Chapter 1: Have We Met?
Summary:
Shortly before Alice shoved Doctor Angus Bumby into an oncoming steam train, he mentioned his oh-so-haughty tone that he was expecting her replacement- a fresh new face ready to be manipulated, stamped, and sold for auction.
He did not mention, however, that the replacement was Jemima- unluckily enough, she and Alice had already made a shakey acquaintance.
Notes:
I've finally gotten the chapter up, gosh! I've been trying very hard to get this completed, so hopefully this will do just fine for a starter!
Admittedly, I haven't written Alice before, so if there are any pointers, I would be most appreciative- anyway, enjoy!
Cheers!
-Bea
Chapter Text
“The Liddell girl’s off’er nut again. Fourth time since yesterday.”
These were the words Jemima heard as she stepped out of the newly-but-not-ornately-crafted train car and into an equally newly-but-not-ornately-crafted train station. At the time, she paid them no mind- they’d come from a railroad attendant that was hurriedly jogging down the brick stairs with another attendant, presumably to help with luggage. Perhaps he’s just paid to be polite. That seems like an easy job.
Jemima clutched the handle of her suitcase while she blindly followed the set of brown coat-tails that had been guiding her since she stepped onto the train in Oxford. Most of the people on the train were tutting and remarking at the speed and efficiency of the newly constructed vehicle with who was often their spouse, men in tailored suits and ladies in fine dresses simply riding the train to ride the train. The coattails she followed instead belonged to her uncle, and he’d ridden the train for business.
A portly fellow with gray hair, a brown tweed suit that had seen better days, and glasses that fell altogether too far toward the end of his nose was her uncle- kind, if absentminded, and more than a little lonely as a widower. Come to think of it, she'd never really known her aunt.
Jemima was more than happy to have a kind but distracted uncle, especially in the streets of London. She shouldn’t complain, really- She was to be living with him on the East End, where the only rampant crime was how tacky their neighbors could make their houses look from the outside. But London was a scary place, full of loud noises and rude people and smog so thick that even when she could see the sky, it was a pale and sickly green. And given the kind of company that was most often found in the East End? Snobbish ‘gentleman’ and gossiping, two-faced madames and ladies, not to mention their spoiled and abhorrent offspring. Before she had officially begun the ‘move’ to London and she were merely visiting her uncle’s shop, she’d met more than enough of each kind- lucky her, they were a large portion of his clientele. And even luckier her, that meant that she would be seeing them again- a lot.
She’d be lying if she said she was thrilled to live here. But here was better than nothing, even if that nothing was going back to Oxford.
Even beginning to think about it, her mind shut it out and tucked it away. I’ll think no more of that place- not until I’ve settled in. Control yourself. If Uncle Philip won’t scold me- and I know he won’t- then I shall have to do it myself.
Stepping onto the platform among the crush of silk and satin, Uncle Philip squinted blindly around the platform, turning this way and that. “Oh good lord. I don’t see the doctor anywhere.”
Jemima, since having begun to mutter to herself and attempt to come up with some regimen for discipline, blinked and looked up, “Sir?”
He coughed into the crook of his arm as the stink of the train engine beginning to creep into the platform’s compartment. “The fellow, the fellow uh… hmm.” His thoughts crept out of his head as soon as they entered, and he struggled to find them again.
Uncle Philip had made only a passive mention of a doctor at a time when she were very-much not paying attention. Thusly, she had absolutely no clue what he was talking about.
He began to walk through the thinning crowd and up towards the stairs. Jemima complied and was happy enough to follow toward the promise of London’s version of sunlight. The noise began to get less aggressive the further up she got, thank god- the rattling, the chattering, and the uncessaint wailing of the horn had nearly knocked her eyes out of her skull when she first docked at the platform. It was silly of her to expect a breath of fresh air, as none greeted her when she exited the tunnel- it was London, after all.
Her nose wrinkled- the city’s smell was so utterly acrid that it made her mouth taste bitter.
Uncle Philip had busied himself with looking around again, turning this way and that with a puzzled expression on his face whilst scratching his head. “I’ve no earthly idea where he could be. In his correspondence-” He patted his chest pockets, his hip pockets, and then his chest pockets again until he found a wrinkled piece of paper.
He handed it to her and sniffed, “Read that signature for me, dear. The penmanship is excellent but the writing is so small.”
Before she allowed herself to wonder as to why he would consider the quality of the penmanship, she read the letter. “Dr. Angus Bumby, Prop. Houndsditch Home for Wayward Youth.”
Her brow furrowed. “Uncle, I’m not a wayward youth. The only person more straight-laced than me is you.”
Uncle Philip scoffed, taking the paper and tucking it back into his jacket. “You’ll prove yourself otherwise with words like those, my dear. You’re not living there. You’re no wayward youth. We merely uh… we merely need to book you in for an assessment. Dr. Bumby is a therapist.”
Her heart sank at the word ‘assessment’, but all she could manage was, “He also runs an orphanage?”
“Evidently. I’ve only ever seen the man when he’s come in for a trim.” Uncle Philip began walking along the cobbled streets and squinting at every sign she passed by and stopping every three steps.
Assessment. He’s going to have me assessed. I’m not mad, I don’t need an assessment.
Jemima almost ran into him again full-force and fumbled with her suitcase- he’d stopped to ask a passerby of Houndsditch’s location, but she wasn't paying attention. That’s not a symptom of madness, is it? Not paying attention? What even qualifies as mad in London?
“Right up the street, big golden placard on the fence. Y’can’t miss it.”
“You have my thanks. Jemima! Come along.” Uncle Philip snapped his fingers in front of her face a couple of times and not giving her half a moment to catch up once he started to move immediately after.
Jemima followed close behind him, alternating between glancing at her shoes as they dipped in and out from under the hem of her dress and at the brick that seemed to permeate every surface of the city. The cobblestone around here was still laden with fresh dust, presumably from the construction of the railway on which she had ridden, but even beneath that laid an almost-black layer of grime and gook that had baked itself into the stonework. The bricks that composed the walls and buildings surrounding her fared no better despite the theoretical advantage of being higher off of the ground, though their grime was less black and more of a dingy brown.
As soon as the wall beside her turned into a hostile-looking wrought-iron fence, Uncle Philip stopped in front of it and leaned too close to read the sign that was already perfectly readable. The theatrics- are his eyes truly so bad? I can’t imagine they are if he’s a barber, otherwise he’d be missing his fingers. Perhaps the older you get, you start doing things with flourish to amuse yourself. That’s understandable, I suppose- who else would you do them for?
“Ahah!” His exclamation startled her from her train of thought, and he gestured emphatically to the sign. “There we are! Right, come on, up we go.”
Sure as silver, the plaque welded to the fence read, Houndsditch Home For Wayward Youth- Dr. Angus Bumby, Prop.
Uncle Philip waltzed forward past the fence, intently heading towards the door. Her stomach twisted again and she reluctantly followed behind him while trying to take in the building. The structure itself wasn’t obscenely ornate- in fact, if it weren’t for the placard, it would be a rather normal building. With these ragged children glaring daggers at us and grime covering the stonework, it could blend right in if not for the red bricks.
There were indeed children peering at the both of them from the small stone ‘yards’ between the fence and the building, all equally unfriendly looking and each whispering to one another. Needless to say, Jemima tried very much to avoid eye-contact. She saw perched upon the windowsill nearby a remarkably-clean-looking white cat, sunning itself and looking rather content, if not a little hungry.
Uncle Philip reached the door and rapped his knuckles on it- he did it in such a jovial manner that she wondered if perhaps he had been lying and was going to drop her off here, and her stomach again twisted at the thought.
The door opened partially, and from inside a rather unamused-looking young woman began glaring at her uncle. “Can I help you?”
“Ah, yes, uhh, Ms…?”
“Liddell.” She opened the door wider and stepped one foot outside, allowing her to get a better look at her. Her gaunt face was framed by haphazardly-cut black hair that barely reached her shoulders, and she looked to have soot smeared in various spots over the thin white apron she wore over an equally-dingy black-and-white-striped blouse. The dark circles under her eyes were accentuated in dullness, as was everything else about her, by the vivid green of her irises. The contrast was striking, and nearly immediately she were hit with a sense of deja vu.
That sense was only furthered when her eyes snapped towards her, prompting her to look away nervously- she seemed very much like she was on edge, and she weren’t going to risk having a stranger snap at her because she were staring, especially not staring at her eyes.
“Ah, yes, Ms. Liddell. Would you perhaps uh… that is to say, have you any knowledge of the whereabouts of one Dr. Angus Bumby? We were uh… my niece and I were to meet him at the train station, and he’s not shown hide nor hair of himself since our arrival.”
Ms. Liddell looked as though she’d never experienced an emotion in her life. “None whatsoever. He departed earlier today and I’ve not seen him since.”
Uncle Philip’s brow furrowed and he squinted through his spectacles again. “Odd. How-how odd, very odd indeed. It was my… my, my… one moment, uh…” Despite having just placed the letter into his jacket, he seemed to have already lost it in the brief walk up the street.
She was no more part of the conversation than the white cat, which she were currently making a fool of herself trying to beckon over. She were slightly bent at the hip and holding her gently-curled fingers out in the cat’s direction, making a noise akin to ‘pspspspsps’ and paying no attention whatsoever. The cat had since sat up and was looking at her coyly, as all cats do, but made no effort to move.
“Excuse me.”
Jemima jumped and snapped back into position, and glanced fearfully at the woman atop the stairs. She was looking down at her, perplexed and all but ignoring her uncle, who was still tutting and rifling through his pockets.
“Ah, s-sorry, mum. Is… is this your cat?”
Her eyes were darting across her face searchingly- she then proceeded to look down at her feet where the cat had slipped down from the windowsill and was rubbing idly against her leg.
She seemed bewildered by her presence and the cat’s acknowledgement thereof, “In a manner of speaking.”
Jemima reached down her knuckles timidly again, and the cat sniffed at them. “What’s her name?”
“Ahah!” her Uncle plucked the page from within his jacket and held it toward the woman behind the door, who jumped in turn. “There, there yes. Doctor Bumby insisted upon uh… booking an appointment for my dear niece- before beginning life in London? A good doctor, indeed. Odd, I should think- he even offered to meet us uh, meet us at the train station- never known the fellow to be late. Sharp as a tick, he is, ten minutes early to every haircut precisely. Pity he’s gone amok- important work, likely, important work.”
Her green eyes seemed to flash for a moment, the barest of wrinkles forming on her nose before being gone as quickly as it had came. She wondered if she even saw it before she looked at her again, and Jemima was suddenly very interested in her shoes.
“If you’d like to come back tomorrow and try again, you may. I’ve no idea where he’s gone and I’m not his handmaid.” Ms. Liddell said. She made no further move to close the door, and after addressing her uncle, looked at Jemima again. The expression on her face was puzzled and slightly accusatory, though she had no idea what she’d done to earn her ire.
“It’s alright, Uncle, I promise. We can come back tomorrow, we’re bothering her.” she tugged on his sleeve and jerked your head back toward the street.
“What a ninny!” One of the goblin children sneered from somewhere to her right.
“Hush.” Ms. Liddell snapped quickly, and he apparently followed the advice enough to not give another peep.
Uncle Philip looked down his nose at her and tried to clear his throat once again, “Ah, yes. Well… uh, Ms. Liddell, do let the good doctor know if he returns to his domicile that uh… that Philip Baker attempted to stop by. Perhaps we shall return tomorrow, uh… but in any case, unprofessional of him to miss an appointment. Very unprofessional, indeed. Nonetheless uh, good day to you, miss.”
Jemima helped him steady himself as he began to back down the stairs, having markedly much more trouble getting down backward than going up forward. The whole time she was doing this, she felt the woman staring at her intently as though she were an unexpected farthing found in the gutter. It made her unreasonably uneasy- she was just some woman, maybe a caretaker or a patient or otherwise a ‘wayward youth’. It didn’t help that she was a fairly self-conscious person in general, but being the center of even one person’s attention was more than enough to throw her off kilter.
The cat that had briefly made Jemima’s acquaintance was still lingering at her feet. Uncle Philip, poor old fellow, was nearly completely down the landing when the feline in question decided that the best exit would be between his moving feet. He yelped and nearly tumbled backwards, aided only by her iron-grip on his sleeve and nearly aided by the woman who had almost closed the door entirely.
Uncle Philip sputtered and clambered back onto his feet whilst trying not to sprawl out, the children behind the both of them laughing cruelly- children were always like that, Jem supposed, but that didn’t make her resent them any less for it. He’s a kind old man, if a little short-sighted. What if a cat decided to trip you up and lay you flat?
“Ohgh. Oh, goodness gracious, thank you, Jemima, dear. Stars and garters,” he muttered, finding his balance and beginning to shuffle back toward the street.
“Jemima?”
She felt her hands grow clammy and she slowed, a slave to her innate politeness. “Yes, miss.” She managed to reply, hoping that she could finally leave the red-brick home with cruel laughing children and friendly-but-dangerous cats and get to her uncle’s shop in the upper East End.
“I do know you, you know.” She sounded more at wonder with herself than anything else- turning her head allowed Jemima to see that she had one finger pointed at her and a triumphant expression on her face.
“From… where, miss?”
“It was you at the opera house, wasn’t it?”
The cold from her hands suddenly spread throughout her stomach and up her throat and just about everywhere where it was unpleasant for it to be. Ms. Liddell was right- she did know Jem, and she knew her.
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Being behind the stage at an opera house is not as exciting as everyone makes it out to be.
When she was sent to visit Uncle Philip in London for the first time in years, she had been expecting a bit more quiet of a visit. How busy could a barber shop possibly be on the East End?
As it turns out, the shop had not been what was busy- instead, it was the opera house a few streets over in an even more gated part of the already gated community.
We’re going to the opera, Jemima! How exciting indeed- to have my work shown upon the stage, the finest actors and theatrics-
At the time, she was glad he was happy. She’d prefer merely attending the opera, which was initially what she thought they were doing, but fate would have other plans. No, rather than attending and being part of the audience with all of its stifling perfumes and embroidered kerchiefs, Jemima had the unfortunate task of assisting her uncle whilst also ducking, dodging, bobbing, and weaving from the stage hands, the directors, the actors, and a few stray musicians.
Why they hadn’t had the sense to trim and style the actor’s hair before the night of the first performance she had absolutely no idea. There were plenty of things she had no idea about, but she was instructed as a child to nod and listen and agree instead of questioning. The older Jemima got, the less sense this advice made, but it more often than not made for getting out of situations rather quickly, so she kept it in mind. This evening, she had no such luck.
Jemima could barely use a push-broom within the space without tripping people, everyone was yelling and she couldn’t tell if it was general yelling or yelling at her, and she had never visited London before in her life.
Needless to say, she was very much not having a good time.
The play itself was some kind of Greek tragedy if any of the props were evident, gorgons and hydras and whatnot strewn about behind the curtains while the thrum of the audience leaked in from outside. At this point in time, she wasn't even sure if she were going to be allowed to watch the performance, but she almost didn’t care- Jemima just didn’t want to be back here.
Philip, bless his soul, was snipping and oiling away at two different people, muttering to them and shouting to others, seemingly having forgotten she was there.
When she said she was going for a walk to get out of the way, he’d merely nodded (Was it a nod? Or was he just bobbing around?)- she gladly left the premises and started another seperate course of ducking, dodging, bobbing, weaving, and various other maneuvers to escape the back-stage area.
The noise dissipated, but Jemima was still able to hear people talking the further down a side hallway she went, the smell of old wood and polish surrounding her. It was almost comforting- that is, until she ran full tilt into what she initially thought was a mannequin. The mannequin that was very much not a mannequin gasped, and a stack of books suddenly fell to the floor and jabbed sharply at her feet.
Jemima’s innate politeness gladly took over while her innate embarrassment began to rip her to shreds within her own head. “Oh my, gracious- I-I’m so sorry, are you alright?” she reached her hand out- the woman she’d run into was evidently not very pleased.
“I’m on thin ice with the man already, watch where you’re going!” Her tone was low and worried as she brushed her apron off aggressively, stooping to pick up the books.
Embarrassed and not keen on continuing to be yelled at, she attempted to help pick the books up, “I’m so, so sorry, I swear I didn’t mean to, it was just so loud back there. I was going on a walk back here, I didn’t mean to run into you, I’m so sorry.”
“Stop apologizing, if you get any smaller you’ll disappear.” Her words were cold but the expression on her face was more exasperated than mean.
Jemima sheepishly handed her the few books she’d managed to grab from the floor, her throat dry and her hands shaking- there was an awful lot happening, but at least she was sure she was addressing her and not some fellow four yards across the room. Jemima couldn’t quite see her past the stack of books now, but she peeked around at her with one vividly green eye.
“I hope none of them are damaged. It can’t come out of my pocket if they are.”
“I-if there’s anything broken, I uh... “ Her words faltered again, having thought she would have left her alone by now. “If there’s any damage, I could… try to put in the damage’s worth.”
The young woman scoffed and turned, beginning to walk past her. “Posh, are you? Figures, if you’re behind the stage at the opera house.”
Jemima glanced back, slightly offended even though she was partially correct, “My uncle is the stagehand barber! I’m not back here wandering among the cobwebs for fun. The people who run the stage are so rude, I’d not want to stay even if I had been.”
“I wouldn’t have worded it so kindly, but yes.” The woman kept walking, but she glanced behind herself curiously, if not still in a bit of a grouchy mood.
she said nothing- she was terrible and telling when conversations were over.
“Your uncle is the stagehand, is he?” Ah, it wasn’t over.
She wrung her hands and followed, a little less reluctantly than her first thought- she hadn’t spoken to anyone close to her age in quite a while, certainly not since arriving in London. Of course, she didn’t really enjoy being snapped at, but she did knock an entire stack of literature out of her hands.
“Y-yes. He’s a barber… somewhere around here. I’m not certain, we sort of came straight to the opera house and I didn’t get a chance to see it. And if this drags on much longer, I might not get to.”
She scoffed again, less judgement and more acknowledgement. “No wonder I’ve never seen you around here. You don’t look like you’re from London- your eyes aren’t crossed, you aren’t filthy, and you had more than half a mind to apologize.”
Jemima didn’t quite know how to take that, but she gathered it was more positive than negative so she attempted to take it in stride. “I don’t mean to be rude, but what’s your name? J-just in case any of the books are damaged.”
“If any of the books are damaged, wouldn’t I need your name?” She asked dryly, once again looking behind herself and practically freezing Jem with her gaze.
The words left Jemima's mouth and she was shunted back to square one, feeling only slightly less embarrassed. She seemed to take pity on her, at least in the moment.
“My name is Alice.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Alice.” She said.
Her expression turned wry, “Most people who say that don’t mean it at all.”
She cleared her throat and bowed her head, still following behind. Just as she was beginning to respond, a loud, harsh shout emanated from whence she’d come up the hallway. Jem flinched hard , hard enough that Alice turned to face her, as concerned as one could be with a frightened stranger.
“Jemima!!”
Had that voice come out of Uncle Philip? She’d never heard him sound so deranged in her life. Her eyes were suddenly very wide and Her posture was suddenly much worse as she crouched back.
“JEMIMA, RETURN THIS INSTANT, I HAVE DIRE NEED OF YOU.”
She brushed past, her arms tucked in and her voice nearly shaking, “Y-yes, sir! Right away, sir!” Halfway down the hallway and nearly through the door she entered to get here, she turned back and waved back, distracted. “If the books are damaged, do let me know. I-It was a pleasure to meet you, Alice.”
Mildly-stunned silence filled the area where she’d been nearly moments before, then was suddenly broken as she poked her head back through one more time before scuttling back to her uncle.
“And I do mean it.”
-
-
-
Jemima swallowed, feeling herself flush with embarrassment. Uncle Philip was tutting to himself, seemingly ignorant of the conversation at hand- she wished she were so lucky.
“Ah- Alice. O-of course.”
The young woman bore an expression that she couldn’t place- it looked somehow confused, triumphant, and challenging all at the same time. “I caught your name, but you didn’t give it to me before you had to leave.”
“I… ah’m. I really must be going, I’m so terribly sorry, I still feel dreadful about the opera house.”
She blinked, as if she had not been thinking about it at all. “I wasn’t-”
Why do I feel like I should run? She’s done nothing wrong- in fact, she’s being remarkably civil.
Jemima forced herself to stop in front of her and bowed as politely and quickly as she could before turning to steady Uncle Philip once more. “It was lovely meeting you. Again. And I do mean it, for th-the record. I-I suppose I’ll see you about.”
Alice remarked after her in such a way that Jem could hear the wry smile on her face, “A book did get damaged, you know.”
Chapter 2: Pleasantries and Pleasant Teas
Summary:
Alice does about as well as expected in small social situations.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
How much is a book when bought in London?
The thought sounded nearly like a riddle, something with a silly but fair-enough answer just waiting to be given. She wished it was a riddle as she stared into the small coin-purse in which she kept her money. There wasn’t a lot of it- Jem didn’t need a lot going about her day to day life. It was an easy enough thing to answer if she asked anyone, but the idea of going out around town and traipsing into unfamiliar areas by herself didn’t appeal to her very much at all.
Jemima cleared her throat for no reason and cinched the purse shut before tucking it into a small pocket in her dress.
Heading down the stairs was surprisingly difficult. Her uncle’s home was lovely but sparse- despite living here for 30 years, it didn’t look lived in at all. The floors were unscuffed but dull, the carpet old but un-worn by the passing and stepping of many feet, and the curtains were open while still managing to cast gloomy shadows across the rooms. There were cabinets and bookcases, all decently filled with porcelain and books (None of which were useful to her, as she did not know which book needed replacing), and a houseplant that had seen better days. It was a strange place, vacant whilst being occupied.
The stairs were actually attached to the side of a building that led down into a small courtyard attached to two other small shops, though only one was currently inhabited. The courtyard itself was the ‘back way’ to enter the barber shop, as it could only be accessed through the street by a little gated alleyway to which nobody had the key. Jem glanced around it while passing through but ultimately had nothing of importance to offer or to say on the manner, so she instead went entered the shop quietly- she wanted to say goodbye to Uncle Philip on the way out, even if she would have had to do that anyway once she left.
Dull sunlight seemed to glint off of the polished metal instruments, chair, and even off of the wood-varnish on the floor. It didn’t have tile like a standard shop, but as Philip (and now, she supposed, herself ) were the only people who worked here, it wasn’t really mentioned anything that needed fixing. The downstairs was painted a dull mulberry red, interspersed with mirrors and, toward the exit, the occasional painting. All in all, not an unpleasant place in the least- it looked thrice as lived in as the upstairs. Having someone currently in the barber’s chair definitely helped it with such matters.
“Uncle?” She called softly into the shop as she began to pass through- the man in the chair paid her no mind.
“Yes, yes, one moment.” The voice came from the other side of the room near a small wash basin. He rinsed his hands and was returning to the man in the chair, reaching for the razor at the stand in front of the mirror.
Watching him work was admittedly hypnotizing- in less than one minute, the man’s face was entirely cleared of shaving foam and he looked as though he scarcely knew it. He did his work with such dexterity that she decided that his eyes could not be nearly as bad as he said they were, or if they were, he had incredible muscle memory.
Whilst he wiped the foam away from the razor and the man in turn felt his freshly-shaven face, Uncle Philip turned toward her without looking up from his hands. “Now then, uh… gracious, what’s the time?”
The wall clock indicated it was about three in the afternoon- she wondered whether or not she should leave so close to tea-time, which was something that Jem didn’t often participate in but something that Philip was very fond of. He seemed to agree with her unspoken thought, as his brow furrowed once realizing the time by reading a pocket-watch she hadn’t known he had.
For someone so well-off, he lives someplace like a shamble. Upstairs, at least. Even my father was never well off enough to have a pocket watch like that. Suddenly her stomach twisted, and she stopped her thoughts cold in their tracks.
No, none of that. You’ve been here only three days, keep yourself together.
“Where are you going off to so late in the afternoon, dear?” Philip asked, waving his customer goodbye and reaching for the broom he had propped near the mirror.
Jemima started from her thoughts a little, but responded, “I’ve got to see someone about a book.”
It is a little lonely this far up the street, it will be nice to talk to someone who can form complete sentences. I hope that’s not… What's the word… untoward? I hope that’s not untoward to Uncle or to Alice.
At the very least, Jem had one separate person she knew in London… if she could count owing her a book and petting her cat as knowing her.
“Yes, yes, but where shall you be?” He glanced up at her from sweeping, perhaps from the first time all morning.
Her words faltered and Jem said reluctantly, “The Houndsditch Home. The girl we spoke with at the door-”
“Ah! Yes! The Houndsditch Home- we still haven’t heard from the good Doctor. Quite unprofessional, three days in waiting. I haven’t seen him since we’ve arrived back in London,” he said. “Do inquire of his whereabouts. But don’t be too long about it- be back by four o’clock.”
Thumbs twiddling anxiously, she nodded and walked dejected from the shop and out onto the street.
I don’t need an assessment. Why on earth does he think I need one? Am I that horrible?
Jemima held her hands close to her body and walked with her eyes down, feeling very open and exposed. The past three days of her arrival had mostly been spent attempting to get her bearings at the side of her uncle rather than by herself- Uncle Philip, bless him, did not have many places to go, and therefore there were not many places she had been. There had been a brief excursion to the market, which was full of people and terrible smells and roads that were blocked from entry. There was also a visit paid to the opera house again, much to her chagrin, though this time she didn’t see Alice there. The least stressful visit had been a short walk to and through Hyde Park, which she thought was fine enough.
