For my sister, Sabrina.
We are not Mathilda and Alice but have moments of each.
I forgive you for that time you tricked me into eating a fancy chocolate with a hairball inside.
Sort of.
—L.B.
As you are probably already aware, this book is a work of Nonsense.
That being said, it behooves us to remind you that the Mad Hatter is a fictional character and doesn’t conform to the strict rules of our own world.
To wit: mercury is deadly poisonous.
Hatters really were said to have gone mad in the nineteenth century because of exposure to mercury in their hat-making processes: in effect, they suffered long-term mercury poisoning.
You cannot eat the fish from many rivers and lakes of America even today because of the deadly mercury that lies on their muddy bottoms eternally, the result of toxic industrial pollution.
In this book the Hatter drinks mercury.
You, dear reader, cannot.
It will kill you.
—L. Braswell
Morning sunlight waved a cheery hello on the papered walls of an equally cheery bedroom. It had rained overnight, a proper rain—hard with big droplets—and the day came fresh scrubbed and eager. The air that drifted through the open window was chill and sharp and had a bit of a kick to it. A flock of little sparrows who had been nest mates barely a week earlier chirruped excitedly back and forth in a way that would eventually result in either a sudden flight en masse, or feathery fisticuffs.
Even the hammer strikes of Mrs. Anderbee’s solid heels against the floor downstairs sounded springier and more energetic than usual.
The girl lying so peacefully in her brass-frame bed, thick golden hair spread around her head and neck like the resplendent halo of an angel, was coaxed from sleep to wake at once by the abundance of all these cheerful noises. Her eyes snapped open, the long lashes on her lids waving like wheat with the suddenness of the motion.
“Today,” Alice declared, “is a perfect day for adventure!”
She grinned and basked in the glory of her decision for a moment, then shot out of bed. Dinah, a cat both grumpy and unwilling to see the day for what it was, stretched once in place (where formerly her mistress’s warm feet had been), then closed one elderly eye to the day and was asleep again seconds later.
“Sorry, old girl!” Alice said, giving her a kiss. “But tempus fugit, you know; time waits for no one!”
Of course, this being the time and place that it was, adventurers couldn’t just run out the door in their chemises. It would be scandalous. And so Alice began the tedious process of donning all the layers necessary to going out into the world as a respectable young English lady. She had:
Drawers that went down to her knees.
A crinoline that looked like a cross between a bee skep and a cage. It was basically a series of steel hoops in diminishing circumference that circled her lower body from her calves to her waist. This held the skirts worn on top of it out from around her like a giant bell with her legs the clapper.
Corset.
She didn’t tight-lace, despite the fashion and the pressure from friends. On this one thing Alice and her sister agreed: it was pure foolishness. Her waist was fine as it was, thank you very much, and she left the corset to its main job: keeping her back aligned and her womanly attributes smooth and in place.
Petticoat.
Petticoat.
Actual dress. A nice summer-weight gingham in blue and white.
Jacket and hat.
And finally, camera bag.
Alice hurried through all of this as fast as she could and then nearly skipped like a girl much younger than eighteen as she ran down the stairs…only remembering to try to keep her footsteps silent at the very last—and far too late—minute.
“Alice!” a strident female voice cried out. Mathilda, her sister. Of course.
Well, since she had been heard, she might as well have some breakfast.
“Good morning, Mother, Father, Sister,” she said grandly, sweeping into the dining room. Her family was gathered at one end of the long table like refined squirrels, cracking soft-boiled eggs, spreading jam on toast, sipping tea and coffee, and generally looking completely at ease in the formal and bric-a-brac-filled room. Her mother turned a plump, still-pink cheek for a kiss and Alice obliged. Her father’s face was mostly hidden behind the newspaper, but she managed to get in a quick peck, not quite on his muttonchop.
She patted her sister on the shoulder dismissively, as if brushing off some dandruff.
“Married yet?” her father asked from behind the paper.
“No, Papa.”
“In the stocks yet?”
“No, Papa.”
“Hmm. Good.” He shook his paper to facilitate the turning and folding of a page and then continued reading about things happenings in foreign places, his favorite type of story.
“Are you sure it’s good, Papa?” Mathilda asked. She was severe, beautiful in a slightly off-putting way, dark eyes and lashes and hair where her younger sister’s were light. Her somber dress was as drab as Alice’s blue-and-white one was gay and summery. But if they had ever really made an effort to go out together—and if Mathilda ever made an effort with her appearance beyond brushing her hair—they could have owned all of the town of Kexford.
Not that Alice wanted to own Kexford. But it would have been an absolute gas for one party at least.
“She’s eighteen, you know,” Mathilda prodded, spreading jam on her toast most seriously.
“And I believe you’re twenty-six,” her mother observed.
“I have prospects!”
“Yes, yes you do,” her mother said quickly and soothingly.
“I’ll keep my baby girl Alice for as long as I possibly can,” her father said from behind his paper. “Don’t go interfering with that.”
“My dear friend Mr. Headstrewth has a friend—Richard Coney,” Mathilda said, turning to Alice and ignoring her parents. “I believe I have told you about him a number of times. I think you may even have met him once? Very bright young man. Handsome. With a great future before him—he’s already working on Gilbert Ramsbottom’s election campaign. I have invited him—”
“Oh, he sounds lovely, yes, thoroughly interesting, fantastic, do keep me informed of his doings, absolutely! Good morning, and goodbye!”
Alice winked at her mother, who tried very hard not to smile.
Then she grinned and spun away, and it wasn’t until Mathilda turned back to her breakfast with a huff that she noticed her carefully buttered and jammed toast was missing.
Walking down the sunny road, Alice thoroughly enjoyed her purloined breakfast, so expertly buttered and jammed. After wiping her lips and cheeks with the back of her hand like a cat she raised her face to the sun, enjoying its warmth as it hit her skin. For only a moment, of course, before it did any real damage. She adjusted her hat and—
“Oh dear.”
She had forgotten her gloves.
“Oh, my fur and whiskers,” she sighed. “Not respectable at all today.”
A momentary feeling overcame her. It wasn’t sadness exactly. But it wasn’t just nostalgia, either. There was a golden drop of happiness in the feeling, whatever it was, as warming and delightful as sunlight. A memory of old dreams that had worn thin like the comfiest pillowcase one couldn’t bear to throw out.