Alice must have been my sister once, but she was sent away to that hospital. But if she was sent away, why did no one ever say so? Why did no one ever visit her?
It was very possible the voice was lying to her.
Or, if you are perfectly honest with yourself, Elizabeth Violet Hargreaves, there was no voice at all. Only a phantom you made up to amuse yourself in the garden.
It was certainly possible that the voice was just her own imagination, trying to explain why everyone kept mentioning a person called Alice and then shushing the name away.
Elizabeth moved forward with the line, hearing the clink-clink-clink of coins and the numerous happy cries of “Thank you, Father!” echoing all around the Great Square.
The marble tiles made quick walking an impossibility. The material was slippery—not less so for the daily polishing—and it forced everyone who walked upon it to take tiny, mincing steps. There was no striding confidently across the Great Square. That was likely by design, as it was probably best to get one’s inferiors in the correct state of mind before they met with one of the Fathers.
Polly and Edith fidgeted behind Elizabeth, tugging on her curls and ribbons to try to make her turn around. But Elizabeth only waved them away with an impatient hand. She didn’t have time for her nieces’ teasing. There were a lot of things she needed to consider just at the moment. She half wished it wasn’t Giving Day at all, for to be surrounded by a jostle of people who expected her to smile and make conversation was very tiresome at present.
After what seemed like a very long while (but was probably not more than a quarter of an hour) Elizabeth and her family reached the front of the line. The City Father for their parish, Mr. Dodgson, smiled down at her as he presented her with a shiny gold coin.
“You are the image of your sister today, Miss Hargreaves,” he said.
There was something very odd in the way he said this, a kind of undercurrent that Elizabeth only just sensed. She did feel certain, however, that the sister Mr. Dodgson referred to was not Margaret.
He’s talking about Alice. And that’s why Mama looked so shocked when I came into the breakfast room this morning—because she looked at me and saw Alice.
So the voice wasn’t lying to her. Although that didn’t necessarily mean there was a voice, after all—it might have been her own cleverness that drew the proper conclusion.
Although I don’t know what all the business about the Caterpillar and the throat-cutting was—perhaps a remnant of a nightmare I’d only just remembered.
Mr. Dodgson was gazing at her expectantly and Elizabeth realized she’d been standing there like a goose, holding the coin and staring into nothing.
“Thank you very much, Father,” she said, dropping into her prettiest curtsy. She sensed rather than saw her parents’ relief.
It was only then, for the first time in her life, that she realized her parents feared the City Fathers. And more than that, too—everyone feared them. The Fathers’ censure could destroy a family, drive them from the New City and out in the wild plains or out onto the unforgiving sea—or worse, into the terror and darkness of the Old City.
“Mr. Hargreaves, I’d like a word,” Mr. Dodgson said, grasping her father just above the elbow and pulling him back a discreet distance so their conversation could not be overheard.
It was not unusual during Giving Day for this to happen—Mr. Dodgson often used Giving Day as an opportunity to speak with Papa about some issue or other. But Elizabeth felt this time was somehow different. Perhaps it was the tautness of Mr. Dodgson’s jaw, or the deep coldness in his eyes. Perhaps it was the way that Papa seemed to flinch away from the words Mr. Dodgson said.
Or perhaps it was that Elizabeth saw, very clearly, Mr. Dodgson’s lips form the word “Alice.”
Alice, Alice, Elizabeth thought crossly. Why is Alice haunting me today?
It was hard not to feel that this Alice, who was possibly (probably) her sister, was trying her hardest to spoil the perfect day Elizabeth had envisaged that morning.
Elizabeth felt suddenly that she was thirsty and her shiny patent leather shoes pinched her toes and the ribbons pinned in her hair made her scalp itch. She wanted to go home and have lunch—Margaret and Daniel and Polly and Edith would stay, for Giving Day was a feast day in the New City and after lunch there would be an extra-special pudding and then the family would give gifts to all the servants, and the adults would have presents for the children.
She didn’t want to be troubled with worries over a ghost sister and her father’s cowering and Mr. Dodgson’s cold eyes. She wanted to stuff herself silly on roast duck and potatoes with lots of butter and gravy and then have the largest serving of pudding she was allowed. She wanted to tear open a box from Mama and Papa and find a new doll or a stuffed toy and then spend the rest of the afternoon keeping it out of the hands of her nieces. She wanted to pretend that all the uncomfortable knowledge she’d gained today was just some silly fancy, imagination run wild while she dreamed beneath the roses.
She might even still be there now, under the roses and sound asleep, and soon she would wake up when she heard Mama calling her and saying it was time to go to the square.
Papa and Mr. Dodgson returned then. Mr. Dodgson gave Mama a polite nod and smile and Mama nodded in return. Margaret and Daniel stepped forward with their daughters, and Elizabeth’s group moved off to the edge of the square to wait for them.
Mama and Papa immediately put their heads close together and began speaking through the bottoms of their teeth so that Elizabeth couldn’t hear. When Elizabeth turned her face up in curiosity Mama waved her away.
“Go and play while you wait for Polly and Edith,” Mama said.
This was Elizabeth’s cue to Leave the Adults to Adult Business, and on reflection she decided it wasn’t any hardship to do so. She wasn’t interested in any more uncomfortable thoughts. She’d had her fill of those today, thank you very much.
She scuffed her shoe soles along the polished marble, wondering if she might leave a mark there that no one would be able to clean.
That would serve Mr. Dodgson right, she thought. His house is just there, and every day he would have to cross over a black mark as he goes into the Home Government building. And he would know that everything isn’t perfect and proper and ordered in his little world, and it would keep him up at night, a tiny thing under his mattress like the princess and her pea.
Her chest was full of heaving anger all of a sudden, and it was mixed up with shame at seeing her father quail away from the City Father and the helpless frustration of knowing there was nothing that could be done about it.
“Don’t go far, Alice,” Mama said absently.
Alice again. Always Alice. I’m not Alice. I’m Elizabeth.
She put the toe of her shiny black leather shoe against the perfect white marble and stared at it.