Jem learned (And felt rather foolish in doing so) that she didn’t live in the East End at all- she had been severely misinformed on the location of the barber shop and the home thereabove, and had to account for that when finding her way around the second time when looking at a map. It should have been painfully obvious to her- the barber shop’s clientele was entirely too well-off to live in such a place, especially not one as decidedly slum-like as the East End. The train station was there, so she could at least say she’d visited the place, but the barber sharp instead laid across the Thames River and tucked away just far enough from the main street that she could find it with ease. The streets were cleaner, it was less noisy, and it smelled less of decaying flesh- she was glad for the clarification on precisely where she stood in London.
Trouble was, even if Jemima memorized the locations in this city, the people moved around. And just her luck, there were plenty of people she wished to avoid whilst moving through the streets by herself. Some were rude women, some were rude children, but mostly, they were rude men.
The street seemed to be blessedly clear this afternoon, allowing her to walk to the other side of London with less worry than usual… though only marginally. Regardless of the amount and type of people on the street, the further she traveled, the more dingy it became.
I wonder why the market is so far this way- I suppose people who live in the other half of London have to buy food as well. They mostly sell meat there… It smells absolutely dreadful.
The walk home from Houndsditch a few days prior had not seemed so long- Jemima didn’t even remember crossing the river. She felt as though her feet were dragging and heavy despite her normal pace, and her stomach still felt as though it were writhing and twisting itself apart.
Perhaps I am mad- I’ve got no reason to be this fearful. The children at the house were rude, but most children are. And Alice was being quite civil despite the initial meeting… even if it felt like her eyes were boring holes through me the entire time.
Jem saw that the further she strayed from what she supposed would be West End, the fewer people there were. There was noise coming from the market that she could hear from here, but there were not a lot of casual strollers or even children playing. She peered across the bridge that she would cross to reach the East End, and almost tricked herself into thinking she could see the Houndsditch Home from here. She sighed, and walked on.
I really hope he isn’t in.
-
-
-
Wonderland was finally beginning to recede for now. It felt like her head was filled with damp cotton, or a thunderstorm had just passed straight in one ear and out the other without stopping- Alice flexed her fingers and gathered the fabric on her apron before letting it slacken.
She was sitting down (She thought she was, anyway) in front of a window, or perhaps she was outside in a courtyard- she would deal with the outcome, either way. She was prone to waking up in places she had certainly not been in her last moments of consciousness.
All she could do for now was blink the heaviness from her eyes as she came to and figure out where she was. She could still smell it- the lush vegetation and clear water of the Vale hovering and attempting to grow over the stink of oil and burning. The latter was from the hellish Infernal Train, she figured, but it could have easily passed as London slithering its way into her mind against her will.
In any case, Wonderland has just begun healing. I suppose I’m going to be able to smell that wretched stench beneath everything for a while.
Alice took a deep breath and tried to let it out slowly, her breath catching in her throat and wincing, I’d better not be getting sick- anything stronger than a head cold will be the end of me.
It seemed that she was actually still in her room in the home. She was right, she’d been sitting in a chair in the cloudy beams of sunlight coming through the window as if she were a cat. Glancing at the window and trying to peer through the grimy glass, searching for the thin white cat that seemed to be dipping in and out of her life as of late.
Admittedly, she had not been expecting the cat to be real. Another excuse to start wandering into dark places so that she could return to Wonderland had been entirely more likely, but it actually being a flesh-and-blood cat was not her prediction at all. She’d seen it around in various places, usually sunning itself or digging through trash around the market, but those were more easily dismissed as her mind playing more tricks on her. The young woman arriving with the barber who actually petted the cat, asked its name, and whose uncle nearly tripped over it… that made things more difficult to waive away as anything other than real.
There was no cat on the windowsill, and looking out of the window yielded no further information on its whereabouts. Alice stood up much too quickly, got dizzy and momentarily lost vision, and sat back down again. It was normally like that if she’d been sitting or lying down- it came with the territory of not having more than one meal every day, she supposed.
If I don’t manage to wake up more fully today, I shall scream. If I have the energy, anyway.
Even her thoughts seemed half-formed and stupid, and she hated them as they rose in her head. Alice stood up again, more gently, and walked out of her room and into the dingy halls where the wallpaper had started peeling rather badly. One glance around the hallway yielded surprisingly few children, and a cold prickling seemed to form at the base of her skull. She tried to quell the feeling and think for a moment- it was sometime in the afternoon, they were probably just out in the alleyways nearby playing hopscotch and hitting each other with sticks.
She decided she’d poke her head in to see whenever she started her ‘daily route’, as Nan referred to it. As someone with very little money and a job that contributed very little to that, Alice had nothing to do but trot around London most of the time. She didn’t particularly think it was the most safe activity, but her bets were hedged for today… she hoped. She didn’t know entirely what she did whenever Wonderland decided to crop up, and she didn’t exactly have anyone trustworthy to ask. Mostly, she figured from various previous reports that Dr. Wilson had not realized she had been listening in on, she went into a state of catatonia- how she still traipsed around London while in such a state she didn’t know. Sometimes she stayed in one place, which she would prefer over accidentally falling into the Thames River… again.
Wonderland was coming and going less frequently already, wispy and half-existent even if it came from within her own head- it had only been three days. Three whole days since Wonderland was freed, and three whole days since he’d gotten what he deserved. Time began passing so slowly since then, and she didn’t know whether she wished it would pass faster or stay the same pace; time was such a fickle thing to abide by already, but her perception of it being warped made it worse than it was by default.
Alice brushed past the sheets that hung for no particular reason in the hallway and into the smoggy sunlight of the world outside, Strangely quiet today.
Before she even passed the front gate, she almost collided with another person who hadn’t been looking where they were going. They yelped and dove to the side once they realized that they’d almost run into her and lost their balance, falling sideways into the dirt.
Oh, it’s her.
The barber’s niece sat dazed for a moment on the ground, blinking the dust from her eyes. As she brought up her hand to wipe at her face, she looked up at Alice and immediately looked back down and started looking more pale.
She’s so timid- if she keeps this up, she’s going to be swallowed whole.
It took a few more seconds than she would have liked to begin speaking, the wish to do so simply not registering to her completely. When she did, her voice sounded weaker than expected, “You’ve really got to watch where you’re going- one day, I’ll be carrying something important.”
She mumbled to herself, still not looking up, “I don’t um… if it’s any consolation, I don’t enjoy this any more than you do.”
Alice snorted quietly and offered the other girl her hand- she took it with no small amount of trembling and found her feet.
Jemima dusted herself off as well as she was able, patting at one of the pockets to make sure the contents were still there. Once she was satisfied, she cleared her throat and tried to look Alice in the face.
“I um… I came by to inquire about the book.”
“It’s been three days, you know.”
Jemima wilted a little bit but responded firmly, “I don’t know my way around, I was trying to find my bearings.”
Alice continued on her way, “Finding your bearings in London is like finding a fly in your soup- once you do, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
She looked over her shoulder, expressionless and almost curt, “I was going on a walk. You’re welcome to join me so we can talk- I’m tired of being inside.”
“Oh, alright. That sounds nice.” Jemima began to fall in step beside her quietly, managing to keep pace despite her brisk strides. It seemed that half the street was already covered at the speed she had set for themselves, but her newly-acquired companion didn’t object.
Alice stole a glance over, She’s either so timid that she’s afraid to speak, or she’s daydreaming so that she doesn’t have to. Given what I know of her, it’s likely to be both.
“So, Alice,” Jemima began, her voice quiet, “About the book that was damaged, what was it? How much does a book cost here?”
The sound of her voice surprised her, and Alice responded in kind, “Depends on the book.”
“.... I figured that,” she mumbled, half-distracted.
It was strange indeed, the streets all being empty. Usually the area in front of the home had a few straggling children, or otherwise the rest of the street a few people chatting or workers complaining. The area was so utterly unoccupied that Alice wondered if there was a holiday she’d forgotten to account for. In the distance there was some clatter or commotion, but there was always someone complaining about something or other in the city.
“Is something wrong?”
Alice blinked and her walk slowed for a moment as she looked around, “Not that I know of. It’s just... Quiet, today. Usually one can’t hear themselves think.”
“I prefer the quiet, personally.”
Normally I’d agree, but silence in London is only good for the crows.
They passed an alleyway, and Alice poked her head inside- nothing to be found other than abandoned hopscotch drawings and decaying wooden boxes. She frowned to herself and resumed walking, leaving her companion to catch up, confused.
Where on earth is everyone? I’m here, I’m in London right now, I’m not mistaking them being gone. She commented on it as well, it’s not just me.
“Did you see anyone, coming up the street?” Alice asked, still glancing around like a cat chasing a fly.
“A few people up towards the shop,” Jemima gestured away. “It’s not been very busy since I’ve come, though, so I have no idea what it’s normally like.”
Alice was dumbfounded- even the man who played the violin on the street corner was absent, and he existed practically nowhere else. As she was looking around much in the same way a squirrel did, her companion began to fidget nervously. She paid it little mind other than noting it herself.
Her companion cleared her throat and gently tapped her shoulder, prompting it to twitch away of its own accord, “Uh, miss-”
“That’s not my name.” Alice said, more coldly than intended- she did not enjoy being touched without permission.
“Y-yes, Alice, uh… do you have a pocket-watch or-”
As if appearing from nowhere, three children lashed around the corner and dashed past the pair, yelling and talking excitedly amongst themselves in high-pitched, grating voices. Alice turned briskly and shouted after them, finding herself at least somewhat relieved.
“Where are you going? Ollie!”
One of the children in question, a boy in a too-large coat with a too-large hat, skidded briefly to a halt and pointed down the street from whence they’d walked, “Out past there! Tilly said she’s found some animal bones!”
Both Alice and Jem grimaced at the thought, but the former waved away the child, who gladly took his leave. “Stay away from the dock!” she called after them firmly, then muttered more to herself, “Loathsome activity, fiddling with dead creatures. I’ve never seen someone so excited to encounter detritus.”
“What about a taxidermist?”
“Never had the displeasure.” Alice mumbled under her breath, but she was admittedly less worried.
In the past, the inhabitants of Houndsditch Home had not been the kindest to her in the least- they were rude little things, most of them, sneering and grabbing and being mean to strangers without much call for it. A few of them were less so and accepted her presence in the building, even if she heard the judgmental whispers and hisses when they thought she’d rounded the corner. She found herself wondering to herself and simmering with rage whether or not the hypnotherapy truly worked- it hadn’t worked on her, not completely. If it hadn’t, she more than understood their animosity, their willingness to travel in packs, and stay hidden in alleyways.
“Alice?”
Alice broke from her train of thought and her head snapped toward the voice- Jem looked very concerned, her eyes wide and one hand nearly held out as if to touch her again. Alice leaned coolly away, and her hand returned to its resting position against her side.
“Alice, are you alright? You looked… to be honest, you looked livid.” Jemima said, her voice quiet and questioning.
Alice furrowed her brow and nodded briskly, holding her fingers to the bridge of her nose for a moment. “Yes, yes, I’m fine,” then she added, as hastily as she’d come up with it, “Those children will be the death of me.”
Jemima nodded, more out of politeness than personal understanding, “If they’re playing with animal bones, that’s a fair enough complaint.”
She asks a lot of small questions. I suppose I do the same when I don’t know people… even if they’re within my own mind.
They started to walk again at a more manageable pace. They were coming close to the end of the street soon, the dull glimmer of the river Thames beginning to shine in her eyes despite its distance away. Alice was about to turn along her usual route and begin walking toward the marketplace when her companion cleared her throat.
“My um, my uncle said I’d have to be back before four o’clock, and to walk from the shop to the East End takes about thirty minutes… and we spoke for a few.” She looked at Alice expectantly, her head tilted toward the bridge.
Alice sniffed in return, “Suppose you’re coming by another day, then?”
Jem’s expression turned to one of mild confusion, “No? I was going to ask you to accompany back- the only reason he wants me to return by four is tea time. I don’t think he’d mind the extra company if you’ve made his acquaintance before… and you have. I figured we could talk more there, or… otherwise afterward.”
Alice’s suspicions rose quickly, but she tried to keep her face as blank as possible and spoke in a half-jovial tone to account for it, “Why on earth would you invite me over for tea? We’ve only met on Tuesday.”
Jem straightened her head and looked Alice in the face for as long as she was able before her line of sight fell across the river again, “Technically, we met three months ago. I’m quite convinced I’ve made a… a horrible impression. Considering you’ve um… you’ve been practically the only person that hasn’t tried to bite my head off I wanted to… to extend the invitation.”
As much as Alice would have liked to have said she could sense deceit from a mile away, the answer was so blunt and honest-sounding that she could detect none.
Sad that common niceties are so scarce here. I’m not entirely sure she’s completely trustworthy… but I think she’s being truthful.
Alice pondered for a moment before nodding, “Alright. I’ll come for tea. We’ve still got matters to discuss, anyway.”
The barber’s niece looked pleased, but though she smiled, her eyes trailed away. “Ah, w-wonderful! This way then,” She seemed to realize her own expression’s betrayal of her emotions, because she put on a more neutrally-happy face and pointed across the river, taking a few strides.
Alice had never met such a puzzling stranger since being in London- not necessarily bad , but she was certainly odd. Peculiar, indeed. I do wonder if nervousness runs in her family.
“Uh, Alice?”
“Yes?”
“We’ve got about ten minutes to cross the bridge and get back to the shop, we might want to start jogging.”
-
-
-
Overall, Alice had been in worse parlors.
The one in her old home had been nicer, but admittedly, her home had been more of a home and less of an apartment , and she was in no place to complain anyway. Afternoon tea was not often something indulged in being in the financial bracket she was- she could count on one hand the amount of times she’d had it since living in the Houndsditch Home.
It seemed rude to simply stare into the cup, but it was almost like she couldn’t bring herself to drink it. It felt like a trap , almost- tea with a stranger in the nicer part of London seemed fishy indeed.
Come, now- she’s no stranger at this point. But… still, I can’t disregard my nervousness when it’s not misguided me thus far.
Jemima held her cup in her lap as they all sat in the parlor of the home above the barber shop. There was a heavy brass ticking of some clock she couldn’t locate filling the silence of the room, along with the occasional clink of porcelain and the clearing of Mr. Baker’s throat. It smelled of dust, books, and old floor polish, broken by the fresher, more immediate scent of the tea.
Mr. Baker sniffed to himself, squinting down his nose through his glasses into the empty cup in his hands.
Alice looked between the both of them, shoulders tense- they became doubly so when her stomach audibly growled. Jemima made no remark, but nodded her head softly toward a small plate of biscuits that were most certainly store-bought (Or perhaps baker bought? They came pre-prepared either way.).
“What’s the matter?” Jem whispered.
That would be a very long answer for a very short question, Alice thought, the words dull and listless even in her head.
“How uh…” Mr. Baker spoke up, plucking perhaps his third biscuit from the plate- thus far he’d been the only one of the three to partake, “How have you made this… young lady’s acquaintance, dear?”
His tone indicated no ill will, but Alice knew better than to discard the possibility.
Jem set her cup and saucer on the table and spoke with something that was almost defiance, “I met her at the Royal Opera House. That performance you-”
“YES! Yes, yes, of course, the tale of Perseus, the grandeur of Theogony- I don’t remember you amongst the cast.” Mr. Baker was peering at Alice directly now.
“I wasn’t part of the cast. I tend to the documents and books in the back.” Alice responded, and glanced at Jemima from the corner of her eye, “Your niece acquainted herself by walking into me whilst I carried a stack of volumes.”
“I didn’t mean to!”
Mr. Baker chortled, “Runs in the family, clumsiness does. Unfortunately, it doesn’t skip generations.”
“Goodness sake, air out all of my dirty laundry, why don’t you?” Jemima muttered, slumped back in her chair.
“Come now,” Mr. Baker waved his hand dismissively, standing up and wincing as his back straightened, “No reason to hide it, you’ll go falling down the stairs outside sooner or later.”
I should be enjoying myself. The first afternoon tea I’ve had in over a year. Why do I feel as though there’s a viper under the table just waiting to strike? …. Nevermind, I know perfectly well why I feel that way.
The host collected his cup and saucer to take toward perhaps the smallest kitchen that Alice had seen outside of Wonderland, humming to himself a song without a tune. She finally took a sip of her tea, taking such a small amount that she might have taken it for poison.
Jemima leaned against the table on her elbows, eyes closed and looking rather tired, “I didn’t expect this to be so…”
“Awkward?”
“Yes-”
“Unrefined? Floundering? Positively amateurish?” Alice couldn’t help but grin deviously before drinking again.
Jemima scoffed, giving Alice the weakest glare she had ever seen. “I thought you were nice- it would be very rude to prove me wrong.”
“Glad to know the talk of the town hasn’t ruined your opinion of me before it could be formulated.”
“What do you-”
“Ah, yes, Ms. Liddell? I had something to impart upon you, before you take your leave.” Mr. Baker materialized from the kitchen with a paper in his hand and a catch in his throat. “A letter of displeasure to impart upon the doctor- I dare not preface his name with goodness until he corresponds.”
Alice tensed so suddenly that the cup and saucer in her hands chattered, though by now it was mostly empty. She tried to swallow the lump in her throat, but ended up focusing most of her energy into looking like the most listless girl to walk the face of the earth.
“I’ll deliver the message, though I won’t be able to tell you when you’ll receive anything back. I’ve not seen him in days.”
Mr. Baker sniffed, frowned, then set the letter upon the table, “Very well, very well then. Uh, Jemima, dear, whenever you’ve finished conversing with your friend, I’ve need of you in the shop below. The old knees don’t bend quite like they used to, I’ve hardly been able to sweep today.”
“Yes, sir.”
He bowed his head and departed from the apartment, leaving the two of them to fill the silence themselves. Jemima looked at her curiously, and finally plucked up a biscuit from the little plate now that they were a duo rather than a trio.
Alice stared at the letter sitting on the table. She’d nearly forgotten- this was her… her replacement . A perfectly malleable, submissive, ill mind ripe for the type of manipulation she had endured, and this girl certainly would not have fared even half as well as Alice. She had an uncle, someone who should have been able to help, instead pushing her directly into the beast’s horrible jaws. She knew he didn’t know any better (The doctor had certainly done well in covering up his bloody tracks), but it didn’t make the resentment within her simmer any less.
Jem tapped lightly on the tablecloth with one finger. “Have I upset you?”
It sounded too genuine to be at all sarcastic. Alice untensed her jaw as much as she was able, still feeling the nasty prickling in her scalp that came with thinking too hard, “You haven’t. I was thinking. I often don’t have people to talk to, and on a good day, thinking out loud gets you tossed in gaol.”
She sat up straighter, concerned, “What?”
“Hm.” Alice finally got up the nerve to nab a biscuit, almost feeling put-off for doing so- she knew stuck out like a sore thumb here, tattered clothes and sunken eyes and stomach betraying how hungry she was. She didn’t belong in this neighborhood with the judgemental, ritzy people with tailored-suits and fourteen different monocles.
She didn’t make these observations in self pity, but instead she made them in mild infuriation- mild infuriation that was evidently showing quite blatantly on her face, as she felt herself fighting a horrible scowl. She used to belong here in places like this way back when, but now with barely a shilling accessible to her pockets and with an unshakable and corrupting label stapled to her name, she most certainly did not belong here.
Then again, belonging was never your strong suit, anyway. Don’t fuss so much, you’re probably scaring the daylights out of her.
One quick look over told Alice that, yes, she was indeed scaring or otherwise mildly-worrying her host. Before she could attempt to lessen any negative emotion, Jem spoke up again in a cautious voice.
“I don’t mean to be rude but… um, you said something about… the town ruining my opinion of you?” Jem rested her cheek on her hand, and eyes nervously flicking around the room and only meeting Alice’s on occasion, “Might I ask what that means?”
Alice tilted her head and didn’t look at her as much as she considered her, “Have you formulated an opinion of me?”
“I suppose I have.”
She narrowed her eyes, chewing thoughtfully, “What would that be?”
Jem looked away, “Bit of a personal question,” she thought for a moment and seemed to get more stressed with each passing second.
Alice waited patiently, her nerves still sending uncomfortable prickles throughout her limbs and prompting her to move- she bounced her leg to compensate.
“I… think you’re nice. A bit… um… a bit odd, maybe, but friendly. Perhaps a little scary- i-in that you’re very purposeful to your words, but I’m… I’m scared of quite a lot, and you’re still the friendliest face I’ve met here. It’s nice to have someone to talk to,” Jemima resumed tapping on the table and mumbled a bit lower, “I’m glad you’ve not decided to disregard me completely after the way we met. I hope that’s not selfish.”
Don’t bear your heartstrings so, you barely know me- she’s entirely too honest. This city might eat her alive.
“I don’t know whether it could be considered selfish or not, but that was a lovely soliloquy.” Alice said with a mildly-sarcastic lilt to her voice, still picking at each word individually in her head.
Jemima did not look pleased with the response, becoming tucked into herself in the chair and appearing very self-conscious. Alice wondered for a moment if the response had been cruel- she’d asked for a candid opinion, after all. Perhaps not cruel to most, but it could be cruel to this withdrawn young woman who’d been brave enough to invite the Fire Girl of all people to tea.
“Come now,” She began, clasping her hands in her lap, “you’re not awful company, don’t be so glum. It’s a nice change of pace to have someone to talk to as well, even if you’re rather… quiet.”
Even coming out of her mouth, it sounded like a thinly-veiled insult. She attempted to brush past it, “What I mean to say is, if that is truly your opinion of me, thank you for your honesty. As for the people about town attempting to sully my reputation?”
How best to put this? I don’t usually have to tell people, everyone here already knows. Perhaps I should simply-
“I’m mad. I’m better than I was, but I’m still mad.”
Jem’s expression morphed into one of exasperated confusion, “What? You don’t seem mad.”
“You haven’t been rude to me.” Alice scoffed, her arms crossed tightly over her chest and wondering if laying her cards on the table had been a mistake. She didn’t know why it mattered too badly- she’d lose an acquaintance, but at least she could say she’d been to the uppers across the river.
The young woman aside her wasn’t speaking, but in fact seemed to be thinking. She did not, however, look anymore put-off, and Alice supposed that was what mattered.
“Best you hear it from me instead of some ruffian on a street corner and get the daylights scared out of you. I’ve earned the right to call myself as such- they can make no such claims.”
Jemima finally returned Alice’s defiant gaze, hers in turn very tired, “That’s … that’s fine. You’ve been kind to me, in this city, that’s all I ask.”
‘That’s fine’. What an odd response. She doesn’t sound entirely as though she believes me, either.
Alice, dear, making friends, are we? Don’t stay out too late, you hardly know each other well enough to take the guest room.
She stiffened again- the cat was nowhere to be seen, his voice seeming to come from everywhere at once.
Begone, cat. I’ve nothing for you right now.
A deep, judgmental chuckle reverberated through her skull and left without so much as another word. Alice cleared her throat and stood up rather abruptly, nearly up-ending the table in doing so. Her companion looked worried again, following Alice’s gaze, which seemed suddenly glued to the wall clock. It was nearly five, and the sunset outside was dyeing the walls a moggy yellow.
She pointed at the face and said, “Jemima, I really must be going, I’ve got the children at the home to attend to.”
“O-oh… alright, that’s… I suppose I should see you around?” Jem stood out of instinctual reaction, still leaning against the table.
“I’m not going anywhere, if that’s what you’re implying.”
Not going anywhere if you’ve got anything to say about it. The constable, however-
“I really must be leaving, but it was lovely chatting with you.” Prickles and unease were beginning to throb like a bad headache in her brain as she moved towards the door. “I shall see you soon- perhaps earlier in the day.”
“That’s well and good but-”
“Good-goodbye, Jem, I’m terribly sorry, but I must leave. Until tomorrow.”
“The boo-”
The door shut behind her and she hurried down the creaky wooden stairs, eyes shooting across the ground and wondering where in the world the cat would appear, should he appear at all.
I feel terrible leaving so suddenly- I hope she’s not too put-off. I can’t discern whether the sense of impending doom was just anxiousness for being suddenly social or something else.
Alice’s sense of impending doom was nearly as sharp as Alice herself. The way home was rushed, just like the way too, and even though she took only one street, it seemed to stretch on forever until she was able to see the Houndsditch home… and very nearby, the small crowd of chattering people that had gathered nearby at the now blocked-off entryway to the railway station.
Notes:
Oh goodness, here's a long chapter for ya!
This was an interesting exercise in trying to figure out Alice's inner monologue as well as how she'd react to people when they weren't incredibly rude and animalistic. Also some mentions of like... class inequality and how she's attempting to deal with that- this won't be a savior story, I promise, reader is just... incredibly... what's the word... spacey? The repercussions of bringing Alice into her home were not thought of in the least and practically nobody in the situation is at ease is what I'm getting at, haha!
I'm trying very hard to ride the muse for this as long as I can and also am attempting to pace it out in a faster manner than like... a Stephen King book. As much as I'd like for this to go on endlessly, I do have some idea on an ending that I can reach. I only hope that the few reading this are patient enough to bear with me ;;
I very much appreciate the support, as this is a labor of love made harder by RSD that I cannot shake
Cheers!
-Bea
Chapter 3: Birds of a Feather
Summary:
Jemima meets up with Alice on a boring day. Ho-hum.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Alice, girl, step to attention.
The shuffling and chatter of the crowd surrounding the train station platform was suddenly deafening. Though the voice of the cat came from within her own mind, it seemed as though she could hardly hear him. The officer standing just inside the brick archway towered over most of the hunched populace as he shouted and swacked at people who got too close with a well-battered knight-stick.
She felt lightheaded, dread bubbling up from her stomach- she’d expected something to be found, but she’d also expected that she’d have a plan by then.
