Page 17 of Wondrous

“I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

Maybe it was because he looked a little like Edith, but suddenly I just wanted someone to talk to, even if he was from my world.

“My family found out that I was visiting Wonderland,” I said abruptly.

Alistair’s pale eyes grew round. “You told them? Oh, Alice—”

“I didn’t,” I said. “They found out another way. It’s a long story, but I didn’t deny that I’d been sneaking away. I don’t expect you to understand.”

I wanted someone to understand, though. So I went on in a rush. “I spent my whole life trying—and I never even realized it until I came here. I tried to like the children my parents made me play with, the lords’ sons and countesses’ daughters, though most were terrible bores. I tried to listen when Mother lectured me about how I must learn to be a proper wife one day, and I tried to laugh at Wilfrid Marchland’s awful stories about the pranks he played on the servants, because he’s an earl’s son and someday he might propose to me. I tried to read the books Father wanted me to read, and forget the ones about adventures and pirates. I tried not to wonder too hard why Wilfrid Marchland’s older brother got to go off and become an explorer, and see icebergs and northern lights, while I sat at home and learned how to serve tea.”

I stopped to catch my breath. “I didn’t mind all of it,” I went on. “I like serving tea, if the company is interesting. And not all those children were terrible. I had a best friend once—Caroline.” I paused, because saying her name out loud still felt like swallowing a too-hot mouthful of tea. “But once I found Wonderland, it made me realize that the world is so big, with so many different paths. And I didn’t understand why my world was so small, with only one path. It’s not that it’s a bad path. But nobody ever asked if it was the one I wanted.”

My hand tightened on the teacup in my pocket. “I’m never going back.”

“You have to, Alice.” Alistair’s voice wasn’t scolding. He simply sounded sad. “It isn’t safe here for anyone. Especially not with these mock dragons running around.”

“Lots of things are more important than safe,” I said. “I thought I had friends back home. But none of that was real, because I was always trying to be someone else. They were friends with a ghost. I won’t be a ghost anymore.”

Alistair’s gaze had drifted away. “I—I understand,” he said. “I felt like a ghost back home, too. For different reasons. But none of us have a choice, Alice. We aren’t dragon killers! We’re just children who wandered away from home and had an adventure. The Queen of Hearts is mad—if we go hunting these monsters, we’ll all be killed.”

“Maybe,” I murmured. Then, abruptly, I laughed. “Do you know what I was running away from? Becoming a baroness. I would have been rich and titled. Instead I’m here, hunting dragons. Have you ever heard anything more ridiculous?”

Alistair laughed, too. He looked surprised by it. “Quite a few things, actually,” he said. “You can’t throw a stone here without hitting at least two ridiculous things, and that’s because the stone is probably ridiculous, too. Some of them talk.”

We fell silent. I watched the way Alistair’s eyes drifted over the Queen’s castle and the forest beyond. “You love Wonderland,” I said slowly. “Even though it terrifies you.”

He gave me a smile that made me shiver from the bleakness of it. “Of course I do,” he said. “I’m an Alice.”

Chapter 10

Alistair left me after that—to go home, I hoped, though I couldn’t be certain. Something about the way he kept gazing into the distance, as if longing for a reunion with his jubjub bird, made me wonder if he’d truly made his mind up. But Alistair, it was clear, could not stay here. He couldn’t even look at the card soldiers without nearly passing out—any bandersnatch, jabberwock, or mock dragon would make quick work of him. I wasn’t even convinced he’d refrain from passing out at the sight of the Mock Turtle.

While I sat and tried to come up with a plan, other Alices left the castle and disappeared into the Tulgey Wood. Most went alone, but some were in pairs or small groups. Two of them—a girl and boy who had the look of siblings—settled on a different bench in the garden to mutter together.

Some Alices moved furtively, glancing over their shoulders, while others marched into the forest with grim determination. I wondered how many of them would simply go home. Surely not all of them would be willing to risk their lives with such impossible odds.

But when I lifted that thought up and looked at the truth lurking underneath, it was: Surely none of them loves Wonderland as much as I do. They might be called Alice, but I’m the only Alice who matters here. Surely none of them had adventures like mine.

“Excuse me?”

I turned and found another Alice standing behind the bench. She had brown skin and a long dark braid that wrapped round her head like a crown before falling loose down her back. Her clothing was practical—a plain knee-length shift over riding breeches and boots, though I could tell from the stitching that they were costly.

“Good day,” I replied, though what I wanted to say was What do you want? But that was my politeness at work again.

“I’m Maria,” the girl said. I didn’t recognize the language she was speaking, though I understood it all the same. She motioned at another Alice who’d been half hidden by a rosebush. “This is Alex. I’m from Brazil, and she’s from America. Though I think—” She eyed my clothing with a furrowed brow. “I don’t think we’re all from the same time.”

I frowned at this, noticing each of their clothing in turn—the material and style were unfamiliar to me. “I thought we were all called Alice.”

“Most of us are, or something similar,” Alex said, smiling. She was dressed in trousers and a short jacket and had a head of chestnut curls, cropped just below the ears. Her skin was olive with a number of beauty spots, including one near the corner of her mouth like a permanent dimple. Despite her easygoing manner, she eyed me nervously, which I found confusing. “But not all. In some cases, it seems the White Rabbit was entirely at sixes and sevens; one girl is called Bridget Louise Jenkins, which doesn’t even have an A in it.”

“My first name is Alicia,” Maria said. “But I prefer Maria. And it’s less confusing that way, isn’t it?”

I shuddered at the memory of the other Alicia. I wasn’t likely to confuse her with anyone.

“We—we’ve heard of you,” Maria said hesitantly.

“You have?” I blinked at her, flummoxed. But I was also a little pleased.