the bravery of a warrior queen was not yet second nature, but he hadn’t expected this.

  Kensington Palace. Hatter ran toward the front gate, showed no sign of stopping. “Halt!” one of the guards ordered.

  Hatter leaped, somersaulted over the gate, and dropped to a crouch, startling a young, baby-faced guard patrolling the grounds. The guard tripped, his rifle went off, and-

  Hatter spun with the force of the bullet. He’d never been shot before. Incredulous, he touched the bloody wound. The guard stared at Hatter, paralyzed, unsure what to do.

  Whistles were blown. The clap and patter of running feet all around. The wild, angry barking of guard dogs set loose. Hatter had little choice but to run. The bullet had hit him in the shoulder, severing tendons and ligaments, shattering bone. He couldn’t move his right arm. It hung limp, banging against his side, trailing blood. With his free hand, he put constant pressure on the wound to slow the bleeding. With difficulty, he jumped over the palace wall and hurried into a darkened street, got two-thirds of the way down it before he discovered that it was a dead end.

  The pack of dogs had already closed in when three guards appeared at the street’s entrance, came forward with drawn rifles and bayonets, squinting into the shadows where Hatter stood, trapped. No doubt a dagger or corkscrew would have whistled out of the darkness into their vitals if Hatter had had no other choice. But when the guards reached the end of the drive, it was empty, deserted. They saw only a puddle on the ground where no puddle should naturally have been, the dogs growling at it until, with a few tentative sniffs, they began to lap up the dirty water.

  PHOTOGRAPHIC INSERT

  CHAPTE R 26

  A FTER THIRTEEN years, morale among the Alyssians was low. They languished in conditions hardly fit for mud-grubbing gwormmies. Every day brought defections and security breaches. The unspoken consensus was that a meaningful victory like the one at Blaxik would never be theirs again. Driving Redd out of Wonderland had once been a realistic vision, but the Alyssians were now reduced to a handful of splinter groups striking at insignificant targets in remote regions-an outpost monitoring jabberwocky movement in the Volcanic Plains or a weighing station for corpse-laden smail-transports at the edge of the Chessboard Desert.

  Redd had made it known that she would reward those who turned traitor to the Alyssian cause. One and two at a time, Alyssians surrendered to members of The Cut and divulged the location of Alyssian

  camps. The camps would be bombarded with cannonball spiders and glowing orb generators, or flattened to dust by Redd’s rose rollers-onyx tank-like vehicles with treads of black, toothy roses. Defectors were never heard from again, but Alyssians with their own thoughts of defecting chose to believe that their former comrades were too drunk on the pleasures of Redd’s reward to send word. The truth was, surrendering Alyssians were bound hand and foot, their limbs and chests slashed to spur the appetites of the flesh-eating roses, and thrown into pits where the roses ate them alive.

  At the oldest of all Alyssian camps, deep within the Everlasting Forest, General Doppelganger had called together a meeting of advisers. The camp was protected by a Stonehenge of massive, intricately balanced mirrors reflecting the sky and forest, an unending vista of foliage and clouds to confuse the

  not-quite-all-seeing eye of Redd’s imagination, as well as any of The Cut who happened to be dealt through the forest. The mirrors were not connected to the Crystal Continuum and had been scavenged from labor camps raided in the first year of Alyssian activity. Guards patrolled the perimeter, and a mirror keeper was responsible for maintaining the mirrors’ delicate balance, shifting them here and there according to changes in light, cloud movement, and the bloom and rot of the seasons. To the untrained eye, and unless you were directly in front of a mirror and glimpsed your own reflection-a thing not so likely, considering the complicated overlap of mirrors at myriad angles, the fragmented nature of their reflections-the camp was invisible.

  “She’s offering a small portion of Wonderland, probably in Outerwilderbeastia but still to be decided, in exchange for a cessation of all rebel activity,” said a plump fellow wedged into a chair and wearing the long mantle common among young men of suit families. “We will be free to govern ourselves unmolested, but we must give up the name of Alyssians. We won’t have to swear our loyalty to Redd or the ways of Black Imagination, but we won’t be able to practice White Imagination either. She has proposed a summit to work out the details of the agreement.”

  “Why’d she pick you to deliver the message?” asked the rook. If he’d been face-to-face with Redd, he would have known how to take advantage of it. Redd would have found the Alyssian response to her offer at the point of his sword.

  The plump gentleman adjusted his white powdered wig. He was none other than Jack of Diamonds, now grown into this flabby, overfed man. His prominent rear ballooned out from both sides of his chair, tussocks of flesh swelling from between the armrests and seat cushion.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I was powdering my wig when her image appeared in my looking glass. She must have thought I’d know sense when I heard it, since I come from a ranking family.”

  “It sounds suspicious,” the knight said. “Are you sure one of Redd’s seekers didn’t follow you here?” “Please. I’m not new to the ways of subterfuge and secrecy, you k
now.”

  The rook grunted. “It’s a trick, in any case.”

  Jack of Diamonds had doubled his family’s fortune since Redd’s accession to the throne. His powers of observation had served him well in a society where only the shrewdest, most opportunistic, most selfish, and least loyal to friends flourished. As a boy, he had frequently accompanied the Lady of Diamonds to Redd’s fortress on Mount Isolation. It was the best education he could have received: watching his mother flatter the queen and paying rare crystals to get whatever small concessions she wanted; studying Redd’s negotiations with arms dealers and entertainment impresarios who wanted licenses to poach jabberwocky from the Volcanic Plains and pit them against one another in Wondertroplis’ amphitheater.