Perhaps that’s not quite what this is. A new railway is bound to have problems sooner or later… hopefully in this case sooner.
A flicker of gray slunk from the corner of her eye, and she snapped her head in its direction, False-ignorance is never a flattering option on anyone who wears it. You knew better, girl, and it’s rude to pretend otherwise.
Brave today, aren’t you, sticking your nose in places it doesn’t belong. Be careful, you may just lose your head again.
By all accounts, the Cheshire cat was being bold today- a mishmash of London and Wonderland, more of the latter than the former, were usually the only places he was comfortable enough showing himself.
Alice started badly when a large man, also a police officer, shouldered past her with his own billy club raised. “Alright then, move along! Nothing to see here that ya won’t see in the papers tomorrow. Get on, we got work ta do-”
A dull throbbing had begun abiding in the top of her head and she was able to feel her heartbeat hammering in her ears. Her throat caught as she tried to swallow, but found herself unable as she watched the crowd disperse in bits and pieces.
“What’s wrong now, yer standin’ in the middle of the street.”
She started again, turning on her heels with her hands clamped into fists- closer to the Home, a couple of children were watching her curiously and with no shortage of judgement. The one who’d sneered was a young lad going by the name of Timothy, one of the leaders of the smattering of pickpocket gangs that seemed to form within the walls of the orphanage.
Alice stiffly walked back toward the home and almost seemed as though she was going to breeze past them completely when she said, “What’s the fuss? They weren’t here when I left for-”
Best not to mention crossing the bridge for tea-time in a rich neighborhood- even if rumours didn’t begin flying, henpecking would surely begin, and I’m at the end of the end of my rope.
“-left with that young lady.”
“Oh what, that nit?” A girl child with a dirty face and crooked bonnet sniffed- Alice could not recall her name.
“Hush, she’s perfectly nice,” Alice narrowed her eyes sharply, then pointed at one of the other children, “You, first boy- the crowd by the train station. Why are they there?”
“Ya haven’t smelled that awful stink runnin’ up the tunnel?”
Her stomach twisted nervously, but the only indication of a shown emotion was a single twitch of her left eyebrow. “I thought it was the smoke from that terrible thing.”
Timothy wrinkled his nose at her mockingly, “Found summat chopped inta bits down there- some poor basta-”
“Watch your language.”
“Poor fella , some poor fella found some nasty bits ‘n pieces all jammed inta the front of the train at some station downna way. Guess they thought it was a deer or a sheep when they cleaned it off, but uh-”
Timothy beckoned for her to lean over and the two other children leaned in, goblin-grins on their faces- Alice obliged though she already knew some amount what they would say. He grinned gruesomely and whispered, “They think it was a fella- they found part of a waistcoat in the tunnel half an hour ago, prolly searchin’ for more. Railroad’s been tem-per-airily stopped.”
The sound of someone tutting could be heard slightly to her left, prompting her gaze to snap over. She saw absolutely nothing, but the tutting switched sides- she turned again. The children were eyeing her with gross anticipation, their eyes shining and their backs still hunched over, as if they were waiting for something to jump out at them so that they could run.
“I’ve got to go.” Alice didn’t comply and instead spoke softly and swiftly. She headed into the open doorway through the filtering dust and into the vaguely-comforting shadows of the house, “I think I’m going to be sick.”
She left the children to snicker and mutter amongst themselves and walked into her room. It seemed so dangerous and hollow here, though she’d been there only two hours before. She managed to catch the barest glimpse of herself in the glass of the window- she had a bruise speckling her left cheek. The evidence of her unfortunate encounter with the horrid pimp down at the dock had since begun to fade, though it was still noticeable, if mostly hidden by her hair. The splintering floorboards and the light smell of mildew that could have been coming from any given direction were standard for the room, as was everything else currently in view- in fact, it was all quite ordinary. But the feeling, the energy had changed- it felt colder, almost slimier .
“Keep yourself together. You always give good advice, and it’s about time you followed it for once.” Alice muttered to herself firmly, her hands closed into fists. How many headaches had she had today? She’d lost count.
The familiar silky voice of her feline nuisance cropped up again, but she still could not see him within the room. She could practically see him anyway, sprawled in a patch of sunlight or across her bedsheets and stretching luxuriously with his fetid grin spread across his face.
I told you we couldn’t stay, Alice. I’d like to think you’re a smart girl, but ignoring my advice would suggest otherwise.
“Typical.” She hissed to nobody in particular, pacing across the floor, “If you’ve no advice, leave me be. I thought I’d have more time.”
A corpse begins its decay roughly twenty-four hours after its death… and I’d imagine that would be if it weren’t dashed to pieces against a train.
Grayness seemed to creep across the room on her right- when she looked, she saw nothing. “Are you here, or aren’t you? Make up your mind!” She said, a little louder than intended.
My mind? Aren’t you a funny girl. Perhaps you might make up yours sometime soon.
“She’s talkin’ to herself again.” The voices in the hallway were jeering, as they always were. Alice hazily looked back at the doorway to see two faces peering around their own from the end of the hall. Once they found that they’d been spotted, they snapped back out of sight, but the scoffs and giggles returned.
Thankless work it must be, having children. Though I suppose it would help if there were less than fifteen of them.
Her heart was beating fast and practically rattling every bone in her ribcage. What could she do? There were several options, none of them pleasant. With not a shilling to her name, leaving London was hardly an option- not if she wanted to survive, anyway. She could freeze to death out on a street corner in Billingsgate and get rid of quite a lot of her problems rather quickly, but after putting up such a fight to unlock the terrible memories she found herself saddled with, it seemed more an insult than an option. Nan would be of little help, bless her- even if the Mermaid hadn’t been burned to dust and scattered to the wind, she was hardly one to consider working street-corners after all she’d been through.
What has become of Pris, I wonder? She thought to herself, stopped in the middle of her room and looking past the window vacantly, Not as though she’d be of much help anyway.
The sound of the children throughout the house nattering away was almost white noise at this point, along with the comings and goings of various maids that came and went throughout the day. She could faintly hear the metallic clack of metal and cookware, presumably from one of them finally needing to prepare dinner or some bare equivalent of it. Alice searched around outside her window once more for her white cat, and found nothing there. Her hand slipped into the front right pocket on her tattered apron; she wrapped her hand around the cold metal of Lizzie’s key. She hadn’t let it out of her sight.
I can’t very well leave them either, can I? Even if they’re absolutely abhorrent little creatures. I’ll figure out something- I always do. It just so happens that this time, I have to.
-
LONDON DAILY POST
GRISLY REMAINS FOUND IN EAST END RAILWAY
FOUL PLAY suspected at the newly-constructed train-station at the East End railway. One torn piece of gentleman’s waistcoat was found jammed wedged into the track on Sunday by a railway attendant. Passengers and attendants alike complained of a foul smell emanating from within the train’s tunnel earlier this week, previously thought to be the smoke from the train’s engine. Investigations are currently underway, and the train shall resume its schedule shortly.
-
Time was always fickle and seemed to blur together for Jemima, with the only indication of the passing of the year in the people around her and the snow that fell around the city. She barely knew what time of the year it was- it’s not as though it mattered here, anyway. Everything seemed so homogeneous in the grimy brickwork and terrible smoke that she didn’t think a think coat of snow would change much about the city anyway… except, perhaps, creating more of a slurry. The weather seemed the same, the food seemed the same, the conversations seemed the same- even most of the people, she found, were mostly the same brand of arrogant, rude, and altogether unfriendly. She were good at keeping her head down and remaining inconspicuous on her own, following Philip around and saying nothing but ‘yes sir’, ‘no sir’, and other similar mannerisms to pass the time and lessen the amount of judgmental eyes that always found their way back her. It made things slightly more bearable, if only just so.
There were so many things to dislike about London that she could scarcely count them all- at times, Jemima even considered a memorandum, but was afraid she’d lose it somewhere along with any of her other given belongings due to the pickpockets (Or, more likely, to her own forgetfulness). She’d hoped that London would prove her wrong, but with each passing day, it only proved her more right and chastised her for thinking that it would do otherwise. The stench was unbearable on the eastern side of the city, noxious smoke and rotting meat and more sewage than she cared to think about.
She’d not encountered such vicious children in all of her life, either. At the market were quite a few of them hung about, making to huddle as if to talk about her behind her back all whilst speaking at a normal volume and practically daring her to look them in the eye as if she were doing them a disservice by having better things to do than gossip about people that she didn’t know.
Oi, whossat?
Barber’s niece, the daft old thing. Not been here long if she still cowers so much- summat went awry in Oxford, shipped her out here.
Oxford? Pah. No wonder she’s taken to the Liddel girl like a moth.
Birds of a feather.
‘The Liddel girl’- rarely did Jem hear people actually call her ‘Alice’. It made her wonder what exactly her newfound friend’s reputation was about the city. The name was spoken with such disdain, usually by children and more occasionally by merchants or passersby who had seen the two of them walking together. She had told her she was mad, of course, but Jemima found it a little hard to believe.
Being distracted and having hard opinions on things doesn’t make you mad. If that were true, half the town would be behind bars.
It didn’t particularly bother her as much as it made her terribly curious- it was, however, impolite to ask about such things, and she practically dreaded being impolite as a rule of thumb. She figured that if it were common knowledge like everyone around London treated it as, that she’d find out soon enough, and if she didn’t, then she’d not ask anyway. She wouldn’t very well enjoy people asking about her apparently-horrible personal-life-gone-past, Jem figured she’d spare both of them the embarrassment.
“Jemima?”
She blinked and nodded, clearing your throat in as polite a manner as possible.
The gentleman in the barber’s chair now had come in to get his hair trimmed and styled for some event or other; he’d been preening and mumbling about it to himself the entire visit, giving Philip the vaguest directions and repeatedly repositioning himself to look into the mirror as though he’d never seen one before. Philip was tolerating it rather well, likely because he spent the whole time staring down his nose through his glasses and humming to himself, reading the labels on the different tonics while the man attempted to get settled.
Uncle Philip snapped his fingers and gestured in what she figured was the direction of the broom, but said nothing. She looked at him, bewildered, but he paid it no mind, instead actually attempting to begin trimming the fellow’s hair.
Better safe than sorry, Jemima dejectedly grabbed at the push-broom and leaned against it, positively bored out of her skull. Barbering is not an exciting job. It’s either hectic and terrifying or so slow that more could be accomplished by taking a nap than standing around and waiting for customers.
It was only about three or so in the afternoon and she felt like she’d been awake for more than two days. She did live here, so you knew it was the morally right thing to do to help him out, especially if all she had to do was sweep and clean everything off on occasion, but it was so terribly mind-numbing.
She wished she could say she had any coherent plans for any given moment the rest of the day so that she had even a basic excuse to leave. Jemima hadn’t been able to find a bookstore to poke around, she didn’t find cathedrals particularly interesting other than the iron and stained-glass work, and Hyde Park was close enough that after a few times, walking to it and back became boring when she didn’t have someone with her.
I wish I’d asked Alice if she’d come and visit today. Or yesterday. Or the day before that. It’s terribly boring having your only friend in London live almost all the way across town.
As Jem leaned against the broom and swayed gently on her toes, the rolled up newspaper on the mirror-cabinet caught her eye. Today’s issue wasn’t incredibly eye-catching, in her opinion- fuss about politicians, prisoners escaping shortly before getting caught again, and some illustrations for tonic and bakery ads that almost looked somewhat noteworthy. A queasy feeling settled in her stomach as she recalled the much more ghastly headline printed in the most enormous letters she had seen on a newspaper not six days earlier.
Philip had been sitting at the kitchen table and looking rather unhappy when she’d woken up that morning, bringing the paper so close to his face that he might as well have been trying to eat it.
Upon her less-than-bright-eyed and bushy-tailed entrance, he immediately began mumbling and spitting and fumbling about whilst gesturing with the paper.
“Absolutely terrible tragedy, Jemima, dear. They suspect a m-m-oh good lord, I can barely say it- a murder in the train station ‘cross town. The entire railroad was placed on hold- oh, gracious- ”
Needless to say, Philip had not wanted to take any trips to the East End, much less wanted her traveling over by herself. She’d have been lying if she said the concept of someone being disposed of via train-track didn’t make her skin crawl, so she were nearly as hesitant as he was.
For as soft-hearted as Jemima was, she was almost every-bit as curious, however. It would have been rude, she figured, to not check on her friend who lived awfully close to such a terrible event… even if the event itself was not completely confirmed to have even happened.
Alice had not shared the same curiosity, which she supposed was fair. If one of the shops next door suddenly became a crime scene, Jem would’ve been too skittish to close her eyes at night. It struck her as odd, however, that her friend seemed more annoyed than anything else.
Unbeknownst to her, she’d begun pushing the broom across the wooden floor around the now-empty chair while she thought of different varieties of nothing. Philip paused while wiping the water from his hands at his sink, peering at her as if she were an optical illusion.
“Jemima, dear? Is all well? You seem quite distracted.”
She looked up from her ‘work’, attempting to seem at least a little less sluggish, “Oh, I’m alright, Uncle. Trying to remember my… erm… recitations.”
“Ah,” he said in a tone of voice that indicated that he did not believe her. He pushed his glasses back up his nose and looked at her slyly through dusty-brown eyes, “Recite, then.”
She cleared her throat for a little too long and took a deep breath, grasping the broom in her hands… and promptly dipped her head without saying a word of any given poem, “You’ve caught me, Uncle. I’m terribly bored.”
“You could practice your violin, you know.”
The disdain showed on her face nearly immediately, “There’s a gentleman who plays on street corners that’s better than I’ll ever be- I’m no good with strings.”
“‘Gentleman’ is a strong word for one who plays on street corners, dear.” Philip tsk-tsk’ed, seemingly displeased with the idea.
Jemima tapped her fingers against the broom handle as she walked it back to its corner, wondering whether or not asking to leave would be worth the effort of bargaining for it. I’ve still not repaid that damaged book- it’s as good an excuse as any, I suppose.
“Uncle, I’ve um, got matters to attend to, across town. May I-”
He snapped his head in her direction, equal parts concern and mild-irritation, “Across town? Where across town?”
She clasped her hands behind her back and rocked softly on her heels- she was prepared for the question, as it would be impossible that it hadn’t been coming, “I still owe Alice for a book I’ve damaged, you see. I thought I could check in on the Doctor, see whether or not he’s returned.”
Philip grimaced and sighed through his nose, running a hand over the top of his nearly-bald head. He tapped one finger to his nose and looked at her suspiciously, absolutely gathering that she was asking for the former and not for the latter.
Her uncle pointed at her, actually looking at her keenly through his spectacles at a normal distance for once, “No funny business, yes? Straight to the home, talk to the Liddel girl, check on the doctor, come straight back. Have I been clear?”
She nodded enthusiastically and made for the door, “Yes, Uncle, of course. I’ll be back before four o’clock-”
As her hand closed around the door-handle, she heard him call after her, “And, Jemima, dear, please don’t uh… bring her to tea again.”
-
“Don’t bring her to tea, he says. ‘Don’t bring her to tea’, I’ll bring her to tea if I wish to. What will he do, chase us down the stairs? Or perhaps chase us up the stairs- that’s even less likely, I should think.”
Despite the words leaving her mouth addressed to nobody in particular, Jemima was hardly a contrarian to most people’s faces- she had contrary thoughts, everybody did, but if acting on them meant punishment, conflict, or an immediate nuisance, she usually absolved to keep them to herself to write down on paper later in the day and burn them like any polite person would.
She had nowhere to put your hands with neither pockets nor purses to speak of. Instead, she was attempting to keep them occupied with a stray piece of ribbon- she had no clue where she’d acquired it, but she figured no-one was missing it anyhow.
East End was sparsely populated today, but had a few people roaming hither and thither. Most of them looked to be manual laborers, muscled men with mean eyes and soot-smeared clothes. A couple of them were less intimidating; shopkeeps, call-women, and the gentleman on the corner with the violin. As Jem passed by him, she faintly heard him ask you what kind of music she liked in an effort to drum up business. She kept walking when she realized that she had no coins to throw into his hat- she’d meant to keep a few spare, but it was one of the many things she had forgotten.
He is a better violinist than I, after all. I may as well throw in a coin or two when I have the chance.
“I’m over here.”
Jem heard Alice’s voice from slightly past the way she’d come- glancing over, she saw that she was peering at her from around an alleyway’s corner. When Jem approached, she ducked back around into the shadows and brickwork, and she found Alice leaning against a blackened sooty wall once you joined her.
“What are you doing?” Jem asked as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.
Alice remained still for a moment before nodding her head back in the direction of a small group of children from the home. They were mostly clustered together around a stack of abandoned crates while warily glancing at the two like a pack of weasels, there were a couple playing hopscotch, and one standing off to the side further away from either group.
Jemima leaned against the wall next to Alice and held her hands in front of herself, “Do you… do you take care of them, then?”
“In a way,” said Alice, shifting from foot to foot as though she were in pain standing there- her left foot, Jem noticed, was in a constant state of movement, bouncing and tapping idly against the ground and sometimes the wall behind her.
She either speaks in fragments or in riddles. It’s more entertaining than listening to someone prattling on about the post, I suppose.
The group on the crates kept looking between them both and back to each other as though they were waiting for the duo to steal their pocket-change, kick the crates in, or otherwise do something cruel. Jem looked down at her shoes, only mildly uncomfortable. She could hear them as well, their whispers carrying toward them in the echoing alcove.
Back again? Oh, missy thinks it's safe ta come back a few days after the coppers cleaned up the station.
It’s been more than a few days, she ain’t brave enough to come sniffin’ around here again.
“Do they have nothing better to do than gossip?” She whispered as softly as she could.
“It turns out when you have no money, there’s little to be done.” There was a sharpness to Alice’s words that almost sounded like she was scolding her, whether she intended to or not.
“It’s still rude to talk about people standing right in front of you as if they weren’t there,” Jem scoffed as she watched one of the children clear the hopscotch drawing at record pace, then promptly add three more squares.
Alice only half-turned to her companion, but before she could speak, she felt a bony rib cage brush up against her leg. The little white cat had returned, its fur spotty with dust but otherwise looking nearly the same as it had when you first arrived. She couldn’t help but smile and gently bent to let it sniff her hand, scratching it a little behind the ears.
“She always shows up when you arrive.” Alice sounded perplexed, leaning away from the wall to peer at the cat.
“Does she have a name? I think I asked you once before, but I don’t remember if you answered.” The cat lazily strutted from Jemima’s right leg to her left before weaving its way to Alice’s, surely planning to leave white hairs on her socks once it took its leave.
“She doesn’t. I suppose we should give her one though.”
“We?”
“You might as well, she’s taken a fancy to you.” Alice’s fingers brushed the top of the cats head before pulling away, as if the feeling was unexpected. “I used to have cats, when I was little. A black one, Dinah.”
“That’s a very human name for a cat, but cats are like little people anyway, don’t you think? They’re very particular and have staunch opinions on things.” Jem was talking more to herself at the moment as she considered possible names, which she’d never had to do for an animal.
“Hmm… what about… what about…” She tapped her chin- she didn’t notice that the chatter from the children had quieted somewhat, though they were still eyeing them both intensely. “Cirrus? Cumulus… hm, those sound rather boy-like.”
“Indeed…” Alice leaned down to pet the cat less hesitantly, her fingers combing through the fur on its back.
“What about Shilling?” Jem asked.
She made eye contact with Jemima, much to her mild discomfort, but she did her best not to look away for fear of being rude, “If you told a cat it was a shilling, it might think you questioned its worth. Picky creatures.”
Jem couldn’t tell if she was joking or not, but she smiled softly in response automatically, “Fair enough, though some names do sound cute, no matter how little they’re worth. I used to know of a boy that people called Sixpence.”
“Know of?”
“I didn’t know him, I knew of him. I don’t even think I knew his real name.”
Alice snorted softly, turning her eyes back to the cat, “That’s fair, I suppose.”
They both stood there attempting to pet the cat as it see-sawed back and forth between them. For a white cat, she still remained surprisingly clean- she had a few spots of soot on her coat, but they were lighter than was usually seen on things her color. Looking at her heels, Jemima noticed a few stains that looked to be green rather than black or brown.
Has this cat walked all the way from London to the countryside? The grass in Hyde Park was never this color. Cats are such resilient little things. She just trots out to the forest and pastures, pestering birds and butterflies, taking naps in the sunshine among the wheat and the-
“Hollyhock.”
Alice looked up at Jemima, more surprised than one typically should be speaking to someone standing next to her, “What?”
“Hollyhock- the white and purple flowers that grow in the countryside. Or-or Holly, for short- her fur is so white like snow. Or at the very least, it tries to be.” She straightened your back to lean against the wall again, crossing one foot in front of the other.
Alice followed suit, nearly mimicking her action movement for movement, “Hollyhock, then. She seems rather pleased with it.”
A chuckle left Alice as Jemima did the barest equivalent of a curtsey to the cat, who was paying her absolutely no attention, “How do you do, Miss Hollyhock? Come to mingle with us city-folk for the day?”
Hollyhock stood propped against Alice’s legs, tail twitching. Jem shrugged your shoulders and held her hands together again and feigning distress, “I’ve tried to be polite, then, there’s not much else I can do.”
“There’s no reasoning with a cat, I’m afraid.”
“Was Dinah fickle?”
As Alice was about to speak she was once again interrupted, this time by a sharp and almost-glassy sound, stone against stone, that snapped loudly in the alleyway. Alice jumped back against the bricks with one foot up, and Hollyhock sprang forward and darted away with her fur standing all on ends and spiking up. As quickly as she’d come again, she was gone, disappeared into the street under carts and boxes and into better, less aggressive alleyways.
Jem curled her arms back onto herself and had to slowly peel her eyes open, only to see that the children standing among the crates were pointing and laughing nigh unintelligibly. Alice reached down at her feet and picked up something- the hopscotch stone they had been using moments before.
“You pack of mongrels,” Her voice was sharp and high, and the children stopped laughing as hard as they had been when she took a few stiff steps toward them, “Wickedness, for no reason! You should be ashamed!”
One of the boys, one with a rather large hat, held his hands up and tried to sneer, “C’mon, c’mon, it was just a cat-”
Jemima’s eyebrows furrowed and she took a few strides away from the wall, hands clenched into fists at her sides, “Just a cat? That cat has better manners than most people, including yourself.”
The boy barely even glanced at her, preoccupied with Alice, who was fuming much closer in front of him, “Mind yer own business, ya milksop-”
“ You mind your tongue. Just a cat? You’re just a boy, then, how’d you like it if somebody threw stones at you ?” Alice raised her closed fist and the boy yelped and scrambled away, followed by the smaller pack of heathens and yelling words that she wasn’t completely sure were even English.
Jemima was nonetheless alarmed, Was she actually going to- No, she couldn’t, she wouldn’t… would she?
Alice turned her head to her, but did not look in her direction. She was blinking rather rapidly and breathing somewhat hard, her face attempting to untwist from its current state as a grimace. She turned her whole body toward her friend, stiffly, and opened the hand that she’d raised up- nothing fell out.
She opened the other hand and held out the stone- it was shaking a bit, and she said quietly, “I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t do that. And I know I shouldn’t scare them. But I can never abide cruelty to animals.”
The worry-knot in Jem’s belly nearly dissolved, but seeing her expression turn into a soft frown was hardly a comforting thing. Her back was taut and she unclenched her jaw as best as she could.
“I um. I understand.” She swallowed, gently taking the stone from her friend’s palm when she made no move to indicate she was getting rid of it any time soon.
She rubbed her fingers together as if she were trying to rid them of an unpleasant texture. Alice seemed to be arguing with herself about something, her left foot beginning to bounce viciously once again.
“Why did you come here?”
It sounded more cryptic than Jem thought she meant it to be, as though she were asking for Jem’s life plans rather than her objective for the day. Nonetheless she answered on the straight and narrow, “Wanted to see what you were up to. It’s slow in the shop and it gets terribly lonely over there.”
Alice didn’t answer right away- Jem was guilty of this as well, so she paid it no mind. It went like this often, unfortunately: there would be moments where she seemed almost content with the situation, or at least with the conversation, then something troublesome would happen or Jem would say a word that put a bad taste in her mouth. She’d become quiet or short, but in Jem’s opinion, Alice had never been rude after such an event. Jem had no idea whether or not this was because she were used to clamming up and trying not to irritate people or because she’d made a good impression, though she gathered it was likely more of the former than the latter.
“Would you like to go on a walk?”
Alice blinked a few times and nodded mutely, still rubbing her fingers together. Jem gently placed the hopscotch rock on the ground and made her way out of the alley with Alice tailing near behind.
The hair on the back of her neck prickled uneasily. She wasn’t going to throw that stone at that boy. She said she wouldn’t, and you usually take her word for things, so take her word for this.
It was apparent that ‘flying off the handle’, as most bystanders so eloquently called it, was something that Alice did intermittently. Usually if Jem visited and she was quiet and reluctant to talk, she had done so earlier, but that was the most she’d typically had to deal with such things. Jemima had never actually been present for it before, and it came and went so quickly that she wondered whether or not it could be classified as ‘flying off the handle’ at all. If this was the case, then Jem had certainly done so herself, albeit alone in her room or otherwise in a place where she couldn’t be seen.
Still, thinking you were about to see someone throw a stone at a child, even if it’s a very rude child, is mildly worrying.
A glance stolen back at Alice revealed that her arms were crossed over her chest, and she looked as though she weren’t paying attention at all. Jemima hesitantly slowed her pace and fell in-step beside her friend whilst trying to ignore the uneasy feeling that took root in her stomach.
“Where are we going?” Alice mumbled, catching her off guard.
They both brushed past a few ladies in tight corsets (Presumably, otherwise their waists were entirely too thin) who humphed and snorted, but she’d dealt with far too many of those types living in West End for it to matter.
“Oh, I don’t know. I thought we’d better get out of the alley, at least.”
Alice’s eyes flicked to Jem’s face before falling down again, still seeming to stare past everything she looked at.
More than anything, she was trying to distract herself, and if it distracted Alice too, then she wasn’t one to complain.
The market smelled absolutely dreadful. There was hardly a day when it didn’t reek of meat and blood and probably-rotten wood. Most of the time, she wasn’t even near it long enough to even think about complaining, as getting eggs for Philip wasn’t a terribly time-consuming task.
“There are four different butchers here- does London really need so much viscera?” Jem mumbled, wondering to herself out loud and not really expecting a response- she didn’t get one.
Jem kept an eye out beside herself for Alice, who seemed to be doing a little better, but still didn’t seem keen on speaking. Her eyes were more focused now, but they were narrowed, as if she were scrutinizing everything she saw. They snapped back and forth and moved with the different sounds in the environment but seemed to have no real goal, simply looking back and forth to observe the marketplace.
Jemima spotted a small patch of white slipping under the crates and dirty tables- it stopped and looked around before looking at you and continuing on, ears cocked this way and that with the overabundance of sound.
“Hollyhock!” She pointed toward the cat once she squeezed out from behind a stand and into the side-street. “Do you know if she’s hurt?”
Alice tried to follow the cat with her eyes and ended up trying to follow her with her feet instead. She pushed past and looked back at her companion for a moment, “She seemed fine. Better safe than sorry.”
Her steps into the side street seemed hesitant- while Jemima walked in, she stopped to dart her eyes around the arches and the rooftops with her footsteps slowing. She tried your best to keep an eye on the cat, who was running quickly with its ears flat and its belly very close to the ground. She overtook Alice at one point, not bothering to call the cat, as she didn’t know her own name.
Even if she did know her name, cats don’t answer to them. I suppose if I were a cat, I wouldn’t need a name, anyway.
The little patch of white dipped out into the main street again and Alice tilted her direction to follow it. They’d wound up in a completely different part of the market, now, though the smell of blood remained constant. It did, however, smell distinctly more of fish.
“Where’d she get off to?” Jem asked, leaning out from behind Alice as she stood in the middle of the doorway, eyes darting this way and that.
“I… I think she went over this way.” She strode out into the street again, dipping out of the way of a horse-drawn carriage that was not-so-gracefully attempting to squeeze through the thin road.
Jem attempted to follow when Alice weaved further through the stalls and boxes, but was quite suddenly terrified by the grasp of a bony hand on her wrist.
“GHAH-”
She yelped and jerked her hand away, whirling around on her heels and drawing her hands into fists (Not for the act of pugilism, but more out of reaction than anything). Jem’s skin felt as though it were writhing on her arm, leaving her to fight the urge to rake her nails over the offending flesh while she tried to make sense of who grabbed her.
It took a moment to adjust to looking back into the darkness, but the first thing she noticed was light glinting off of a pair of glasses. A croaking old voice accompanied them, and the person stepped a little further out of the shadows.
“Oh, apologies, dearie. Ah dinnae mean ta startle ye.”
An old woman was peering up at her down a rather large nose, one hand curled around a makeshift walking-stick that looked to actually be a branch she’d gotten from god knew where. She looked to be wearing a black or otherwise dirty shawl, and looked to have a freshly-healed cut underneath one beady eye. Her mouth puckered into a smile as she waved her shaky hand to beckon the young woman.
Jem’s skin still prickled while she attempted to regard her in a polite manner as opposed to a horrified one. She nodded her head mutely and took a half-step forward. “Um, good-good morning, miss?”
“Good mornin’, indeed. Ye nearly jumped out of yer skin.”
You grabbed me out of the shadows, did you expect me to turn around and curtsy?
She eyed Jemima patiently, an adult waiting for a child to put two-and-two together. Jem wasn’t known for caring to put two-and-two together at the best of times, however. Making a questioning sound but not really saying anything, she looked at the stranger for any indication of what she might want.
She blinked and grinned crookedly, “Ah promise, twasn’t my intention tae give ye a fright. Saw ye walkin’ with my girl, but she does walk so fast , you know- Ah wanted tae say hello, but she was outta the alley ‘for I could blink. Surprised me tae see she found some comp’ny.”
Jemima cleared her throat and rubbed her fingers together to distract yourself from the itching sensation, “You know Alice, ma’am?”
“Oh, aye! Since she was a wee thing, knee-high tae a grasshopper,” her eyes glimmered as she spoke, hobbling forward, “Her dear old nurse, ah am.”
The market behind them suddenly sounded very, very loud- she didn’t have a headache, but Jem felt as though there was a pressure building behind her ears, that it might pop at any moment… whatever that entailed.
“Do ye know, little bird?”
She looked back at her numbly, “Know what, ma’am?”
The old woman tsk-tsk’ed and grasped at the thread-bare shawl around her shoulders, shaking her head back and forth, “Oh, new tae London, that’s right. Ah was her nurse at Rutledge, poor thing. Figures she wouldn’t have mentioned it.”
Jem stared at her blankly. Evidently, the lack of connection was fairly obvious on her face. The woman’s expression morphed into a scowl as she tutted again. “Oh, little bird. The asylum?”
She examined Jemima from tip to toe with a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile on her face. The young woman found herself glancing around the alleyway nervously, shuffling one step backward.
She… told me she was mad. She told me she was mad, I know she did, but did she mention the-
“What are you doing?”
The sharp tone once again sent Jem spinning around and her heart-rate quickening. At the very least, she recognized that the voice was Alice, but she didn’t have much time to be grateful for that. She sounded shrill and accusatory, and when she faced her, she knew how it must have felt to be a rat caught in a trap.
“Can nobody in this city say hello instead of shouting or grabbing?” Jem hissed.
Alice came stalking forward, her fervor running thinner with each and every step. She stood slightly behind and to Jem’s right, leaving her between the herself and the old lady.
“Alice! There we are, dear, ah was wonderin’ where ya’d got off to.” The old woman held her arms out as if she were presenting something before quickly curling back in on herself.
Standing stiffly, Jem glanced back and forth between them, “Yes, uh… she was just telling me that she knew you. At some… As-”
“I see.” Alice cut her off abruptly. Jem felt her sharp stare beaming past her shoulder at the crouching old woman, who was looking between the two of them with a kind-enough face but very wicked eyes.
“Ah won’t scare yer new friend away. Pretty birds, the both of you,” After a moment, her eyes widened and she held her hand over a mouth as if remembering something, but she kept her eyes locked on Alice behind her. “Oh, dearie me. Ah’d invite you ta see my own pretty birds, but that dinnae end so well for me last time, did it?”
Jemima felt Alice’s hand on her shoulder, turning her around- when she faced her, she saw her face had grown hard and steely, no longer vacant and wondering.
“That’s quite enough. Jemima, move along.” Her words were stilted, almost like it was her first time speaking.
The woman behind them shuffled and humphed to herself, shouting out behind Jemima with a slyness in her voice, “Yer not even gonna let us introduce ourselves, dear? You’re growin belligerent in yer old age.”
A few times Jemima tried to stop, only to feel Alice’s hand on your her shoving her along. Her other hand was curled into a fist, and she had a mild scowl on her face. Another cold pit formed in her stomach the further she was pushed out into the street.
What on earth does that mean? ‘It didn’t end well for me’? A nurse at the Asylum? There is entirely too much going on today, it’s only been around an hour.
By the time she’d been shoved past three different stands, Alice removed her hand from Jemima’s shoulder and began walking faster than her once again. She didn’t know whether or not she should follow. Her stomach turned anxiously as she replayed the events in her mind.
She nearly threw a stone at a child- or pretended to. I met an old woman in the shadows who told me that she was her nurse in an asylum. And judging by Alice’s reaction… that looks to be true.
“Did you find Hollyhock, at least?” Jem’s voice was thin and wispy as it left her mouth.
Alice kept walking but cast one tense glance back at her, “No.”
Wringing her hands together a few times, Jem fought the urge to head quickly back toward her home. The mood had changed considerably since the both of them had met up. Is she cross with me? Perhaps I should be cross with her. Or… or wary, maybe. After all that, nobody would blame me.
“What did she say?” Alice slowed to a normal walking pace but still kept in front of her friend.
Her voice made Jem double-take for a moment, “I um. She said… she was your old nurse? And that… she was surprised to see that you had some company?”
Alice scoffed, “Sounds like Pris.”
Jem quieted for a moment, looking at the grimy stonework and hand-carved signs that seemed to sprout out from every corner and stall in the alley advertising equally-disgusting wares, “... was she telling the truth?”
“About what?”
“You were in an asylum.”
Her hand flexed and unflexed a few times, “I told you I was mad. I don’t know why you’re surprised.” Her voice grew harsh and cold as she cast another glance back to Jem- she almost didn’t want to see.
“I don’t suppose I am,” She mumbled while she slipped by a man in a ratty overcoat who eyed them both with mild disdain, “I think my uncle thinks I’m mad.”
She chuckled disbelievingly, “You? You’re as timid as a mouse, but you aren’t mad.”
Quiet fell over the two for a moment as she stopped at a street corner. She’d ended up at one of the many edges of the River Thames, the water black and slimy-looking in the noon-day sun. There were a few more fisheries, but it seemed that most of the things inhabiting the dock were crates and the fishermen moving them around. No ships were currently at port, which was just fine with Jem.
“He wanted me to see the doctor for it.” Jemima said quietly, standing with her hands behind her back.
Alice, who was standing beside her now, looked at her so sternly that she thought she must have made her angry somehow. The harshness faded, but she still didn’t look happy.
Jem thought that perhaps the events of today had drained any possibility for a nice time to occur. The first part was rather nice. I do hope Hollyhock is alright.
She twiddled her thumbs and looked guiltily away. She couldn’t help but feel or wonder if any of this was her fault. Logic dictated that, no, a child throwing a stone at a cat and an old woman grabbing her from the shadows was not her fault in the least, but there still remained a sinking feeling in her belly that she couldn’t quite justify having there.
“I can head home, if you’d not like company at the moment.” Jem said quietly.
Alice’s shoulders untensed a bit and sagged while she stood in thought. She took a deep breath and crossed her arms, her foot resuming tapping idly on the ground. She said nothing.
The stone in Jem’s belly dropped and she suddenly felt as though she were slightly to the left of her own body. Why are you so upset? Sometimes bad things happen for no reason. Stiff upper lip, she may yell at you for crying. Am I really so close to crying? Behave.
“...Are… are you alright?”
Jem heard the general direction of the voice, but couldn’t pinpoint where while she wasn’t looking. She turned her head back towards Alice, not noticing the wobble in her own skull.
Alice’s green eyes, normally dull, seemed brighter as she looked her friend up and down.
No words left Jem’s mouth. She was willing them to, trying to speak, but every time she got close, the vocal cords in the body that she wasn’t entirely sure she was controlling remained still.
Alice stepped up to her and held up her index finger, “Focus on this.” Her voice was soft and patient, as though she were speaking to a child.
Jem’s consciousness didn’t follow, but her body did. Alice moved it slowly to the left, then to the right, as if performing the world’s slowest sleight of hand. “Follow it with your eyes.”
She followed Alice’s command that was worded so softly that it might have been a suggestion. She took a step closer and moved the finger in a diamond shape, then back and forth again.
In all honesty, Jem had absolutely no idea what she was doing. But the slow, easy to follow movements were able to distract her long enough that the befuddlement didn’t matter. he seemed to be coming closer to her body again. She tried to blink- she did.
Her eyes were still focused on her finger as it pointed this way and that, focused enough that she didn’t register the curiosity that Alice regarded her with. To any outsider, this must have looked utterly bizarre, but luckily, not even the seagulls in the port that harassed passersby seemed to care.
Even if Jem could have full formulated the thought that her friend was staring at her, she couldn’t bring yourself to care. “I’m going to touch you now,” said Alice, “On your forehead.”
Jem blinked again.
The pad of Alice’s finger touched her face and her shoulders and neck tensed as if she were thrust back into control of her limbs at a moment’s notice- for all intents and purposes, Jem had been. She was able to open her eyes more fully and finally returned Alice’s gaze- she studied her, but not in the way she typically did. Rather than observing Jem like a scientist observes a mouse, she seemed to be awaiting some sign that she’d snapped out of her short-lived and panic-induced stupor.
Jem’s face becoming flushed and subsequently buried in her hands must have been enough of one, as she chuckled and covered her mouth while shuffling a space away.
“O-oh my goodness, I don’t know wh-what happened-”
“Oh, hush now, hush.” She still chuckled, but waved her hand dismissively, “I’ve just brought you back, don’t leave again so quickly.”
It felt as though Jem stood in a concentrated beam of sunlight with how hot her face felt. Good lord, you’ve never done that in front of anyone else before.
“Nan used to do that for me.”
Jem slowly lowered her slightly-shaking hands, “...What?”
Alice held her arms close to her body and looked at the River Thames again, “I don’t remember it terribly well. She’d visit me in Rutledge on occasion. She’d do it to get my attention so I wouldn’t be distracted. It always seemed to work.”
She paused for a moment before continuing, “I’m sorry if I’ve frightened you. That wasn’t my intention. Normally I don’t have to mind my p’s and q’s and nobody in this god-forsaken city does either.”
Jemima swallowed- her throat felt entirely too dry. Alice glanced back at her without turning her head. The sun filtered through the clouds and turned the normally gray-green sky a harsher fiery orange as it lowered, the shadows that framed her gaunt face accentuating the vivid green of her irises. Now that she stood lit against the sunset, Jem was able to see that her hair seemed to have a deeper auburn undertone rather than being simply black.
Once again, it seemed that Jemima was speechless, but she were painfully aware that she was not having a mild out of body experience, and were instead just staring.
“... Thank you.” The words felt stupid and dull coming out of her mouth, but she could think of nothing else to say.
Alice turned back to look at her, and the panic of nearly making eye contact managed to help her to look away. “Gh- ah. I mean, th-that is to say, uh… aherm. I-I appreciate the apology. I-I’ve reacted badly to things in a s-similar way on occasion.”
“Hm.” Her expression shifted to something more neutral and she cocked her head as if listening to something.
A bolt of coldness ran up Jemima’s spine, noticing the sun’s position in the sky, “Uhm. W-what time is it?”
Alice turned her head, as if looking around for a clock, before following her gaze and giving her own estimate, “Perhaps four o’clock?”
Jem mumbled to herself in mild distress, “Oh, rubbish, I was supposed to be back before tea- Uncle’s been so jumpy this past week, he’ll have my hide… in his own way, he’s not a very aggressive man.”
“The only good kind.”
Jemima snorted and smiled in spite of yourself, “Agreed.”
She gazed melancholic across the river to the other side of London- her side of London- and muttered in a voice so small that she had meant to think it, “I don’t want to go.”
“What?” Alice asked, shaking her train of thought.
Sighing again, Jem began to shuffle dejectedly in the direction of London Bridge, but waited for Alice to follow. She fell in stride next to her, eyeing her curiously.
Jemima walked slowly and quietly for a block or so, I’m already late. What difference does ten minutes make?... Besides, it’s not as though you’ve anyone else you can walk in quiet with. Most people are too concerned with filling silence even when they’ve nothing to say.
Unfortunately for Jem, she did have things to say, so she set about saying them.
“I told Uncle I was coming across the bridge to iron out some previous business and to check on the Doctor. A rather poor excuse in my opinion but it worked.”
“What did you come across for?”
“I wanted to see you. I like talking with you.” The frankness of her own statement nearly startled her, but she decided to let it linger for a bit instead of attempting to backpedal. It was already out of her mouth, after all.
Alice didn’t say anything, but the silence wasn’t cold as much as it was one of consideration.
Suddenly Jemima felt quite tired- it wasn’t uncommon for her to be suddenly exhausted after mentally-taxing experiences, and they often hit at an inopportune time. She’d never been able to find a suitable term or word for it, whether or not it was a disease, etcetera, but it was highly irritating nonetheless.
Passersby eyed them, but afforded neither any more attention than the seagulls floating lazily on the water. Jem mustered enough energy to speak again, her words slow and lethargic, “Alice? What was the book that I owed you for?”
Her eyes were following a carriage tottering along in the distance, “I’ve no idea of the title, to be perfectly honest. I kept it at the theatre- luckily it doesn’t seem to be one that many read very often, but still. A broken spine is a broken spine.”
Jem nodded dully, her arms folded in front of her whilst idly scratching the fabric of her dress, “Hmm… I’ve already overstayed my welcome here today, I suppose… would coming back tomorrow be alright? Will you have been toward the theatre by then?”
She returned Jemima’s gaze with an only mildly mischievous grin.
“Why don’t we just go together?”
Notes:
Oh good lord, it's done- I've had most of this written since February, and I was never able to find an ending that I was quite comfortable with and I couldn't quite decide what direction I wanted to go next.
I think I've decided, at the very least!
Thank you for your patience, and I hope you enjoy this chapter! It is a long one, haha! <3
-Bea
Chapter 4: AUTHOR'S UPDATE
Chapter Text
HELLO DEAR READERS
I'm so sorry for my extended leave of absence, I promise I haven't forgotten this fic and I absolutely intend on finishing it!
Quite a few uh... harrowing life moments have occurred since the last chapter (( Totalled my first car, my now-ex-girlfriend having a psychotic break and cutting me out of her life, a now ex best friend also cutting me out of their life (This hurt arguably more than my girlfriend, as the best friend had been part of my life for three years and was a creative partner), and in better news, I now have a full time job and am working on getting my own apartment )).
The worst part? Most of chapter 3 has been written since February. I'm going to try and find a way to properly close it and get it posted!
Whenever I feel particularly down, I visit the comments left on this niche little fic and my heart swells- thank you for your support, it truly means the world to this sad little macaw!
- Bea <3
Chapter 5: AUTHOR'S UPDATE 2-
Summary:
Read main body please!
Chapter Text
UPDATE ON PROGRESS N WHATNOT
Hey all!!
I am absolutely still continuing to work on this, I just find it hard to find the time to write during what little free time I have. Mostly, I'm trying to get in chips of sentences and whatnot before I go to work (I work full time for 10 hour shifts over the period of four days).
A question for you guys I've been scratching my noggin about:
Something I struggle with X-Reader stories is giving the reader enough of a personality to be their own character, but leaving them vague enough that one could project themself into the reader-character's shoes. I feel like I've inadvertently given Y/N too much of a concrete personality and backstory that she seems more like an OC than a stand-in.
Would it be better to leave the MC as (Y/n) for the sake of the X-Reader, or at this point, to give her a name? I could honestly go either way at this point, I don't particularly mind, whatever you guys are comfortable with as readers!
EDIT: I've decided to make the MC her own character- it seems that's what you guys are leaning toward, and it's what I've been thinking o as well! I hadn't before as I was a bit afraid to in case I lost readers hooked with the x Reader label I have had a name in mind- I'll see how to integrate it soon! If I have the time, I may go back and edit the other chapters to be more fitting. Thank you for the positive outpouring of comments, it truly brings me so much happiness in a time I find rather hard
Hearts n hugs,
-Bea 🦜
Chapter 6: Pelicans We
Summary:
They've earned a little reprieve, don't you think?
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The metronome ticked. She missed her time to step in, she had to wait for four more beats.
It was a fairly-aged device, one of the nicer things in Phillip’s apartment- shiny brass and mahogany wood, well oiled and cared for. The ticks were strong and firm, as if it were brought home only yesterday and sounding almost like a grandfather clock. It looked like it could have been a gift from her mother- perhaps that’s why he cared for it so well.
Rubbish. I missed the beat again thinking about the metronome. I’m glad uncle isn’t here.
Jem didn’t technically have to wait five beats to begin, but it felt correct to do it on fives or tens rather than jumping in.
“King and Queen of the Pelicans we;
No other Birds so grand we see
None but we have feet like fins
With lovely leathery throats and chins
Ploffskin, Pliffskin, Pel-”
“Oh rubbish.”
“It’s ‘ploff’ first, ‘pliff’ second.” Alice’s voice came from the doorway.
She entered the room as Jem sighed and gently stopped the metronome whilst trying not to smudge its shine. When she turned to greet her, she saw that Alice was looking around the room at the shelves and the shabby looking plant.
She looked better today, though Jem couldn’t quite put her finger on how. Less tense, perhaps? I can’t tell.
“How do you remember the order?” She asked.
Alice stopped puttering about for a moment as she skimmed the spines on Philip’s dictionaries, “Do you say ‘drip drop’ or ‘drop drip’?”
Jem opened her mouth to respond for a moment. She then decided not to bother.
“Uncle actually let you up here?”
She nodded, “Mhm. You sound surprised.”
Jem took inventory of the room by force of habit, if only briefly. The wallpaper remained faded, the paintings slightly dusty, and the empty vases ever-so empty- everything seemed to be in order. It was so drab here- she wondered if perhaps Uncle Philip would allow her to bring in flowers for a pop of color. She’d also considered asking for a budgerigar at some point after seeing an ad for them in the newspaper… though much further down the line.
“Aren’t you a bit old for recitations?” Alice seemed to make for the door once she became bored with the out-of-date dictionaries.
Jemima cleared her throat and tapped her temple, “Helps with my memory. Besides, I like them. That one’s one of my favorites. I-it’s not actually a ‘recitation’, it’s just a poem I particularly enjoy.”
The both of them walked side by side from the parlor and outside to the iron staircase that led down to the ground floor. Alice stayed a small distance ahead of her, but Jem didn’t mind.
“Hmm. It did sound a little… familiar. What i-”
Jem was quick to answer, excitement in her voice,“The Pelican Chorus! By Edward Lear. I usually only do the first and second stanza, but it does go on for quite a bit. I used to have it in a book when I was little. I’d read it in the parlor and try to picture what the ocean looked like or a pelican with shrimp on its head dancing with a heron in a waistcoat.”
Though she waved to the window as they passed the front of the shop, she continued speaking, “Once in the park I saw a uh… h-have you ever heard of a one-man band? It’s a fellow with a big drum on his back, perhaps a horn, a guitar, and with cymbals on his ankles. I saw one in the park one day making quite a racket.”
“He had a rather large striped suit and a twilly little mustache. I asked if he would recite The Pelican Chorus with me, I think. He recited the first stanza at the very least- I think we scared the entire nightingale populace out of the area with all of the noise we made,” She smiled to herself at the memory, “He was very kind. His name was C… Conrad, I believe? Something like it. He gave it a particular melody- I read it in that cadence whenever I recite it. I’m rather fond of it.”
Alice blinked, surprised, “You aren’t usually so outgoing.”
A strangled laugh caught in her companion’s throat- Jemima tried to cough it away and continued speaking even as a flutter of embarrassment filled her chest, “Ah, ah, yes. Well, er… there’s seldom anything to be excited about from when I was little. Or now, for that matter. Joy in little things.”
Alice nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer.
Jemima was hoping to see Hollyhock on the way out towards the theatre. She peered around as they strolled at a brisk clip on the cobblestone, searching for a little patch of starlight in a dreary gray maze of brickwork and the occasional pompous neighbor. Every judgemental glance could be felt like a pinprick on the back of her neck, and she was certain that it did not escape Alice’s attention either.
Alice didn’t appear to care in the slightest, giving an overly-enthusiastic nod to every lady or gentleman they passed, much to their chagrin. The only ones who didn’t seem to mind the silent how-do-you-dos were shopkeeps sweeping in front of their doors or dusting their signs and windows. It tickled Jemima enormously.
Though no sun was out and it looked just as overcast as any other day since she’d been here, she felt… fine. Dare she say, good , even. It was such a rarity to feel anything other than anxious that she treasured it more than all the honey and silks in Europe (Not that she could afford honey or silk, thank you kindly.)
The smell of fresh bread seemed to stagger the both of them in their tracks for a moment. Alice gazed halfway longingly at the source of the smell, a bakery across the street. Dougherty’s Doughs read the hanging wooden sign, filigree carved into the flat surface with a deft hand. Baskets of (presumably) freshly-prepared bread loaves were placed in the window, nestled in ribbon-wrapped wicker baskets with their advertisements written in tidy script on parchment placed nearby.
Had Jemima forgotten to eat breakfast? Given the apparent hole in her stomach, it was entirely possible- against her will, it rumbled audibly.
Alice began to walk forward again and scoffed, “Come now. I’m the one with empty cabinets, and I was able to hold it together.”
Though her tone was joking, the truth in her words stung. Jemima defensively snorted in turn, “Fresh bread will cause any stomach to growl. Besides, the bakery reminded me that I haven’t made any pastries for a bit… I’d like to try again soon. Philip scarcely knows how to cook more than hardtack.”
“You bake, then?”
“Yes. Or, I did, before I moved in with Philip,” A cold bolt of unease rippled down her back and she started mentally tracing a line between the brickwork they passed to calm herself, “I didn’t have time to pack any baking supplies. Cocoa and cinnamon and what-have-you.”
Alice seemed genuinely interested, “What’s your specialty? Every good baker has one.”
“Honey biscuits. Comes from a German recipe, I think,” Jemima scratched her chin, “They’re not a very powerful flavor. Slightly sweet, tastes of whatever honey you use when you bake them- I love them with a cup of orange tea. Texture is thick and cakey, and because they’ve so much honey in them they keep longer than a normal biscuit.”
She considered the imaginary pastry whilst the two of them rounded a corner, “Honey is terribly expensive, but those do sound lovely. I had a penchant for chocolate when I was younger. Mother always said I was a fiend.”
“Still have a sweet tooth?”
“Can’t afford to.”
Jemima noted this. “I’m hardly able to right now, myself. After all, what if that book I owe you turned out to be an antique ? The scandal. ” She chuckled.
“Oh, I doubt it. They’d never let me handle anything worth too much. Other than the finance ledger, I suppose,” her feet seemed to lead her more than her mind did- Alice regarded Jemima with a wry look, “Hold a moment, what’s your last name?”
Jemima’s face twisted up into a confused but polite smile, “Erm… why?”
“Do you bake, Ms. Baker? Sounds quite like another recitation to me. You’ve got all your ducks in a row already at tw… ninete….. However old you are.”
Alice seemed rather pleased with her silly little observation and Jemima was not about to rain on her parade. Instead, she chuckled through her nose and mumbled, “Twenty. Soon, twenty one, but twenty will do for now.”
The shadowy, slumbering form of the opera house loomed nearby, growing larger and less intimidating with every stride forward. Getting closer yielded better views of the ornate work, the way each story stacked upon the next in a patchwork of harsh lines intercut by windows. Decorative iron fence (Decorative, she assumed, anyway) caged in windows at the peaks of the theatre.
She hadn’t had a chance to properly consider this place the last time she was here- it was surrounded by a swamp of people and acrid perfume, and she was bustled in alongside Philip to the backstage area before she could even read the poster for what drama was being put on that night.
“The architecture is rather intimidating, isn’t it?” Jemima mumbled.
“Perhaps it’s meant to scare away the poor. Didn’t work on me.” Alice paused before the front entrance for a moment to peer into the glass, and promptly continued on her brisk and merry way.
“I much prefer the architecture in the cathedral. Even if I don’t like church, at the very least, the building is interesting to look at. The stained glass artwork is lovely.”
Alice couldn’t hide the sneer on her face, “I don’t fancy churches. Feeding gamut a bunch of lies and asking the poor to donate their last thruppence so that they can oil their organ.”
Jemima faltered in her step, taken aback by the sudden harshness of her words, “I. I suppose. I was talking about th-the building, not the-”
They were nearing the other end of the theatre now, the rest connected to the city block. Alice fixed Jemima with a calculating emerald green stare, and again, Jemima felt very small. “You’re not religious, are you?”
“N-no, not at all. Philip isn’t either, he doesn’t attend m-mass. Please don’t stare at me like that.” Jemima looked away, her hands flexing and closing into fists- it felt like there were ants crawling up and down her back, under her skin, everywhere she couldn’t reach.
Alice’s tone softened and she assumed a less threatening stance, her shoulders no longer cocked forward aggressively, “Apologies, Jem. Didn’t mean to startle you. I forget that you’re polite when we get into conversation. I’m used to having to hold my ground.”
“It’s alright,” Jemima mumbled, part of her brain still only registering that Alice had called her by name, “I take it that’s a… a sore spot for you then? We don’t have to talk about it.”
Currently, Alice stood in front of a nondescript iron fence that covered the alleyway from the opera house to the neighboring building. It looked to be latched shut, but as soon as Jemima was becoming very discouraged, Alice simply ripped the door open with a harsh metallic squeal. She gently pushed the small of Jem’s back to usher her inside, and swiftly closed the gate with nowhere near as much fuss as it took to open it.
“It’s a false lock,” Alice whispered, “But tell nobody, or I’m out of a job.”
Jemima blinked dumbly and followed her strides as they disappeared into the shadowy alley. It smelled of mildew and ash, but the alleyway itself was empty other than a dilapidated wooden crate and shreds of paper garbage that blew weakly in whatever wind could get through.
“... Do they really just leave it like that?” Jem whispered.
Alice nodded, halting at a door that was scarcely visible against the dark brickwork, “They don’t trust me with a key to the front door. Occasionally, I’ll be able to see the groundskeeper inside and he’ll let me in, but we’ve got to shimmy in the back like rats.”
Jem didn’t know how much she liked being behind the grand, imposing facade of the theatre- other than the sheer size and near-endlessness of the alleyway, it looked like any other part of the city… and not the nicer part, either. Shadows dipped and writhed with the foggy clouds above, and she half expected to see the same old woman lurch from the shadows with her shambly grin and too-large nose and whisky breath.The smell was really what seemed to be making her skin crawl, but as Alice stepped inside, she followed obediently.
She trusted her well enough- Alice could stand her own here. Jem would have to figure out how to soon enough, but until then, she figured that Alice could protect her (At least, for the moment).
-
It smelled of dust and damp paper at the back entrance, which was rather pleasant as far as back-entrances to places go. Alice hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the place for a bit, mostly due to the fact that the owner of the theatre had not mounted any plays since the gruesome discovery in the railway had been cleaned up.
I would have thought that people would have been a bit more wary of using the train after that. But life goes on I suppose.
But his does not.
Cheshire seemed more wary of showing himself to her than any inhabitant of London using the train. It was becoming bothersome to Alice, the constant snide remarks unaccompanied by any thin, bony visuals. She didn’t know what to make of it.
The healing of over a decade of trauma would not happen overnight. The stress is likely hindering any further progress. Once enough time has passed, perhaps then… hm. No counting my chickens before they hatch. I’ll wait and see.
Drury Lane theatre was a nicer place, even at the bottom of a trench and surrounded by fish made of eyeballs and foggy, bottomless pitfalls. “Even if it is leagues below the sea, the lighting is more friendly by miles. I wonder what it looks like now.”
“Pardon?”
Alice cleared her throat as she fumbled along one wall to find a light switch, “Talking to myself, I’m afraid.”
I’d almost forgotten she was there.
The brittle snap of the switch and the lights flickering on revealed a kind of vestibule that had since been converted into a storage room. Not much was stored here, besides a few crates that certainly contained nothing important, cobwebs, and shelf-fulls of half-salvageable broken fixtures and tools.
“Well… it… it looks the same way it smells,” Jemima mumbled.
Alice blew a puff of air through her nose, “You’re too kind.”
“Where do you book-keep, then?”
She beckoned to her companion with her hand and slid past a stack of crates precariously placed by the door- she heard Jemima shove them into a slightly more stable position as they passed, and do a little sprint to catch up.
It seemed that grime and shadow was homogenous within London, albeit at varying degrees. While the stages of the theatre were grand and well-kept, the rows of chairs swept neat and tidy, the entrance lobby pristine, the inner workings of the backstage seemed as depressing as the walls of the orphanage.
Perhaps moreso- at least Houndsditch has the occasional painting.
“Are we the only people here? It’s awfully quiet… and mildewy.”
Alice turned down a hallway to her right that led to quite a few other doors- the same hallway Jemima had run full tilt into her in, as a matter of fact. The dress mannequins from that day still remained perched at their various locations therein, blank and full of pins and looking rather miserable.
“We may be. Usually there’s a cleaner here to dust between productions and to tune the piano. Ah, here we are.”
Whereas the hallways at least had wallpaper, Alice’s little cubbyhole was bare-laden brickwork with a shoddy little desk shoved up into one corner. The shelf itself was a little to the left behind the door so as to be hidden from the hallway (She’d thought of that herself, though if nobody but her ever noticed, she’d pay it no mind.)
Jemima stood politely to the side whilst Alice looked at the books on the shelf, having forgotten where she’d put the broken one. She moved on to the desk, opening the creaky drawers until she found purchase with a soft little ‘aha!’
She pulled the book, nondescript and already peeling at the corners- Alice was actually a little surprised that it was in fact one of her books. She didn’t have many, two more other than this, perhaps, but she kept them in the opera house so that no children would tatter them to ribbons.
“There you go. You owe me one copy of Bleak House . It looked as though it needed polishing anyway, but-” Alice turned around, only to notice that Jemima had shuffled toward the badly-broken piano that the stage crew had unceremoniously shoved into the corner of her study.
Her back tensed when she also noticed the gaunt and unbearably-smug form of Cheshire perched atop the piano in question, lazily watching as her companion tilted the key-cover back. He looked no better than the last time she’d seen him, still covered in swirling tattoos and with dots of blood on his sharp but yellowed teeth.
“What are you doing?” Alice said a little too loudly, gawking at Cheshire- the cat sneered in response as Jemima yelped and dropped the cover, a loud CLACK echoing through the room.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I was just curious, I haven’t seen a piano like this in a long time, I-” Jemima held her hands up apologetically.
Annoyed, Alice pressed the bridge of her nose, “Not you, not you. Rubbish.”
Cheshire stretched and hopped from the top of the piano onto the key-cover, rubbing tauntingly against Jemima’s side. Alice squinted, What are you playing at, cat? She can’t feel it. You aren’t there.
I know, my dear, don’t take me for a fool. That would be dear Jemima’s job, anyway. Hardly want to put your friend out of business, hm?
“Alice?” Jem leaned into her eyeline and softly waved, “You alright?”
She nodded mutely. Cheshire sneered, and as if to make a point (What point Alice was not sure), leapt onto Jemima’s shoulders and hung there like an awfully pointy fur drape that hardly had any fur at all.
“Unpleasantries.” Alice tapped the side of her head- her companion nodded, understanding well enough. Her attention turned back to the piano, which she seemed far more interested in than the book
As Alice’s own interest in the damaged copy of a book she wasn’t terribly fond of wasn’t great, she became more interested in the broken piano as well.
“I used to play when I was little.” She said, sidling up next to Jemima and trying to ignore the smug cat perched on her shoulders that was doing nothing in particular.
Her companion grinned, lacing her fingers together, “Do you still? O-or, do you remember how?”
Grimacing, she hummed in the back of her throat, “I’ve not tried in many years. Sheet music is hard to come by in a hovel, much less a piano.”
Jemima stilled, thinking.
Come now, Alice. Don’t be shy. She isn’t, for once. Enjoy your leisure time while you have it- you may have to start running soon.
His words were taunting, but she knew they held some merit. She’d been trying to ignore the thought of the ongoing investigation- the railroad had since resumed operation, of course, but she couldn’t help but wonder how far along any detectives had progressed, if any progress had been made at all. Jemima’s uncle wasn’t the only person asking about Dr. Bumby.
His chemist had come knocking once or twice, and she’d had to put on a show of being concerned for the wellbeing of those he prescribed things to. She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t poked around his study, trying to match medicinal names to definitions, checking for sedatives and the like to discontinue the subscription, but the sheer amount of doctor’s jargon gave her a headache and sent her into a stupor for two hours.
No sir, none of us have seen Doctor Bumby in at least a week, it’s very upsetting. I don’t want anyone to fall short on their medications- is there a ledger I can renew until he gets back?
It was nearly sickening to her that most of his financial business partners that had inquired after him considered her his secretary. On the same coin, it was a sweet little justice to be pulling a few strings for once, especially strings that were beneficial… she hoped.
Alice came back from her thoughts to the sound of out-of-tune piano keys being pressed. Jemima tried in vain to play something that Alice supposed was Hot Cross Buns, the broken piano bellowing a terrible dissonant thrumming. They both winced.
“I know I’m not the best musician, but I hope that wasn’t me.” Jem mumbled, shaking her head.
“Here. I can avoid the broken keys- no telling how well I’ll do outside of that.”
Standing in front of the piano, the memory of her childhood came back to the forefront of her mind. Nan was actually the one to teach her piano.
I’ve not taken Jemima to meet her yet. Nan would like her, at the very least. She does so like playing cat and mouse with timid people. If she were to pick a thread too far, I’d say something.
Alice’s fingers ghosted up the keys, trying to remember a tune and instead letting muscle memory guide her hand. She’d not practiced in years, but as a little one, she had indeed enjoyed playing, though she had enjoyed poetry and hopping over streams and creeks more.
She couldn’t even remember the name of the song as her fingers took their course, but other than a few sour notes, perhaps one key to the left or another, it didn’t sound too terrible.
Once he sang of summer, nothing but the summer
Now he sings of winter, of winter bleak and drear
Alice was less than pleased, but Jemima clapped her hands and shimmied in place, “Oh, wonderful, well done!”
“Less than well. Raw, I’m afraid,” Alice tried to stifle the small bit of pride threatening to bubble up in her chest, but she allowed it to bloom, just a little. Cheshire had not moved from his spot on Jemima’s shoulder, but was staring intently at the broken piano.
Jem, practically vibrating in place, knitted her fingers together and looked abashedly to the side, “I’ve quite a stupid question.”
Alice crossed her arms and waited.
“...How are you at reading sheet music? I was wondering- that is, to say, not if you don’t want to, of course… do you think if I scrawled something down, you could play it, perhaps? Sp-specifically the refrain from th-the adaptation of that poem from earlier.”
Alice raised her eyebrows- she hadn’t expected such a direct request. Most of Jemima’s questions involved asking her to move out of the way or the kind of boring adult talk one used to fill silence until the rhythm of a conversation was found. Cheshire’s grin widened, his folded claws rippling and his tail twitching back and forth.
Go on, then. Find joy in the little things. The little, little, stupid, silly things.
Alice didn’t reprimand him, merely fished a piece of scrap paper and an also-malfunctioning pen and relinquished them to Jemima, who went to work immediately. She returned the paper, now laden with ink spots and a crude recreation of a music bar. The notes were legible enough, though Alice had a feeling that they’d been simplified for her benefit as a gray-muzzled and out-of-practice player.
“If it’s too much or too odd, don’t bother, I won’t take offense-” Jemima rambled, fiddling with the ribbon she kept in her front pocket.
“Let’s see, then.”
She crouched forward over the piano, only to jerk back when Cheshire materialized on top of it once again, still folded in a lying position like he’d never moved at all. He tilted his gangly head to stare at the keys, tail flowing back and forth.
Be useful, why don’t you.
If you insist, Alice. But I can find more use than attempting to guide your hand over piano keys. Signing a contract with the devil, perhaps?
Hush.
She started off terribly slow, reacquainting herself with the notes by sight instead of by memory. There were considerably more sour-sounding notes, each one sending a hard thrum of displeasure through her brain, but at the end of the bar, she returned to the beginning.
Here, child. You’d be lost without me.
Cheshire’s lashing tail became more rhythmic- a metronome to follow the timing.
It did help, somewhat. Jemima watched, transfixed by the movement of her hands, unable to see the horrible skeletal cat who was trying to be helpful, if sarcastically so. She paid no mind to her hesitation, the sour notes long forgotten while she watched her fingers press to the keys.
A rhythm was found, though Alice had a mildly-challenging time following it.
King and Queen of the Pelicans we;
No other Birds so grand we see!
None but we have feet like fins!
With lovely leathery throats and chins!
Ploffskin, Pluffskin, Pelican jee!
We think no Birds so happy as we!
Plumpskin, Ploshkin, Pelican jill!
We think so then, and we thought so still!
Though Jemima said nothing and simply swayed back and forth with the playing, it was as though Alice could hear her recite alongside it. The phantom smell of the saltwater struck her nose, and the implications of wavey kelp pulsed, illusory, out of the corner of her vision, but the hallucination went no further. Her fingers kept minding their own business and playing.
“See, you’re doing wonderfully!” Jemima clapped, positively beaming, “You’re ten times better with piano than I am with forced violin practice! I do wonder-”
Cheshire suddenly vanished. The smell of the ocean, the pulsating kelp, anything unphysical left as a loud BANG filled the room. Jemima yelped and wilted backwards to press her back against the wall, her hands balled into fists as her eyes lurched toward the sound. Alice followed a similar suit, whirling around with her eyes steely and her shoulders taut.
The shape in the doorway was hardly intimidating, but the noise of it entering was highly unpleasant. A boy in a flaccid pageboy cap (Less a boy and more of a young man, perhaps), held a broomstick toward the two with a wild snarl on his face.
“OI, OI, WHOSSA-”
His posture relaxed, though neither Alice’s nor Jem’s did not. He stood up straight and strode inside as though he owned the place, a cheeky grin on his face, “Alice, ya bout gave me a ‘eart attack!”
“ Heart , you mongrel.”
The boy held his hands up and feigned sadness, letting the broom fall with another loud swack as it hit the floor, “Ya wound me. It’s been too long since you’ve shown your face, what with the house bein’ dead.”
Alice squinted at him, annoyed, “Gorey investigations tend to drive people from that part of town.”
And we would know that better than all, hm?
Heaven’s sake, not now.
The boy sneered half-heartedly, “Yeh yeh, but what with the drama of the theatre an’ all, right? Ye’ve met them actors who take every trad-jed-ee as a personal slight and acts like it makes their performance high art.”
Alice felt the nerves on the back of her neck and along her scalp prickling and popping. Stifling the fight-or-flight instinct was never her specialty, but in an effort to become mildly more socially accepted, it was something she’d been forced to improve. She’d stepped to the right to at least slightly obscure Jemima, who was pressed to the wall like a startled mouse, from view.
“Aw, c’mon, Alice, always so grim,” he bent at the knee to pick up the broom, only to then shove it unceremoniously against a wall, “And ye wonder why I’m yer only friend.”
“I have one friend and it isn’t you. Get out-”
Her stomach both dropped and flared at the same time- his eyes were fixed, perplexed, on Jemima, “Oh, ye don’t say? This’d be ‘er, then?”
The boy, though a few inches shorter than Alice, shoved by her without so much as another look in her direction. His brown eyes twinkled with interest, matching the smattering of tan freckles strewn across the bridge of his nose.
“Wellello my dear, Victor’s the name, Galloway’s the game. Name. Erh, second name, that is,” he made quite the show of taking off his cap and doing a bow at his waist, nearly slapping Alice across the shoulder with it. She remembered this same motion, nearly the exact same, from the day their paths had first crossed-it had gotten no more endearing, at least not at the moment.
“An’ what might your name be, my little pigeon?” Victor raised his eyes, grinning, and for the first time, Alice saw that grin and confident smirk falter.
When her gaze wandered to Jemima, she was able to parse why- she’d never seen her so enraged. Her face was tinted red, not one of embarrassment, which Alice had gotten quite jaded to seeing, but one of sheer fury. Her shoulders stood tense, her lips threatening to pull back from her teeth in a snarl, and her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
Is that how I look when I’m off my head?
Indeed- if she were taller, she may be frightening.
She looks as though she’s about to start biting, that’s frightening enough.
“ Victor , is it?” Jemima spat in a hushed voice.
The boy stared, mute.
“Did your parents not teach you manners, Victor ? To knock before you enter a room? You- you-”
“Jemima?” Alice asked in a more hushed voice.
Victor was halfway stuck between a gawk and the kind of confused grin one makes when they know they’ve gotten themselves into trouble.
She sputtered, attempting to find words to tack to the emotions that were practically radiating off of her in beams. To Alice, she seemed more… red , glowing like a hot coal, but she didn’t see any physical hallucinatory changes.
Victor leaned slightly toward Alice, whispering, “Oi… she er… she always this muchova poptop?”
“Oh, be gone with you, you oily inconsiderate neanderthal . Get-” She was practically foaming at the mouth.
Alice was at a loss for what to do- she was usually the one going through spurts of anger and catatonia, and was always left to deal with those on her own. She’d not seen something like this come from someone else in quite a while.
Victor held up his hands, wilting back, “Oh, c’mon, pigeon, I meant no ‘arm-”
“ Call me pigeon again -”
Do something, girl- I doubt she’s as violent as you, but we shouldn’t test our limits when you’re supposed to be lying low, should we?
In a manner as inconsiderate as he’d done to her a moment ago, she shoved him aside and snapped her fingers a few times in front of Jemima’s face. Her fury didn’t dissipate, but it lessened, her words falling into teeth-chattering and silence.
“We’ve gotten what we came for- let’s go. No point in staying.” She exaggerated the motion to indicate she was going to grab her wrist, did exactly that, and dragged her past Victor, who practically leapt back, into the hallway.
Jemima nodded, wrapping the ribbon through two of her fingers and squeezing it tight, mumbling to herself, “Numpty. Absolutely moronic. Bursting through the door, swinging around a broom and screaming, who does he think he is-”
“He’s the owner’s son and he thinks he’s the center of attention. Pay him no mind,” she snorted, “Pestered me since I began work in this glorified playhouse. I think he may be living proof that some men aren’t terrible but all of them are idiots.”
Jemima scoffed, eyes glued to the floor.
They rounded a corner and briskly stepped in silence. It took Alice a moment to notice that there was suddenly a pressure around her fingers where they hadn’t been before. A brief glance betrayed that Jemina had managed to wrangle her index and middle fingers and was gripping them tightly, her hand flexing almost like a heart. She let it remain, not terribly perplexed by it.
Pawprints and ghostly purple chalk-lines seemed to throb in and out of her vision. It seemed like she could both see them and not see them at the same time.
A good decision… for once. Keep making them and see how far we get, hm?
She could almost feel his snide grin peering at her from the depths of her mind- she kept moving forward and said nothing.
Once outside, they practically rushed from the musty alleyway and out onto the thankfully empty street, sucking in the marginally-cleaner air. Jemima had her eyes squeezed shut, halfway angry and still squeezing both Alice’s fingers and the ribbon wrapped around her own.
“Are you alright? I’ve never seen you so incensed.” Alice inquired, tilting her head.
“I… I was just startled, I think. I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to lash out,” Jemima pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead, “I haven’t raised my voice like that since… in a. In a long time.”
“Don’t apologize to me, I’m not the one you called an oily neanderthal. Quite apt, if I do say so myself.” Alice said wryly.
She gave Jemima’s hand a directional tug- the grip hadn’t lessened but she didn’t feel particularly compelled to ask her to let go yet. She didn’t fancy being touched for the most part, definitely not by strangers, but she’d been the one to have grabbed Jem’s wrist anyway, so the touch could have come from no-one else.
They commenced ambling in the general direction of the Houndsditch Home- the less-than-pleasant adventure may be done but the walk toward her residence went on. The theatre loomed unpleasantly over them, itself loomed over by an unpleasant and smoggy green sky.
“Did I really call him that?” Jemima asked numbly.
“Yes. You were there.”
“I just got so angry, it was like having scalding water poured over me. I hate being frightened.” she mumbled- they were approaching the ‘front entrance’ of the theatre where presumably advertisements were usually put on display. Nothing stood at the front at the moment other than leaf litter and rainwater.
“Clearly. I thought you were about to bite him.”
“I very well was! I-”
There wasn’t a bang this time, thankfully, and Alice was slightly in front of Jemima on the sidewalk, so she was less exposed to the sudden rush of movement. Needless to say, however, the sight of Victor flying fleetfoot out the front door and down the steps and attempting to skid to a halt on the slimy cobblestone was one that would frighten anyone.
They stopped abruptly and jerked back, both silent. Victor yelped enough for the both of them as his footing betrayed him and landed him prone with a hard SPLAT .
“Gha- feckin-”
“Watch your language,” Alice said curtly, unable to hide the grin on her face- Jemima’s squeezing turned into a vice grip, “Serves you right anyway, charging around and scaring people. Walk like a normal human being.”
Victor hobbled to his feet and stretched, his already-tattered wool trousers now smeared on the side with dark mud. His cap had been lost in the skid, betraying his horribly messy head of molasses-colored hair. He shucked the mud away and leered sorely at Alice, face burning indignantly.
“I came ta apologize, ya harpy. An’ not ta you.”
Alice narrowed her eyes, “Is that so?”
“Aye.” He shuffled around for a moment before drawing his cap back up, thankfully dry.
He straightened it back onto his head and set his sights toward Jemima, who did not seem pleased to be the center of his attention at all. Her eyes, hazelly-green, were hard and cold.
Victor held his arms close to his body, eyes shifting to the side with his brows furrowed.
Has he ever apologized for anything in his life? What a spectacle.
“Sorry fer scarin’ ya. Thought summat might ‘ave been breakin’ in, so I busted down the door. An’ I won’t call ya pigeon no more, cross me ‘eart.”
“Heart.” Jemima said coldly- Alice could practically feel her emotions flaring again, though they rested more yellow than red as of now.
Victor seemed none the wiser, cracking a stupid grin, “Birds of a feather, you two are. Can ya at least tell me yer name?”
Silence consumed them for so long that Alice thought perhaps she’d begun fuming again.
“Jemima. Now if you’ll excuse us, it’s getting cold tonight, and we must get back home.”
Much to Alice’s surprise, Jemima was the one to take the new lead, brushing past Victor without so much as a goodbye.
It may have seemed cruel to onlookers, and to her own public sensibilities it was a little brash, but she’d been in Jem’s shoes and knew how uncomfortable they were. Some days she could scarcely leave her room to eat or otherwise when she was upset, and getting startled and thinking you were going to be beaten isn’t a pleasant experience in any case anyway.
Alice tossed a glance back over her shoulder at Victor, who now looked after them
bewildered, scratching his head. Jemima walked briskly forward, hand still gripping her companion’s fingers tightly.
“Do you even know where we’re going?”
“No, and I don’t care. I just want to be away from that dreadful opera house.”
Alice looked around the sky for the implication of the sun somewhere behind the cloudbank- it wasn’t late in the day at all. Perhaps there was time for a little more chicanery, at least for a bit.
If I send her home now, her uncle is sure to fret if he sees her in this state. He already doesn’t enjoy our association.
Her eyes searched the streets as they walked, blindly led by Jemima’s absent tugging- she nearly started when on a particular street corner, in the distance, she saw a faint glow. It was almost certainly not actually there at all, a blue-green light out of which sprung a small clump of hazy and bouncy mushrooms.
Tut, tut, girl, this way. Out of trouble for you. We’ve got to save your hide and if she sparks up again-
Oh, hush. She’s upset. But you do give me an idea.
Don’t I always?
Alice tugged back against Jem’s grip, “If you don’t care, turn left here. And stop gripping so tightly.”
Jemima let go of Alice’s hand completely, face slightly flushed in a manner she was more accustomed to.
The street they walked was one that Radcliffe lived near, the stones less black with grime and more black with mineral. More of those wrought-iron gates popped up in front of houses and shops- it was similar to Philip’s part of town, quite a lot actually, but the tone was less inviting and more stony and cold.
Alice had somewhere particular in mind to go next, as she was sure Jemima didn’t actually want to head homeward. People passed by them on the streets, a horse and carriage tottered around seemingly aimless, and the occasional bird chirped from on high- the sudden normalcy was an odd change. She didn’t enjoy this part of London much.
She ran her fingers along some of the grout of the brickwork, “He must have taken a fancy to you, then.”
Jemima’s face twisted into a grimace, “What?”
“He doesn’t apologize to anyone for his antics. We met quite a while ago, before you and I crossed paths even. I don’t even remember what asinine thing he did, but it certainly wasn’t apologized for. He must fancy you, that’s the only thing men think about, it seems.”
“Pity for him. I don’t fancy men at all.” Jemima scoffed, arms crossed over her chest.
The phrase stopped her mind cold in its tracks for a moment. It wasn’t something she thought about very often, just by nature of being herself. She’d seen girls not fancy particular men- Lizzie in particular. She’d have liked Jemima, I should think, if she can be that fiery towards unwanted suitors . The blatant admission of not enjoying the concept wasn’t something she’d put into words- she’d not had a reason to.
“I didn’t know you could do that.” Alice said, mostly to herself.
Jemima furrowed her brow again, lagging slightly behind to follow her instead of half-leading without knowing where they were going.
“W-well. You’ll get lectured and told you’ll turn into a spinster, but... It’s worked well enough for me here.”
The two fingers Jem had been holding seemed to flutter as they were allowed to breathe again.
“Where are we going, then?” she asked, both hands now occupied with the ribbon.
In the near distance past the people walking to and fro, the rippling surface of River Thames glittered in the daylight. If Alice squinted, she could nearly see the ashen remains of the Mangled Mermaid, a black smear on the dingy brown-gray of the East End. There was no returning to it, not until it was rebuilt, and she wasn’t at all fond of the concept of walking through cinders and ash. There was, on the other hand, a smaller and slightly higher-end inn on Jemima’s side of the River that she had only recently started poking about on occasion.
“I’ve not seen my Nan in quite a while. Your uncle may not appreciate my company, but I should think she’d appreciate yours.” Alice said resolutely, pushing Jemima in front of her once again.
Notes:
EDIT: Since this fic is very niche and I don't often post to my tumblr, I made a little Twitter specifically to do little shitposts and character design doodles, as well as converse with you guys about the fic and perhaps hear some ideas on a more friendly website!
See ya there <3 https://twitter.com/MelancholyMacawThings are going to get a bit more interesting in the next chapter, but I wanted to at least post this and give a little update! First chapter with the character as a character rather than an insert- I'm still attempting to design her but when I have a handle on it, I'll link it here!
I was introduced to the work of Edward Lear through this song, which is definitely what I imagine Alice's piano playing sounded like in her head! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vRtVFIsYPLI
Cosmo Sheldrake as a whole is absolutely wonderful and gives me Wonderland muse!
I've earned a little sapphic posturing for these two, and while I am hoping for the story to become easier for me to write, I still love hearing input because conflict is something I need assistance writing. The conflict?
I mean... there is still an unsolved murder, you know.
If I'm to be perfectly honest, it is taking all of my willpower not to just get mushy right now haha
Let me know what you think please- this is definitely a passion project.
Hearts, hugs, and happy Halloween!
-Bea 🦜
Chapter 7: Cops and Barbers
Summary:
In which a visit to an old friend turns awry.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The sign hanging from the outside of the inn clattered in a haggard gust of wind.
The Thames Tavern stood half-welcoming in the daylight, slow during the weekday and inhabited only by a clerk slumped over a desk with a quill beneath the overhang outside. Seagulls squawked and chattered nearby at the empty docks, fighting over putrid-smelling fish skeletons and clumps of seaweed.
As they approached, the clerk raised his eyes drearily, “Miss Liddell. Sharpe’s inside tending the bar. Don’t step into the inn itself, etcetera. Thank you.”
Alice gave him a cursory nod and pushed open the creaky swinging doors, holding them for Jemima to sidle awkwardly inside. Mostly empty at this time of the day, the tavern boasted sparse general sea-faring decoration and one very unconscious man slouched into a pile somewhere in the corner.
Her eyes turned toward the bar, every bottle and glass pristine and shiny and ready to be obliterated come five o’clock and onwards. The broad-shouldered woman with the anchor tattoo on her great bosom, small beauty mark, and frilly black feather poking from between locks of mousy-brown hair didn’t seem to notice the pair at first. Alice made a motion to continue, but when she realized she was walking alone, retrieved a distracted Jemima from in front of the door, ushering her in by the small of her back.
The barkeep finally looked up, her dull expression morphing into one of warmth and just a little bit of mischief, “Well, wouldja look at what the fishermans dragged in. How’s my girl been, then, eh?”
Alice smiled in return, one of the few genuine smiles she had to offer, “You know how it goes, Nan. We were down by the play-house and I wanted to come say hello. This is quite a bit more amicable than attempting to do so in the evening.”
“Oh aye. We?”
She sat on one of the bar-stools, revealing Jemima, who had somehow managed to shrink behind her while she observed the tacky decoration on the walls.
“Oh, wee lamb!” Nan laughed, leaning over the bar and observing the other young woman through tired eyes, “Let me have a look at ya.”
Jemima startled, as Jemima was apt to do, but bowed her head politely. Nan squinted with a wry look in her eye as she observed her up and down.
“Lovely dress upon you, dear. You must be that pretty little starling what’s keeping my Alice out of trouble.”
Jemima furrowed her brow, confused, “Erm. Presumably?”
Alice scoffed, “Keeping
me
out of trouble? I’m keeping
her
out of trouble, thank you very much!”
“Oh, what makes you say that now?” Nan snickered, resting her chin on her palm.
“The Galloway boy nearly had his head ripped off by her. Would have served him right, the lout, but it wouldn’t have been a pleasant thing to explain to her West End uncle.”
Alice watched Jemima rock back and forth on her heels, hands fiddling with the ribbon she kept in her pocket again whilst she warily watched her surroundings. She gestured at the stool beside her for her companion to sit.
“This little birdie, Alice? Tell me dear, what’s your name?”
She sat herself down but continued to fiddle with the ribbon, “Jemima, ma’am. Jemima Baker.”
The barkeep stood up only to do a haphazard little courtesy, and returned to her slumping position against the counter, “Nan Sharpe, at your service. Though you look a bit short in the tooth for anything stronger than a cup of milk.”
Jemima’s face twisted in disdain, “Ugh. Even when I’m too long in the tooth, I’ll stick to milk.”
Nan nodded so solemnly that she could almost have been mistaken for serious, “Good fer yer bones, girl. Brandy does nothin’ but make your breath stink and your name hard ta remember. Guess it makes my pockets a bit more full, too.”
Alice’s brow creased with concern, “Does the Thames Tavern not pay well?”
Her nan chuckled half-heartedly. Her worn hands tightened on the polishing cloth in her palm as she spoke, “Nowhere pays well, girl. You should know very well.”
“That disgusting pimp isn’t still traipsing around after you, is he? After burning down the Mangled Mermaid?”
Jemima gawed, almost not comprehending.
Nan shook her head, “Not as long as I can keep him at bay with me pocket change and keep my nightly running alongside my daily. Not a bad life… not a bad life but it’s a hard’n.”
Indignance boiled in her belly. It had been months now, months and still, Jack Splatter still skulked about in her nan’s shadow.
I suppose it’s wrong to think that all men are the scum of the earth.
They certainly aren’t attempting to prove you otherwise, now are they?
Alice practically groaned in frustration, Will you either please LEAVE or STAY? Quit bobbing in and out! Not to mention, who are you to talk? You’re a man!
Her eyes darted to several of the polished green bottles of liquor, beer, and other poisons- she couldn’t see Cheshire beside her, but in the reflection of the bottles, she could see him sitting hunch-backed between Jemima and Nan on the counter.
Nonsense, Alice. I’m not a man, I’m a cat!
“I-I’m sorry, ah-”
Jem’s baffled voice broke through the slight trance. She was looking incredibly confused and distressed at the same time, “How… How did you know Alice, again?”
“She was mine and my sister’s governess when we were little. Mother and father worked quite a lot during the day, and Nan made sure we didn’t starve to death after refusing to come inside all afternoon.”
“Not that you didn’t try to avoid comin’ inside at all costs, mind you. Your sister knew to come when called, but lord above, if you couldn’t squeeze through inta the tiniest places to escape teatime,” Nan guffawed, brown-amber eyes sparkling through the dirt and crows feet creasing her face.
She held her finger and thumb an inch apart and looked through it to Jemima, who had since settled and was looking a little more relaxed, “I tells ya, girl, she had the
tiniest
hands as a babe. Perfect for grabbin’ keys out of me pockets and lockin’ herself into cupboards without anyone noticing.”
Jemima grinned a little, glancing at Alice from the side, “Were you afraid of cucumber sandwiches as a girl, perhaps?”
She gasped in mock-offense. “You act like you aren’t afraid of a stiff wind. When you were little you probably never left the nursery for fear of a cricket being rude to you.”
Nan seemed mildly stunned by the familiarity with which the two addressed each other, but continued curiously, “I tried to train those evil little hands for things besides stealing sugar cubes and keys, didn’t I? You were so on your way at being excellent at piano-”
Jemima laughed, clapping her hands together, “Oh, you’re to thank for Alice’s wonderful playing, then?”
Nan gasped loudly, eyebrows raised and mouth agape, “Chrissakes, you actually got her to
play
?”
Alice suddenly felt all the color, what little there was, leave her face. Her eyes dropped to the counter for a moment as she crossed her arms over her chest, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“NAN-”
“What?” Nan Sharpe cackled, turning her attention mischievously to Jemima, “We had a
wonderful
old piano at the Mangled Mermaid. I could
never
get her to play the damned thing.”
Jemima exaggeratedly leaned onto her elbow on the counter, hazel eyes sparkling in the dull light of the tavern, “Oh, really?” she chuckled, “You just saw fit to show off to me, then?”
The color came back to her face quite quickly, “Both of you are terrible.”
Aren’t you one to talk.
Cheshire’s reflection danced in the bottles until it settled beside another that appeared to be sitting in the window Alice half jumped out of her skin when Jemima turned around to look at it, smiling brightly.
“It’s Hollyhock!”
“Wh- what?”
“Hollyhock, she’s outside on the window sill. She must like you, she follows you around so,” Jem glanced back at Nan Sharpe over her shoulder, “May I bring her inside if she lets me pick her up? Last time we saw her some children threw a stone at her, I want to make sure she’s alright.”
Nan obliged with a wave of her hand, “If me boss says something, I dunno you or the cat ya brought inside.”
Jem smiled and trotted through the doors to retrieve the thin white cat. Alice saw Hollyhock meow in greeting through the window, and shortly before the young woman had her in her hands, she gently leapt down and evidently walked a little ways past, leaving Jemima to stomp after her in exasperation.
Nan snickered to herself whilst shaking her head. She finally straightened her back and resumed polishing the exorbitant amount of mis-matched shot glasses to stack in columns on the bar behind her.
Alice breathed a sigh of relief to have a brief reprieve from the friendly heckling. When she noticed Nan looking slyly at her from the corner of her eye, her cheeks threatened to color again- she did not enjoy being the center of attention, even when it was people she loved.
“What? Why do you keep looking at me like that?”
Nan pursed her lips, trying not to grin, “Well, she’s fond of you, clearly.”
“And so what if she is? First decent person to show up in this ruddy town in ages.”
“That so? Seems a little mousy,” she said as though considering something legitimately, “You played piano for her. You must be fond of her as well, then.”
Alice shifted in her seat, eyebrows furrowed again, “I played because she asked me to when we were at the opera house. I wouldn’t have if I’d have known Victor was there. He nearly scared us half to death.”
“Mhm.”
“He did!” she snorted, unsure why she was feeling warm and prickly beneath the collar of her apron, “I’ve told you how he is. Irritating, even when he isn’t pestering me at all hours of a performance. He tried to apologize to her for scaring her- that’s when she started barking mad.”
Nan tossed her bar-rag over a small sink off to the side, watching Alice prattle with her eyes half lidded and her brows raised with much amusement.
“What?”
“You don’t sound too happy about it.”
“Why would I be happy about it? He scared me out of my wits when I began working there, and I didn’t get so much as a ‘pardon’,” Alice threw up her hands, mostly metaphorically but a little physically, “She’s too good for the likes of him, anyway, even if he wasn’t a mongrel. I wish he’d leave us be. I won’t even be able to bring her to the opera house to chat while I do papers if the bloody place ever opens again.”
“Eh. I wouldn’t worry about the Galloway boy, if I were you. He’s a little fool but he hasn’t got the heart ta be cruel to little purple sheeps like you two.”
Alice leaned against the bartop on her elbows again, trying to figure out what was wrong with the reflections in the bottles on the shelf behind her nan, “Purple sheep?”
“Aye, sheeps. Lavender woolen sapphists led by her shepherd’s crook.” she pretended to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her own ear, fanning herself with an absolutely atrocious piece of half-damp paper.
“Nan, that was lovely, but I do not understand you in the slightest,” Alice admonished quietly, voice twisting away when she realized: Cheshire was no longer sitting on the counter in the reflection.
In fact, he wasn’t there at all.
“I’m only teasin’ ya, girl. No difference to me either way. I’m just glad you’re keepin’ out of trouble after that business at the Mermaid.”
The sound of the door being nudged open broke her befuddlement, at least for the moment. She smiled softly seeing Hollyhock’s bony little body being cradled and carried inside, but her smile faltered when she saw the look upon Jemima’s face.
Her eyes were wide and glassy, and her skin looked almost colorless aside from the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She sat silently back next to Alice, holding Hollyhock firmly to her body as she curled over her front. It looked as though she were almost quivering.
“Jem, what’s the matter?” Alice asked, almost whispering.
Even Nan’s jovial mood seemed to stutter, “Aye lass, someone walk over your grave?”
She replied so quietly that Alice couldn’t hear. Hollyhock sat in her arms, nonplussed, her little eyes squeezed shut.
“Can she have some water?”
Nan nodded, “I’ve a pump back here, give me a moment.”
Alice hesitantly tapped her on the shoulder, “Jemima, what’s wrong?”
She leaned closer, and this time was able to hear the whistly, mumbled reply, “Sailors.”
“Yes… we are at the dock,” Alice replied slowly, feeling a pang of pale lime-green anxiety when her companion began to look her in the eye.
Jem was often jumpy, easily startled, but more than frightened, she looked ghostly. It sent her insides twisting around uncomfortably- she recognized that look, though usually, it was worn by herself and not others.
Nan Sharpe placed a chipped little glass of water on the bartop, raising her eyebrow inquisitively at her former charge. Alice didn’t answer, instead prompting her friend to drink and try to steady her nerves.
While it didn’t appear to make her much calmer, the taste of the water seemed to snap her forward into reality. She sputtered and grimaced, wiping her mouth on her shoulder.
“GH- GHOgh, it’s- It’s salty!”
Nan shrugged, “Sorry girl, pipe’s aren’t in the best shape. I doubted you want to wake yerself up with gin.”
Jem couldn’t seem to untangle the disgust from her face, ruffling her fingers repetitively through Hollyhock’s fur. Alice watched her, satisfied that she was, at least, aware now.
“What’s the matter? I’ve never seen you like that before.”
Before she could finish drawing her breath to answer, a set of blocky footsteps approached them from the direction she’d come from. Nan donned a neutral expression, raising her eyebrows as the couple of newcomers traipsed inside.
A decidedly male voice echoed in the empty tavern, “You two are a bit young to be trying to wet your whistle, eh?”
Jemima twitched as she held herself back from flinching whilst Alice donned a similar neutral expression to her Nan.
“She was my governess, once upon a time, thank you very much,” Alice replied curtly, holding her head high with her chin tilted slightly upward.
The two bobbies that sauntered in did not look entirely enthralled to be there, but did their job just the same. The first had a square jaw caked with stubble and droopy, tired eyes, whilst the second had a mostly-neatly combed mustache and a pair of wiry glasses perched upon his nose.
The square-looking fellow rested his equally-square looking hands on his hips, “Beatrice Sharpe, I take it?”
“That I am. What can I do fer yas?”
He took from his pocket a little rectangular notepad, flipping through pages clumsily with his indelicate fingers, “Ohhh…. Hm. Just takin’ notes fer the Captain up at the station. Owner of the Mermaid needs some for the papers.”
“That was months ago, love, why just now?” Nan chirped, honeying her words but more than a bit surprised.
Alice felt the other bobby staring through her. Her skin prickled and acid rose in her throat, but she remained silent, as was often the most useful thing to do in those situations. Jemima was not at all fond of being scrutinized, even indirectly so.
They busied themselves with gently turning Hollyhock’s little head hither and thither, checking for wounds or otherwise just generally fiddling with the cat under the guise thereof. Hollyhock didn’t seem to mind at all, kneading the fabric of Jem’s apron and purring softly, eyes squeezed shut and whiskers jutting forward when her chin was scratched.
“Heyo there, love, you uh… what’s your name, then?” the mustached bobby addressed her directly, tipping his hat.
“I’m a little young for you to be asking that question, officer.” Alice replied curtly.
He frowned a bit, “That’s not- hrm. Ma’am, I believe we’ve been meaning to reach in regards to one of our investigations.”
Alice feels claws in her leg, atop her thighs, but she knows they aren’t Hollyhock’s, “Is that so? I know I was in the Mangled Mermaid the night that bastard burned it down, but-”
“No, no. Miss Liddell, we’ve been needing to contact you about the disappearance of Dr. Bumby.”
Hush fell through the tavern, broken only by Hollyhock’s subtle purrs. Jemima glanced up at her wearily, and Nan glanced at her surprised.
Speak, girl, Cheshire hissed from somewhere inside her head.
“Dr. Bumby?” Jemima asked quietly, eyebrows knitting together, “He’s disappeared?”
The bobby gave a grim nod, seemingly just noticing Jemima for the first time, “Indeed. He’s not been seen in three months, nearly four.”
He returned his gaze to Alice, “You’re up to be interviewed about it, my girl. We’ve spoken to several of the housemaids, and we’ve not been able to speak to you. Lucky we should find you here.”
“Indeed,” was all Alice managed to say,
The bobby had his own tiny square notebook, which he took from his own pocket. He flipped through the pages, mumbling under his breath, “Ah hm… hm… there we are… Alice Liddell. Well then, Alice Liddel, I wish to address this as quickly as possible, it’s been quite difficult to find you-”
“Oh, that’s… that’s my fault, I’m afraid,” Jemima admitted sheepishly, “I’ve been keeping her company and vice-versa. Not usually uh… around here, though.”
He fixed her with a curious stare, eyes hard, “And who might you be?”
“Jemima. Uh, B-Baker. My uncle is a barber in the West End.” She tried to mimic a curtsy as best she could with the cat in her lap.
“Figures as much,” the bobby said, “You look to be too nice a girl to be in a place like this,”
He glanced at Nan, “No offense, missus.”
“None taken,”
“In any case,” he tittered as he found his place on his page again, “Miss Liddell, there truly is no easy way to say this. We have reason to suspect that the viscera found at the East End train station… well. We have reason to suspect that it may be Dr. Bumby.”
She sat stock still, back tight and throat catching. The claws in her thighs cut deeper and deeper, heart thumping within her chest, You’d do well to regain control of your nerves or we’re all as good as hanged. Speak, girl! Speak!
Alice felt her hand enclosed in another. Blank-faced, she checked to see whether or not it was real- Jemima gently squeezed, trying to get her attention. She’d set Hollyhock down, who was now currently milling about in the manner that most cats are apt to do, sniffing things that weren’t theirs and marking them with their cheeks as if they were.
“I… I think I’m going to be sick,” she manages to blubber out, covering her mouth with her free hand and squeezing with the other.
The officer nodded solemnly, “Grim news, I understand. This is why it is impertinent that we interview you to move forward in the investigation.”
Nan Sharpe and the other bobby seemed to have finished up their own business and now watched the scene warily. He stepped beside his partner and grabbed him by the shoulder, whispering something in his ear. The mustached bobby nodded.
Temper yourself. Actually be sick, for God’s sake, be-
Will you be quiet, you wretched creature, she hissed back within her own mind’s eye, I’m trying to think.
“Do you want me to stay with you?” Jemima asked softly, not looking entirely pleased to have heard the news herself. She turned to the bobby, asking in a small voice, “Would that be allowed?”
“Ah… hmm. What do you think, Jonesy?” he asked his square-jawed partner.
Jonesy pursed his lips and scratched his chin, “Hmm. Where was you from again, poppet?”
Though her grip tightened at the pet name, Jemima answered simply, “West End. My uncle is a barber.”
“We’ve seen this one down at the station before, Fred,” he grunted to his partner, pointing at Alice, “Mad as a mewin’ nun.”
“As harmless as a nun too, officer.” Nan stated firmly, planting herself behind the two girls with her arms crossed over her great chest, “She was there that dreadful night with the pimp what burned down the Mermaid. I told you that. Tried to get him away from me, bless her heart, but he knocked her out cold. Glad myself and a couple others could get her out before the place caught on like kindling.”
The two men pondered for a moment, glancing back and forth with each other before whispering in discussion. Reluctantly, Officer Frederick nodded.
“You mustn't interfere with the line of inquiry, and only speak when spoken to. But, yes, you may stay with Miss Liddell during the questioning,” he relented, looking at Nan behind them and jerking his head to the right.
Nan Sharpe gave Alice a cursory pat on the shoulder before heading into the stock room behind the bar. Jemima squeezed her hand, waiting for a response.
Her body began to feel cold and clammy. She became aware of her skeleton, how her muscles and guts and skin sagged upon it, barely holding together in a physical state, let alone a mental one. At the same time as being aware of her body, the tingly feeling of floating away from it almost began to replace the sensation completely.
The hand closed around her own looked peculiar. Or, rather, it both looked peculiar and felt peculiar, in that it did not feel how it looked. It felt warm, soft, quite like a normal hand, but it looked as though she was being held by a large scaly bird’s claws.
“Alright, this won’t take long, we’ve got other stops to make today.”
ꕥꕥꕥ
INTERVIEW NOTES
Liddell, Alice
Young woman residing at Houndsditch Home For Wayward Youth- former patient of Dr. Bumby.
Accompanied by Baker, Jemima- friend (?) of Liddell’s from the West End.
OFFICER FREDRICK-
Alright then,
- When was the last time Dr. Bumby was seen?
LIDDELL-
The last time I saw the Dr. was the same day on which I visited Nan at the Mangled Mermaid. I saw him that morning- he told me to retrieve my pills from the High-street Chemist.
FREDRICK-
So you didn’t see him in the evening at all?
LIDDELL-
No. That night. I was in the Mangled Mermaid. Jack Splatter likely remembers me- I remembered him by the bruise he gave me for nearly a week after.
FREDRICK: This being the same night on which the Mermaid was burned down then, yes?
LIDDELL-
Yes.
FREDRICK: Alright- and since then, you’ve not seen hide nor hair of him since then?
LIDDEL-
No, I haven’t.
FREDRICK-
It’s been nearly three months since he’s disappeared, less since he was declared missing. You didn’t think that unusual at all?
LIDDELL-
Of course it’s unusual. If you mean to ask me why I hadn’t reported anything, I tried. I’ve been quite busy watching more of the children in the home along with the housemaids.
FREDRICK-
The building still runs without him there?
LIDDELL-
Yes. The head housemaid makes sure the children are fed, prescriptions are filled, and things are at least attempted to be clean. Dr. Bumby hasn’t been giving signatures for food or what have you, but the head housemaid tries to get refills done for those who need them.
FREDRICK-
What’s her name? The head housemaid?
LIDDELL-
Gloria. I don’t know her surname.
FREDRICK-
Alright. The day Dr. Bumby was last seen, as indicated by Missus Gloria, was the same Thursday that the London Railway began operating in East End. That was one day post the burning of the Mangled Mermaid.
LIDDELL-
I… I believe so. That was a very stressful time, as one may imagine. Even before the Dr. stopped coming back.
LIDDELL-
Oh… oh, I do recall, that was the day we met, you [She addresses Baker] stopped by home with you uncle. Dr. Bumby wasn’t there that afternoon, you couldn’t be taken into the practice.
FREDRICK-
[Addressing Baker] That’s correct, then?
BAKER-
[Nods]
FREDRICK-
Alright. You were at the Houndsditch Home on that Thursday?
LIDDELL-
Yes. The night previously, I’d spent mostly with Nan, and I walked home in the morning. The rest of the day I mostly spent nursing my popped cheek. Courtesy of that dreadful pimp, of course.
FREDRICK-
Indeed. Well, thank you for your time, Miss Liddell, and er- Miss Baker. For the moment, I believe we’re finished here. If need be, we’ll uh, try and contact you in any follow-up investigation inquiries.
FREDRICK- Oh, and uh… [Addressing Baker] is your uncle named Philip, perchance? Philip Baker?
BAKER-
[Nods]
FREDRICK- I see. In that case, please remember to tell Mr. Baker that we appreciate his concern for Dr. Bumby. Scotland Yard is quite busy, but his disappearance is of the utmost importance.
INTERVIEW CONCLUDED
OFFICER FREDRICK HUCKABEE, ACC. BY OFFICER THOMAS JONES.
ꕥꕥꕥ
Jemima’s stomach dropped fast and cold. She didn’t understand why. Her focus remained on Alice, though her nerves hopped and jumped and told her to run, run, run, hide, hide, hide!
The officers departed a few minutes ago, but Alice simply… sat. She slouched, silent, glassy-eyed, as if she wasn’t perceiving the things around her. Even the hand she held in her own was limp now.
Jemima leaned over the bar, stomach turning, “M-Miss? Miss Sharpe?”
As though she’d been waiting to hear her name called, Nan returned from the back room whilst eyeing every corner of the bar. Other than the drunk asleep in the corner booth, no-one else remained. Even Hollyhock had since moseyed along.
“Aye, all’s well?”
Jemima’s heart thumped, her stomach uneasy, “I… I don’t quite know. S-she was fine during the interview, but…”
Nan Sharpe exitted from behind the bar to get a better look. Her face turned dour with recognition. She leaned over next to Alice and snapped her fingers a few times, trying to get her attention, and failing.
“What’s wrong with her?” Jemima asked, voice fearful.
Nan straightened her back and sighed slowly through her nose. Her face twisted with pity and gentle sadness, “Ah, my girl, she gets this way sometimes. Ain’t nothin’ ya can do but sit through it.”
Jem squeezed her hand- again, no response, “... I… how long does it take? For her to come out?”
The barkeep fiddled with the likely-fake stone on her lace collar, “Ohh. Once again, budgie, it all depends. After what happened to her as a wee one, she was like that for… mm. Ten years, nearly, poor thing.”
She balked, suddenly feeling quite nauseous, “Ten years? What happened to her?”
Nan’s demeanor hardened, “Tis not my place ta say. If she wants ta tell ya, she will. Till then, if ever, mind your business.”
Jem flinched a bit but nodded. She turned her eyes toward Alice again, hoping for a change but spotting none. Her friend still sat slightly hunched forward, eyes half open, with no expression on her face at all. What little color she’d had before was drained away, leaving her pallid and cold looking. The only thing keeping her from looking like she may as well have been a corpse was her gentle breathing and the occasional blink.
Much against her will, Jemima felt her mouth turning downward. She pursed her lips with concern, trying to mitigate the effect and what generally came afterward, though tears seemed to prickle along her eyelids.
Don’t you cry. Crying will not help you here. It won’t help her either, so don’t you do it.
She jumped when she felt a hand on her own shoulder. Nan’s harder expression since turned into another of pity, though this time directed at her rather than Alice.
“Iffin’ it’s never somethin’ you’ve seen before, I know it’s not pretty to see. S’just part of her that she can’t turn off. She gets scared, and her mind just… poof.”
Jem felt so small in that moment. Her stomach hardened, though it still turned, and her eyes burned, though they didn’t shed any tears. If this was part of knowing Alice, so be it.
“Is there anything I can do to… to help?” she asked, knowing the answer.
Nan Sharp patted her shoulder once more, “No, little budgie, I’m afraid not. Ya don’t know how many times you can ask yourself that and still get the same answer. In ten years, it became hard to count how many. S’why I stopped,” she chuckled darkly.
Jem swallowed, her throat dry.
“Why don’t you totter on home, love?” Nan Sharpe urged her, eyes flicking toward the tightened grasp on Alice’s limp hand, “I’ll make sure iffin’ she’s not woken up by the time we open for the night that she’s somewhere safe. I’ve a room upstairs that should serve, god forbid.”
I want to stay. I want to make sure she’s alright. But what could you do if you stayed? Sit next to her and get spooked by sailors outside on the dock?
Jemima took a deep breath and slowly let it out, defeated, and feeling quite ill, “Is it too much to ask when you’d think I’d be hearing from her again?”
“Not too long, I’d imagine. But be patient. When she comes to, I’ll let her know her little friend wanted to wait. Cross me heart,” She pantomimed the motion over her chest, “And the anchor over it.”
Jem finally released Alice’s hand, sliding it into place on her lap. She searched her face one last time, relented when she saw nothing, and began to walk toward the door.
Before going too far, she turned back around to regard Nan Sharpe, struggling not to look at Alice in her dormancy. She bowed shortly at the waist and smiled sadly, “I wish we could’ve met over better circumstances. She was right about you, I should think you were a good governess. She’s a good piano player, after all.”
Nan’s chuckle turned into an audible laugh, “Don’t give me so much credit, love. I’m sure we’ll meet again. Run along now, and be quick about it.”
Having nothing else to do, and not much of a desire to find something else, Jemima left.
Notes:
HELLO ALL, I sincerely hope you're still reading this fic!
Once again, many life changes have been had- for one, I've moved across the country! For another, I'm trying to find housing with my spouse.
Finding muse for this is very hit or miss, but when I find it, I try to write at least a little bit. I know the story's been meandering on for a while now as the two get acquainted, but hopefully this will help to push things forward, and to tide you over until more is written.
If you want to chitchat or see the stupid ramblings I have on occasion, please give me a poke on my twitter: https://twitter.com/MelancholyMacaw !
I hope this is to your liking, your comments always make my day so much brighter!
Love and hugs and all that jazz.
-Bea <3
Chapter 8: HAPPY PRIDE and Posting Questions
Chapter Text
A HAPPY PRIDE TO ALL US SAPPHIC QUEER FOLK!!
If I didn't post a little something for pride month, something would be amiss... it would also likely be because I'm quite busy. In any case!
I wanted to pose a little question: do you prefer shorter chapters with a more frequent release schedule, or longer chapters with larger gaps between releases?
I'm trying to work on the story whenever I can and whenever I have muse- if there's one fic I want to finish to its end, it would be this one! Knowing I have your support makes it much easier to write, but at times, life does get in the way.
I wanted your input on what you'd prefer, if any at all!
HAVE A HAPPY AND SAFE PRIDE MONTH! <3
- Bea
Chapter 9: Rigamarole
Summary:
Indirect cruelty is cruelty nonetheless.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Stop! Stop chasing me!
She couldn’t tell where she was at first, or who was speaking. It felt warm, not uncomfortably so, but that of a cloudy summer afternoon. Grass curled beneath her fingers- no… grass wasn’t this soft. And last she checked, it didn’t smell of talcum powder.
Alice pried open her eyes, unable to tell where the light came from. She sat up slowly, clutching her head.
“Finally. You were of no great help earlier, I’ll have you know,” Cheshire’s voice snarled, deep and loathsome.
Alice managed to pry her eyes open. The blurs around her began to slowly solidify, but even so, they didn’t completely form into things completely intelligible.
She lay encircled by trees, perfectly encircled, actually- they formed a flawless ellipse, each trunk slender and stretching so far skyward that the canopy was lost. Leaves see-sawed down toward her to settle into the carpet of…
These certainly are not leaves.
She clutched in her palm what appeared to be… down- large quantities of bird’s down that flowed and tickled her wrist and fingers.
With a sharp snap of wings and a fearful squawk, she located the source thereof. Cheshire leapt into the air with his claws outstretched and his jaws open, swiping at a panicking mass of feathers that seemed to have little to no control over where it was going.
It dawned on Alice that she very rarely, if ever, saw Cheshire move like a normal cat. He purred like one, he growled like one, and lashed his tail like one, yes, but leaping and chasing things was simply not his forte. Alice furrowed her brow and tried to stand, finding her legs wobbly.
The image around her seemed to shimmer like the light on the top of a pond.
Cheshire snapped his head toward her before looking about them frantically. He hunkered down among the fluff, ears notched back and his eyes glimmering, “Take it easy now, Alice. It’s been quite a while since you’ve had the courtesy to pay us a visit .”
The sputtering creature landed at the foot of one of the encircling trees, whimpering and muttering to itself. Cheshire had his eyes fixed on Alice, but one ear pointed toward it.
“What on earth are you doing, you beast? Leave that poor creature be,” she scolded, managing to stand and attempt to comprehend where exactly she was.
She’d not been to this place before. It almost looked like the same perfect blue sky encircling Cardbridge when she peered past the tree trunks. It appeared to her that she simply stood on a perfect little slice of forest, surrounded by the guarding trees with the feather-down, leaves, and occasional scraps of fabric littering the grassy floor. Occasionally a mushroom would bob above the surface of the carpeting before sinking down again, feeling much too crowded.
Alice glanced down at her form of dress, half-expecting it to be changed. She felt a pit form when she discovered that she wore her standard London attire, complete with the tatters and smears of black that came with it.
The ball of feathers tottling off around the edge of the clearing circled around the opposite side of the two warily. As Cheshire’s eyes found it again, she snapped her fingers to regain his attention. She’d never seen him so bestial.
“Leave it be!”
He sneered at her, “Oh, forgive me . I’ve forgotten that you’re a beacon of moral aptitude.”
Alice scoffed, balling her fists, “Enough of that, cat. Where are we?”
“It’s your mind, my girl. You tell me,” the usual snide-ness in his voice was replaced with annoyance- he nuzzled into the feathers and tried to cover himself, the lashing of his tail making it quite difficult to do so.
“Don’t play coy. Or don’t you know?”
She blinked, and found that he’d disappeared, phasing away into nothing. Alice turned about to search for him, and partially to watch for the little creature he’d been chasing. He said nothing, but she still knew he was there, simmering in his silence.
He didn’t know.
The little beast shrieked as his paws materialized inches from its back, exploding into a flurry of feathers and bouncing high into the leafy canopy. It seemed difficult for it to fly, but it managed to lurch onto a relatively low-hanging branch to catch its breath, huffing.
“As I was saying,” Cheshire snorted, “a fat lot of help you were earlier. Lucky your little friend was there to save you, eh?”
“As if you have room to talk!” Alice snapped, “You screaming at me from inside my own head wasn’t helpful in the slightest.”
The cat stalked toward her, an entirely unusual sight. He fixed her with his pallid amber eyes, “We cannot rely on others, girl. You must become self-sufficient once again. The one shield you had from the scrutiny of the legal system turned out to be a farce for something far more nefarious- you must rely on yourself. Even I cannot help you when you freeze in such a bovine manner.”
Alice started, taking a moment to collect her words. Much like the ground beneath her, everything felt so… fuzzy. She finally spoke, her voice firm, “I know that, cat. Not only must I look out for myself, I must… I must watch the children at the Home, to the best of my ability. I am acutely aware. Don’t treat me as though I’m stupid.”
Cheshire snapped, “Then cease acting as such. Keep your head out of the clouds- between the two of you, that girl stays up there more than enough.”
“What does she have to do with this?”
He rolled his eyes, “I’ve just told you not to be stupid. Think before you speak.”
Alice pursed her lips. The lashing of Cheshire’s tail disturbed the downy carpet. Her eyes followed the falling feathers to their source- the little creature feverishly preened itself, sometimes shaking and sending another small explosion scattering to the floor. Occasionally, a breeze flowed through the clearing, sending the fluff into the shape of a waterfall down to whatever lay below.
She pricked her ears, listening to its squeaking, Is it mumbling to itself?
“Would you like me to spell it out for you? You seem to be having a difficult time.”
Alice glared at the bony, tattooed cat as he blocked the flow of some of the feather-down, “Spell out what, beast? You seem to be having a more difficult time organizing your thoughts than I am.”
He laughed in a low, condescending tone, “Oh, Alice. Come now, look closer at the damnable thing.”
Flicking his tail toward the source of the feathers, he disappeared again. Alice, feeling her temper beginning to simmer, took a few steps toward it. For her own mind, a place of such nightmarish intent a mere few months prior, this seemed… too calm.
“You there. Pardon me?” she called up to it.
It started in its place, the mass of whirling feathers making a movement to face her… presumably, “H-huh, wh- hm? Who’s that? Bloody cat?”
“ Ah. No, I’m afraid,” Alice nearly winced at its voice, tinny and shrill, “May I ask where we are? And how to leave? I have things I simply must return to.”
“
Oh, don’t we all,” it tittered, the vague shape of a bird-like head turning to preen at its back, exposing a flash of something bronze or gold, “We’re in the Cagewood. No way out. Not right now.”
An irritated throb pulsed across her skull, “When will there be a way out?”
“Dunno,” it responded nonchalantly, “Just got here meself.”
Alice crossed her arms. Cheshire’s impatient voice slid in from somewhere beside her, “Cages are normally things kept locked, are they not?”
She only cast a cursory glance in the direction of his voice- for once, he was actually seated there, “In case you’ve not noticed,” she said, “At the moment, we’ve not even a lock, let alone a key. I’ve had more than enough chicanery looking for them, I can’t even shrink anymore to look for one.”
“Pity,” Cheshire drolled, “You’ve at least part of one of those things, stupid girl. Really, have you lost your ability to navigate your own mind so easily? Perhaps we should stop bringing Wonderland to you. It’s dulling your senses.”
“ Is that- the cat , the bloody cat!”
The little creature on the overhanging tree branch squealed, stepping from side to side on its perch in a panicky manner, “Oh, you’re not gonna get me up here! Please don’t start swatting at me again, if you want feathers, they come out anyway! Look!”
To accentuate its point, it shook itself in a rouse and sent a cascade of fluff down toward them, enough to have covered Cheshire if they landed upon him.
Alice coughed and waved a few of the specks away. As the little creature shook itself, for just a moment before it was once again consumed by its own plumage, she could nearly make out-
“That’s the key?”
Cheshire slid his eyes toward her, “ Finally , and yet you are still incorrect. At least, partially so.”
“Oh, come now, don’t play coy. It was endearing as a child, but now it is merely a nuisance.”
The creature resumed muttering to itself.
Cheshire waited impatiently for a moment before sucking a breath in through his teeth, “I am ashamed to share a mind with you sometimes, girl. God’s sake. A cage has a lock, a lock needs a key. Perhaps a pair-of-keys .”
“ Is this fun for you?”
“
Not in the slightest,” he sneered at her again, though the mild fury that shimmered in his eyes when she’d awoken had cooled to a low burn by now, “It’s a parakeet, you dunce. A parakeyt.”
Alice practically felt herself turn gray, “And this parakeet-”
“
KEY-t
.”
“ Yes, yes, key -t,” she snapped, “What does it have to do with Jemima, I’m entirely out of patience for these riddles.”
Cheshire, equally out of patience, disappeared in a dissolving flash. The voice of Nan, echoey and everywhere and nowhere, touched her ears.
Well, she’s fond of you, clearly. Run along, little budgie-
Alice felt her stomach turn, glancing up at the bundle of feathers that twittered to itself whilst ceaselessly sending down scattering below.
“As fond as she may be of you, girl, you can trust nobody but yourself. Especially if her beloved uncle keeps pestering the police about the whereabouts of the recently deceased. He keeps prodding at the situation like flies at a festering wound.”
He disappeared again, only to reappear a few feet to her right.
Alice snapped in return, “Once again, cat, I am incredibly aware. How exactly am I supposed to breach that subject, if you are so intent on doing such?”
She laced her fingers together and peeled back her lip in a sneer of her own, “ Oh, Jemima, please tell your nattering old uncle who is feeding and housing you to stop pestering the police over the disappearance of someone he fully believes to be of some help rather than a despicable loathsome roach preying upon the ill minds of the unsuspecting innocent that also happened to have murdered my entire family. ”
She had to stop herself, her voice raising louder the further she spoke. Her teeth ground together and her heart pulsed in her ears- indeed she could nearly feel the throbbing in the earth around her.
And Lizzie.
Cheshire stared at her, silent, his gray skin appearing to shimmer alongside the heartbeat throbbing through the landscape.
He began, “I would never suggest that you act so rashly. I merely put forward that perhaps, knowing her fondness of you, and her rather trusting nature, that it may be better to suggest that we simply…. Give her a little push to help us cover our tracks.”
He stalked past her legs, pressing the flat of his skull to her calf, then his ribs, then his bony tail, as if he were attempting to wrap about her feet in a standard cat-like manner.
“It would be foolish of a craftsman not to use his tools.”
Alice felt something cold and clammy in her belly turn hot and bright, “A tool?”
She spat, kicking the place she knew that Cheshire would no longer be, “I am no Nurse Witless, you mongrel. She’s a human being- she’s my friend!”
Now across the small clearing, Cheshire rolled his eyes half in disgust and half in exasperation, “Oh, one whole friend you’ve got now. Wonderful! Enchanting to know that you would jeopardize the entirety of the safety of not only your own mind and your physical body, but that of those woodlice that you call ‘children’ that you oh-so-nobly promised to protect. All because Alice has made a friend .”
Her fingers twitched instinctively to tighten around the handle of her Vorpal Blade, though they found no purchase, “I knew you could be unbearable, but I didn’t know you could be so cruel .”
He gave her a challenging look, “Am I not a dispenser of hard truths, Alice? Improve the deficit of the uninformed, lest they suffer for it.”
She stayed silent, flexing her fingers. The rustling of the bird overhead and the wind throughout seemed incredibly loud, despite their softness.
“Perhaps… perhaps she would… perhaps she would understand. Perhaps she would believe me.”
His pupils dilated before contracting again, smaller than before, “Perhaps, she would, indeed, but the consequences of dispensing that knowledge would be far more dire than simply-”
“Lying.”
Alice hated to admit that they were both at least slightly correct… Cheshire more-so from a logical standpoint. Anyone with half a mind to spare would be appalled that she’d pushed an allegedly wonderful doctor to his grisly demise. Anyone with less than half a mind to spare would not believe her reasons for doing so.
She was quite used to emotions- their ferocity, their tone, the sharpness of them, but she still wasn’t as understanding of how her emotions related to other people… at least, ones she did not wish to drive away. Kindness was something found so few and far between. Jemima seemed to be a fountain of it, peppered with naivete but a genuinely good heart, one that didn’t belong in a place like London. She wasn’t simply her friend, she was her good friend, perhaps the best she’d ever had besides Dinah. The situation as a whole, however, simply did not lend itself to being clouded by emotional ties. The policeman operated on perceived fact… and the perceived fact, as of now, was that Alice had nothing to do with Dr. Bumby’s disappearance.
Cheshire pressed on, voice firm, “No matter how idiotic those officers are, Alice, you know who you are. The Oxford fire girl . You’re mad . As always… you are quite easy to blame.”
Alice retorted, “So I’m to risk everything on the chance that the police would believe her even if she gave me a proper alibi? Even if they come and question her again?”
“And you’re willing to risk everything on the chance that if you share what you’ve done with her that she won’t run to the police? Or, even in the best case scenario, that they won’t simply catch you in your lie? You’ve got the tools to strengthen your case. A cut of fabric alone does not a stuffed-rabbit make.”
She hated that Cheshire was correct. More than that, she hated that he was her- a pretty paper wrapping for the cold, logical slice of her mind that managed to keep her alive for so long. And yet, he was not calm, but rather lashing out, impulsive in his tone.
The throbbing of the landscape slowed to a dull hum like the noise of a hive of wasps. Cheshire padded up to her again, his voice more grim and at the same time soft, “We both know how fond she is of you, girl. Don’t let that fondness go to waste. Not with so much at stake.”
With that, his voice faded to an echo, and his corporeal form faded into mist. The presence he usually kept was now gone.
Alice was left alone with the tittering creature, still preening itself, now sleepily mumbling. The clearing of the Cagewood felt cooler, more shallow now.
“I’m coming to? How long was I gone?” she said to nobody in particular, her heart feeling heavy and prickly inside.
What am I to do? Nothing is an amicable option. Every single one is a double-edged sword. If I mishandle any of them, I always end up cut, but I can handle a few nicks. Jemima, however…
Before things began to dissolve into swirls of powder and dust, she watched something fall rapidly from the sleeping creature. It looked angular and sharp, unlike the down that still did not cease falling.
The Vorpal Blade?
Alice stepped forward and bent to pick it up, but was not met with the delicately carved hilt of her familiar blade. It wasn’t soft, but still silky and gentle.
A flight feather.
Her eyes snapped open.
The bright light of the clearing no longer shone gently, but instead she found herself mired in dusty darkness. Alice forced herself to blink and re-wet her eyes, which she found to be rather irritating from staying open for such long intervals. Her body felt tight and creaky.
Twiddling her fingers, she found that she’d been propped up in a many-times-reupholstered chair that wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. Her mouth tasted sour and dry from her time of inactivity, however long it had been. She tried to get her eyes to focus in the darkness, and managed to perceive a square of paper on the stubby end table beside her.
Nan’s handwriting, elegant in form but scratchy thanks to the quality of the pen and paper with which she wrote, read, Come downstairs if you wake up. We’ll get you something to eat.
Her stomach growled at the thought of food, but she felt too ill to even consider eating. She hadn’t been able to return to Wonderland proper, not since everything had begun to congeal in the real world in haphazard spurts and dots across the landscape. It seemed her own mind was too weathered for even mildly subtle allegory anymore.
And Cheshire… I’ve never seen him like that before. He was nearly feral, the wretched thing.
Alice forced herself to her feet. Her head whirled, throbbing, and her skin felt sickly clammy. She pressed her left hand over her eye to cease the piercing ache behind it, taking a few shambling steps toward the doorway.
She was only able to take a few steps before leaning against the wall, dizzy. Her head throbbed twice harshly behind her left eye, almost piercing through the hand that tried to spare it from whatever dull light there was around her.
“Nan?” Alice called, voice weak and irritated.
Heavy footsteps clomped across the wooden floor until Nan stuck her head around the bend of the stairs. Her face creased with relief, then concern. She bunched up her skirts and hurried to meet Alice where she leaned against the wall.
“Heavens ta Betsy, whoever she is,” Nan chided, hooking one great arm beneath Alice’s and slowly helping her down the stairs, “Girl, it’s nearly two in the morning. You’ve been dead to the world for almost half a day.”
Alice winced, clutching onto Nan’s blouse so as not to fall, “Lovely.”
“I take it you’re not still in a stupor, then, rabbit?”
“No, but at this point, I do wish I was.”
Nan sidled her down the stairs as gently as someone as rough as Nan was able, nudging her toward the bar stools before the now empty and spotless counter. It was as empty as it had been that morning when she and Jemima had arrived, though now the windows outside showed nothing but darkness and the occasional street lantern in the distance.
“Here now, girl. Sit down. I’ve already tidied up, but I’ll rustle somethin’ up fer ya ta eat. Sweatin’ bullets takes a lot out of you,” Nan tutted, disappearing into the back and returning nearly immediately.
In her hands she held a small plate of bread and some kind of cheese, as well as a very dry looking sausage- it had been pre-prepared who knew how many hours ago. Looking at the food made Alice’s stomach turn with warning, but she was nonetheless touched.
“Tea, rabbit?”
“Yes, please.”
Nan subsequently put on a shabby looking kettle that had definitely seen better days, likely also preparing for the request. She’d been with Alice since she was just a little thing. The years in Rutledge where Alice was none the wiser, dead to the world except a few moments of awakening in abject horror, had little effect on their relationship. Occasionally, even, to it’s detriment. Only recently had Nan come to realize that Alice was no longer an eager, antsy child, and was now a troubled, rightfully-bitter young woman. In the years since her release from Rutledge, it got easier for her to understand, but far be it from Alice to keep a mother hen from doting.
It was one of the few kindnesses she had ever known since the fire, and she cherished them deeply, though she found it difficult to express.
Even pressing the stale bread to her lips caused her stomach to ripple in protest. Alice clenched her jaw and swallowed the knot in her throat, You’re already thin as a rail. Eat where you can.
Nan plated her a chipped little teacup, painting in tacky little charming flowers and vines that were not at all from the same plant. Alice thanked her politely, trying a smile and finding it too difficult. Her governess crossed her arms beneath her great bosom once again and leaned against the counter. After a moment, she pressed the back of her hand to Alice’s forehead.
“Blimey, girl, you’re colder than the food we keep on the ice so it don’t spoil,” she scolded, “I’ve not seen you that rattled since… well. You know.”
There were plenty of options that Nan could have been referring to- Alice pretended that she did indeed know, still trying her best to get the bread past her lips. Defeated, she swapped it for the wishy-washy tea, which was slightly easier to get down.
“At the very least, your little friend will be glad to know you’re alright.”
Alice tilted her head to look at her through bleary eyes, “… why wouldn’t I be alright?”
Nan pursed her lips, “You’n me have been through this song and dance since ya was small. She ain’t. Poor budgie wanted to stay with yas til ya woke up.”
Alice wanted to feel touched. She wanted to feel appreciative, and warm, but instead, all the could feel was purple and gray and gross, Cheshire’s prodding resting in the forefront of her mind.
All because Alice has made a friend.
“I’d have thought ye’ have looked more pleased,” Nan tuts, noting the lack of emotion on her face.
“I want to be,” Alice replied firmly, “I just… I don’t know how to explain it so you’d understand.”
“Ye can try. You’re a lot less difficult to understand than you may think, young lady,” Nan gently poked her between the eyes with her fingernail.
Alice said nothing, disgust seeming to coat her insides and turn them sticky, slimy, and dreadful, “I… if she comes looking for me down here, don’t tell her I’m awake. I think I need a few days to myself.”
-
-
-
Jemima turned the page.
The words all jumbled together on the yellowed paper, swarming like ants until she could make out nothing at all but the presence of the ink. She blinked, and her eyes focused, though it did no more to help her interpret any of the material she was supposed to be reading.
Her left arm had since rested against the shut key-cover of the piano for so long that she had an indent in the skin, but she payed it no mind. Another turn of a page that she didn’t read, and she rested her head on her chin. The light trickling in from the window looked nearly as sickly as she felt- hazy and yellow despite the chill in the air growing.
Another page turn. This time, she straightened her back to stretch, nearly losing the book in the process. She wouldn’t have had trouble finding her page even if she had- it’s easy to find your page when you’d only been pretending to read.
I hope she’s alright.
Philip, who up until now only lurked in the kitchen tutting to himself, as he often did, entered the room with a tiny silver tray and two cups of tea with no accouterments. He pursed his lips at her, “Why on earth are you sitting by the piano? There are more comfortable places to sit, dear girl.”
Jemima shrugged, not feeling as though she had the energy to even make eye contact at that moment.
Philip pursed his lips again, only this time the wrinkles in his face creased with worry, “Jemima, tea.”
She dumbly looked at the grandfather clock, free of dust and free of any personality, “It isn’t tea time.”
“You’re in a mood again, pipkin,” he stated matter-of-factly, taking a seat on the lounge after placing the tray just so on the table. He’d already mixed sugar and cream into the two in the kitchen, turning it a milky color in the small china cups.
“A warm drink always helps. Cider, tea, or perhaps coffee… if you’re a masochist,” he chattered, placing Jemima’s cup resolutely in her direction.
“Oh… thank you,”
She rose from her seat to retrieve her little cup of tea. She held it in her hands, thumbing the little handle and the light ceramic inlays on the glaze.
Philip peered into his own teacup when he was about half finished, then turned his bleary grey-brown eyes to his niece. He spoke softly but firmly, a tone he used only when he wished to impress things upon her, which may or may not have worked, depending on the day.
“Jemima, dear, I am afraid there is something I wish to discuss with you.”
She stopped sipping, “I figured as much. Tea at an odd time, usually you quite enjoy the schedule.”
“Oh, nonsense. I brought you tea because you were moping about on the piano. Whether I discussed this with you or not, tea always helps,” Philip responded in kind.
Regardless of the altruism with which she was brought tea, Jemima couldn’t help but feel anxious. She wasn’t ever particularly adept with social gymnastics, even within her own family- she couldn’t tell what was actually meant in kind or what was a sly little bribe for good behavior. The mere thought made her guts writhe.
“What is it you’d like to talk about?” She asked quietly, holding the cup in one hand whilst pulling the piano stool closer with the other.
He pursed his lips once again. Philip leaned back onto the lounge, threading his fingers together and resting them on his belly, “Well, dear… to… to put it simply, you’ve been here for a few months now.”
A cold chill seemed to creep across her skin, “Yes… yes I have.”
“Have you given much thought to any… erm. Well, given your disillusionment with the idea of marriage-”
“Uncle Philip!” Her eyes flew open wide, the dread sparking up into a hopeless flare in her stomach.
He raised his hands to hush her, for once managing to raise his voice, “Now, now, girl, let me finish. Given your disillusionment with the idea of marriage, have you given any thought to any possible terms of employment?”
It felt as though a large brass bell had been rung and her brain was left bouncing around in with the clapper. It took her a moment to process, and then another moment to consider and formulate the answer. Trying to moisten her suddenly-dry throat, she drank a little of her tea- she was unable to taste it at all.
“Not particularly. I didn’t know I was t-that much of a financial burden.”
Philip tilted his head, “I didn’t say you were a financial burden, poppet. I simply… that is, to say… my dear…”
Jemima had never felt so many different flavors of anxiety creeping up her throat at once, “You aren’t dying, are you?”
He stuttered, caught off guard, then laughed in a raspy, croaking voice, nearly like that of a crow, “BHA-HA-, goodness, let me finish, Jemima!” Not helping his point, he coughed a few times before continuing, “I’m not dying. No faster than anyone else my age, at this rate. I think I’m doing quite well for myself, as far as things go; I don’t smoke, and I only have a brandy in the evening before settling in for the evening. No, no no no, I could be putting all my eggs into that basket but I’m doing alright.”
Jemima searched his face for any intent, unsure of the point he was trying to make.
Resuming his point, Philip scooted clumsily forward on the lounge to gently hold Jemima’s unused hand in his, “Lillian didn’t elaborate much on the circumstances of your movement to this household, Jemima. It didn’t feel right to pry about, you know. But she asked that you be brought here because she felt you would be safer.”
Ah. That’s it. He’s going to ask. He’s going to ask and I’m going to spill my guts against my will and I’m going to hate myself for remembering for the next three weeks.
“And,” he said, “Whilst this house is safe, I am afraid that you’ve uh. You’ve been unfortunate enough to see that London is not.”
She looked at him in a motion so smooth and flat that she resembled an automaton. Jemima felt a throbbing in her muscles, almost as though she existed in her body smaller than she was. The space between her and the outside, the part that everyone could see, kept pulsing, pulsing, pulsing, out of sync with her heartbeat. She tried moving her fingers- they creakily curled, but it didn’t feel like they did from the inside.
How am I inside my own body like a fish in a bowl? I’m sinking and floating at the same time. Pay attention to what he’s saying, you ninny-
Philip squeezed her hand twice more and returned to his previous position in the lounger. He moved his mouth around his teeth in that way that only old people seemed to, as though his skin didn’t quite fit on his face anymore and he had to make sure it was in the right place. She supposed it wasn’t, same as everyone else who got older.
“London isn’t quite what it used to be, my dear. The West side of the river is… tolerable, for the most part. Hyde Park is nice, but… the East end has… deteriorated. The meat markets make it smell intolerable there, the brothels, the bars-”
Don’t say it.
“Honestly, my dear, the girl you hang about with-”
Of course.
Jemima wrenched control of her own body back enough to sternly place her teacup back into her saucer, her eyebrows furrowed, “Don’t talk about Alice like that. Stop speaking as though you know a single thing about her,”
Philip, replied, mildly irritated, “I know she’s sick enough that she was seeing Dr. Bumby. Before the… before the
accident
.”
Silence filled the tense air. Jemima’s hands closed, a malignant chill slithering all around her back and arms and shoulders. She swallowed, trying not to think of the grisly details that she’d absolutely not been spared.
“The point th-that I’ve been attempting to make is,” Philip mumbled softly, seemingly struggling with not remembering them himself, “I simply worry, Jemima. I’m no spring chicken, n-nor even a summer rooster, should such a thing exist-”
They don’t.
“I want you to be safe. W-we both do. Lillian wants you to be safe.”
“Did she write to me, then?” Jemima snapped, “Or was I not worth the trouble? She wants me to be safe but she doesn’t care about me past that, if it means she has to do something t-to actually keep me safe?”
Philip raised his eyebrows, stunned, “Jemima-”
Tears welled in her eyes, so sudden that she was caught off guard and couldn’t wipe them away before they fell onto her apron, “It would have been a nice sentiment to hear before being ripped up from Oxford. Or to hear from her at all in something other than ink.”
Once again, she felt her consciousness growing to the left of her body- she felt it crying, felt it being hit with the chemicals that were supposed to denote emotions, but it was like watching a stranger burst into tears instead of bursting into tears herself. She dug around in her apron pocket for a handkerchief and came up empty, opting to wipe her eyes with the crook of her arm.
“Poppet, poppet, poppet,” Philip tutted, rising and materializing his own handkerchief from somewhere in one of his many pockets. He put a hand between her shoulder blades and handed it to her with the other, seeming more concerned than anything, “Come now, Jemima. Don’t talk about your mother like that.”
Jemima’s mind ricocheted around her skull whilst she wiped the tears from her splotchy cheeks and blew her nose. The emotions moved through her as though she were possessed by a phantom- it seemed as though she could feel all of them or none of them, nothing in between.
“Did she write to me?” she asked again, sounding hollow.
Philip petted her shoulder, regretfully shaking his head, “No dear, not since the last time, whenever that may have been. Breathe, poppet. Drink some more of your tea.”
She clutched the handkerchief in one hand in case more tears fell despite the numbness in her body, and she did indeed take another sip of tea.
Philip warily sat back down, breaching the silence in hushed tones, “Jemima, dear… this is what I was trying to tell you. I want you to be safe here. In case something happens to me, o-or god forbid the barber shop. I… as I’ve said, your mother didn’t elaborate on the… exact circumstances of your arrival here.”
“But-” he reached within his coat pocket to draw out something small in a leather folder, no bigger across than a playing card. He gingerly held it out to his niece, who took it with no emotion whatsoever, “I am well established here in the West End. And there are things that we can do to at least partially make sure that, should something occur where we are. Ehrm, displaced, shall we say? I want you to at least be able to make some sort of… living for yourself.”
She opened the leather folder, and inside found a simple pair of scissors and a barber’s knife. Jem’s brows furrowed. She took the pair of scissors in her hand- a little large, but they fit her fingers fairly well. It was an old but well up-kept set, the steel dark and shimmery with age.
“I’d like you to start apprenticing at the barber shop. It would be… uncommon, a young woman like yourself dressing ladies’ and gentleman’s hair, b-but you see,” Philip absentmindedly tipped the very point of the scissors up with his index finger, “I’ve gotten a decently positive reputation in West End… even a few on the Eastern side of the Thames.”
When Jemima still seemed to have trouble, though with what she wasn’t sure, he deftly closed the leather folder in one fell swoop, and grasped her hand gingerly. It almost enveloped hers completely, the knuckles large and the skin spotty and littered with healed-over nicks and scars. She took particular notice of the gleaming gold wedding band wrapped around his ring finger, never having noticed it before.
He looked her directly in the face, his usual vapid, jovial expression oddly melancholic, “Poppet, god forbid some reason you end up on your own, this building is paid for. Over fifty years of work. Not the work of a-an industrialist, but honest work all the same. But like everyone else, even if the building is paid for, one still needs food, water, clothes, doctors.”
Jemima wasn’t quite sure what she felt in that moment.
I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve this chance, this safe place. He’s worked fifty years and I’m just whisked inside at the whim of his sister? He hardly knew me. He still hardly knows me.
“You’re getting that expression on your face, Jemima,” Philip tutted, reclining once again with a wince as he straightened his back, “You’re thinking too much. R-runs in the family, I should say! Everyone from you all the way back to your great-great grandfather had swarming little brain beasties.”
He squeezed one eye shut and grinned, merrily poking her shoulder, “That’s one good thing about getting old then, eh? They drop off before you do.”
Jemima couldn’t quite bring herself to smile. Philip huffed good-naturedly through his nose and shook his head gently.
His gaze again darkened slightly, “My dear, I-I know it isn’t something easy to consider, but I’d very much like to… put the concept forward, as it is something er… beneficial that we should put into motion. The Gent-and-Tonic is a well-known shop in this part of town, my dear. Even if one day, I am too old to operate it, er… renting it out to another gentleman would be… finicky. With your… sensibilities.”
A short wave of incense stabbed at her heart, My sensibilities? My sensibilities are that I be left well enough alone unless I ask for interaction. ‘Gentleman’ just seem not to pay that any mind.
A moment later, she returned his gaze with mild confusion, “The… the Gent-and-Tonic?” she mumbled. She’d swept the barbershop for accumulative hours, dusted the porcelain sinks, tried to get the smell of rotten cigars out when customers refused to smoke outside, but she’d never actually paid attention to the name.
…. Unfortunately it is rather catchy.
“Came up with that myself, once upon a time,” Philip said bashfully, a genuinely proud smile upturning the corners of his mouth, “But, yes. Even if it becomes… unusable as a business, which I would rather not happen, I wouldn’t want it to be put on the market for those of unsavory intent. Y-you are averted to strangers at the best of times, my dear.”
Jemima quieted again, her eyes sliding to focus on her feet, He’s correct… but not in the manner he thinks he is.
She wondered of what exactly apprenticing at the shop would entail. It would certainly be an unusual circumstance, but most of the other ‘women’s jobs’ were not things that suited her in the slightest, and the thought of being married to someone she didn’t know for the sake of financial security made her want to turn herself inside out.
Regardless of whether or not I… ‘deserve’ it… he did give me a place to stay. He didn’t have to do that. His heart is in the right place… I think. The shop is his life’s work… the least I can do is try, yes?
“Alright, Uncle Philip. I’ll do my best. Though unless I-I become fast enough to catch dogs or cats, I’m unsure how I’m going to practice.”
The joke was half-hearted at best, but Philip was pleased enough to hear her accept that he laughed a bit anyway, “ I may not be the best, but I’m equipped to teach. There are so few young men around here who are concerned with finding a respectable career, I wouldn’t trust them as far as I could shove them.”
“Down the stairs?”
That one genuinely did catch Philip off guard, “GH- OH, HAHA, JEMIMA, H-HOW RUDE-”
A real smile cracked at her lips. His laugh turned into a wheeze and the wheeze turned into a cough, motioning back for the handkerchief, which she surrendered with no fuss. He pushed his glasses past his forehead to cough into it and regain his composure.
Jemima’ s mind wandered a little, an idea striking like a match, “If push came to shove, perhaps Alice would be able to split the utilities. A private piano player for the living room, she could play whatever you like. Perhaps some Chopin?”
The thought actually made perfect sense to her. She and Alice shared enough space, sometimes not speaking for large gaps of time and simply enjoying each other’s company. And it would likely benefit Alice to be out of the Houndsditch Home, closer to the opera house.
And in a safer part of town, needless to say.
The warm sunny feeling that accompanied the idea, blooming like a little flower in her rib cage, suddenly wilted back as she saw Philip’s expression. He didn’t look angry, exactly, but worried, and frustrated. He pursed his lips again.
Jemima began to shrink back, much like the feeling, but the enmity forbade it completely, “Why do you dislike her so much?” she asked in a voice quiet but firm, “She hasn’t done anything to you.”
Her uncle breathed through his nose, impatient. His eyes shifted side to side as he tried to find words that wouldn’t result in another outburst, but Jemima spoke up before he did.
“She’s the only friend I’ve made since I’ve arrived here. People are so rude and deceitful for no good reason, but she’s only ever been kind… well. Snippy sometimes, but everyone is!”
-”Jemima-”
“You don’t even know what she’s like!” she asserted, “Only what you’ve heard from whomever if is that you speak to. Nosy customers, o-or old friends or… whomever.”
Jemima clenched her hands, suddenly not fond of the idea of apprenticing at all. Philip’s expression was not one of anger, but one of tiredness and nigh-resignation.
“Poppet, that girl has been seeing Dr. Bumby and taking pills from the chemist for a reason. I just want you to be careful who you associate with.”
She resentfully met his gaze- it felt uncomfortable, awful to hold eye contact that long, but she didn’t look away, “I was going to see Dr. Bumby. Wasn’t I? You wanted me to see him, if I do recall. It seems like the association was bound to be made one way or another.”
His brow furrowed and his voice raised, “I wanted to you to see him for therapy, girl. He’s known for helping children with gruesomeness-es to deal with, I simply thought that perhaps it would benefit you with whatever it is you’re struggling with.”
I’m struggling with people who don’t listen to me, thank you VERY much.
Silence settled for only a moment before Philip stated, “What’s wrong with her cannot be fixed. She’s been that way for too long, I should think. I don’t want her t-to make it any more difficult for you to become a part of things here.”
“… I’m twenty years old. I’ll decide who I speak with. I’m not going to stop speaking to her.”
Philip’s face morphed through a spectrum of emotions in only a few seconds: indignance, irritation, reluctance, before losing any emotion at all. He stood briskly, taking his tea cup, and looking at his niece blankly through his glasses.
“Apprenticeship begins tomorrow at nine o’clock. Don’t be late. You won’t be paid until you’re properly trained.”
-
-
-
How have you committed the atrocities that you have, and this is what makes you sick to your stomach?
Alice felt water rising in her throat, nearly threatening to make her vomit. She’d not eaten anything that morning, this time of her own volition. Neither had she slept very well over the past six days, and yet it felt like sleeping was all she had been doing. She felt clammy, irritated, and despite the amount of ‘rest’ she was getting, she felt utterly exhausted.
Thankfully, she’d seen neither hide nor hair from either of the bobbies that pounced upon her at the Thames Tavern- she likely couldn’t have handled it if she had. Still, despite the relative quiet and emptiness of the past few days, she didn’t feel at all quiet and felt entirely too empty.
I don’t belong here. I don’t belong anywhere, but especially not here.
Jemima’s street this early in the morning was eerily calm. It was as though nothing had been put into motion yet, like a lantern before being lit, ready to spring to life as though it had always been that way. And yet, here, in the foggy, tepid, obnoxiously tidy streets, there was nothing.
Perhaps it was better for nobody to see. People here didn’t like people like her on a good day, and if she looked anywhere near as shoddy as she felt, they may simply skip the disdainful looks and call the police.
Do it. At least I won’t be anxious waiting for them to pop up anymore.
Her footsteps echoed about at a pace that was entirely too fast for her despite being not fast at all. She saw it down the road, the Baker’s barbershop.
Alice almost wished that Cheshire would appear, or chatter, or whisper. That way, at the very least, she wouldn’t feel so alone. Cheshire didn’t seem to care, as he was nowhere to be found.
Recovering from her stupor, she had been given n o reprieve in Wonderland past exiting the strange circle of trees flooded with bird down. Instead, Alice had been painfully aware of how much time was passing, how slowly it had been doing so, how much nothing there was for her to do at the moment, how useless she was.
There were three buildings between Alice and her destination, then two, then one… and then as though she had drifted there on the wind, she stood before the barbershop wanting nothing to do with it. Only the iron staircase affixed to the side of the building stood between Alice and her destination.
I can’t believe myself. If this is what it takes to keep myself safe, and those children, no matter how ungrateful they are… then that’s what it takes.
… Regardless of ‘what it takes’, it doesn’t feel right.
Each step squeaked whilst she ascended. She tried to focus on the feeling of the guard rail, the mist in the air, anything to let her mind find a comfortable place between conscious enough to complete her task and unconscious enough not to care.
Alice swallowed, her throat dry and sore. Absentmindedly, she smoothed down her apron and at least tried to get her hair into an order that looked less than ‘unwashed’.
This is only the first difficult thing, going forward. I must keep an eye on the children, attend to my employment at the opera house, make certain the medications are filled, dodge the bobbies, dodge Pris, keep up my story to Nan, to ‘my’ lawyer, to her uncle, to myself- I must thicken my skin again… has it always felt this way and I’ve just never given it thought enough to notice?
If this is what it’s like to not be within my own head and instead within my body, I can’t say I’m fond of it.
Alice knocked on the door, beginning to despise the crawly feeling that seemed to wriggle everywhere beneath her skin.
Before Philip answered the door, she heard him passing through the living room, muttering unintelligibly to himself, scuttling about like a giant and dignified rat. Upon actually opening the door, he raised his scruffy gray eyebrows in surprise.
“Oh, Miss Liddell. It is rather early, isn’t it?”
Alice bowed her head, keeping her gaze low and as mellow as possible, “Morning, Mr. Baker. Perhaps a bit, but I’d rather be an early bird than a roasted one.”
He grinned a little in spite of himself, “You’re here t-to see Jemima, I take it?”
“Yes, sir. I won’t be long, I’ve got much to do today. But she knows I’ve been under the weather, I wanted to chat a bit before I got started.”
A microscopic amount of reluctance glimmered behind his glasses, but he relented and stepped aside to let her in. Evidence of Philip’s quiet morning activities sat on the coffee table: a book of some variety, a little saucer with a half-eaten biscuit, and a nearly-gone cup of tea.
Oh dear. I haven’t given thought that she mayn’t be awake, yet.
Philip sat in exactly the spot indicated by his paraphernalia, “Down the hall past the grandfather clock, first door around the corner. Try not to keep her too long, please. Her lessons begin fairly soon and last a long while.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
Past the dictionaries and the grandfather clock, the empty vases, and the piano that she’d not taken mind of before. She didn’t enjoy how quiet the flat was, how easily her voice could carry, that Philip could and likely would listen in on the conversation, to the best of his ability at his age.
Alice took a few deep breaths and knocked softly.
Nothing.
She knocked again, firmer, and heard the rustle of sheets and a half-understandable sound of ‘alright, alright, I’m coming’. The footsteps approaching somehow sounded even less coordinated than her uncle’s.
“I’m not late, I’ve still got a little bit to sleep,” Jemima opened the door with her eyes still mostly shut. It took all of three or so seconds for them to light up with recognition and an unbridled excitement that Alice scarcely saw on people other than children on Christmas day.
“Morning-”
The flurry of ruffled collar and cuffs on the sleeves of her nightgown nearly swallowed her whole as she wrapped her arms around Alice’s back. Jem drew her close in a vicious, ecstatic hug, tucking her chin over her bony shoulder, “Thank goodness, you’re alright!”
It felt… snug, soft, nearly cozy, almost like being wrapped in a blanket that wasn’t keen on letting go. The two were so flush that Alice could actually smell whatever fragrance she had in her hair, Lavender, perhaps? Or violet?, mixed with the unnatural, powdery smell of talcum. By all accounts, it was a pleasant experience physically… and yet.
It felt wrong. It felt incorrect, unfinished- Jemima felt warm, frazzled, and soft, but Alice could feel herself as nothing other than tense and cold. She can’t even force herself to do much to return the gesture out of politeness past raising her forearms up in surprise at the action.
This isn’t how it was supposed to feel.
Already, the sickness with herself reared it’s head again, Oh, come now. Why is it supposed to feel a certain way? Get yourself together so you can leave. Don’t be cruel.
Jemima finally noticed that she’d been the primary partaker of the hug and finally pulled away, her face markedly less red than Alice expected. She crossed her arms over her chest after wiping her un-groomed morning hair from her face.
Her smile is so genuine that it’s going to make me sick.
“I-I’m sorry, I know that was incredibly rude, I’m just… very glad you’re alright.”
Alice nods curtly, “No harm done, other than a very minor heart palpitation.”
Peeking behind her into her room, Alice could actually see a desk absolutely littered with papers. A few books stacked neatly at the back end whilst a pair of trimming sheers teetered dangerously close to the left-side edge.
“It’s just been such a long time, Ms. Sharpe didn’t know when you’d be about again and I-I didn’t want to pry, but I was still so worried. That’s the first time I’ve ever-”
“Jemima!”
Jem flinched a little, her expression morphing from one of excitement to one of apprehension.
Alice’s eyes flicked away to the floorboards, “Listen, Jemima, I’m… I’m very happy to see you as well, I just wanted to tell you that I’m not still back to feeling my best. I don’t know when I will be, either. I need to rest more, but I wanted to tell you. Nan told me how worried you were when you left the Thames.”
“Oh…” Jemima chuckled worriedly, rubbing the back of her neck and fiddling with the side of her nightgown, “I understand. Um… is there anything I can… I can do to help?”
Here it goes, then.
“Yes, actually. There is… something but…” she pulled the corners of her mouth down and gestured toward the living room, “I’d like to do so privately, if possible.”
Jem opened her mouth to respond, at first glancing back to her bedroom, then shutting the door. She twiddled her fingers, fixing Alice with a look of concern, “What is this about?”
“May we sit on the staircase?”
Jemima nodded, gesturing for her to lead and following her as she went. She gave a perfunctory explanation to Philip, who didn’t seem particularly interested, and opened the side door to let Alice out.
Alice sits about halfway down the stairs, gathering up her skirts so they rested around her legs- her friend did the same, holding the fabric together with one hand. She appeared to be having a difficult time looking at Alice, her hazel-gold eyes seeming to glitter with more apprehension and worry.
Keeping her voice low and trying to fight back the awful knot in her throat, Alice began, “I’m unsure how to begin this so… I suppose the only way through is to do it, I suppose.”
The terror that crossed Jemima’s face was palpable, the air around her turning cold.
Quickly, Alice tried to soothe the likely worries, “You’ve not done anything wrong, I’m not cross with you, I simply must bring this to your attention. I need your help.”
The fear waned only slightly, “With what?”
“You understand that my ‘legacy’ about town, so to speak, is that I’m mad.”
“….”
“You know how they go about mad people,” Alice stated in a soft voice, “and… well. You saw how badly that conversation with the police affected me.”
Jemima cocked her head, nodding slowly in understanding but saying nothing.
The words felt sour on her tongue, “I’ve been known by those bobbies, as you may imagine. You heard one of them say so. Spells of catatonia, fits of, in my opinion, well-deserved rage. I’ve spent the night in gaol more than once. Dr. Bumby…”
The sourness turned to bitter acid, as if she’d just swished oil around her teeth, “In the past, he’d been generous enough to extract me on numerous occasions before the night was out, but… well.”
“Jemima, if the bobbies come about again, towards you specifically, I very much need you to say and maintain that we were together on the day of your arrival. I’m… I’m aware it isn’t exactly a lie, but I can’t recall where I was other than meeting with you that day. I’m concerned it could be used against me.”
The request felt so haphazard and flimsy, suspicious at best. But that was why she was asking Jemima this, wasn’t it? The suspicion could be waylaid by fondness and well meaning.
The thought made her feel more physically ill.
Jem pursed her lips, still not looking awake enough to properly process things but trying her best, “If they know you, shouldn’t they know you’re… harmless?”
Harmless. Hah. To those who have nothing to worry about, I suppose.
Alice shook her head, “They’re police, Jemima. If they think it’s their job to do something, including silencing a woman in distress from ‘hysteria’, they’ll do it.”
She paused, her bones feeling incredibly heavy inside her frail body. The morning mist still crept about the cobblestone, what little sunlight coming through the clouds dotting them with spots and welts.
“What I mean to say is, I am known for being… a problem to them. And with Dr. Bumby now missing, presumed dead, effectively, I have nobody keeping me from very easily being arrested for… I don’t know. Whatever they think is worthy of arrest, I suppose. The next time I have an episode in public enough to upset someone important? I’ve certainly been contained for less.”
Alice’s thoughts turned into a ramble, her eyes beginning to unfocus as the many dreadful possibilities swept over her in rapid waves.
”You’ve never told me why.”
She pricked her ears, “What?”
Jemima’s gentle tone was struck through with genuine worry, ”You never told me why you’re ‘mad’. It never seemed polite to ask, but… well, Alice, you’re making me incredibly nervous.”
Alice brittled up. She’d never been shy about sharing the information, many people knew her by it alone, anyway. It was usually delivered in a snap, a snarl, something to make people leave her alone. It made her feel safe, gave her teeth to gnash to drive the unkind away.
But Jemima is not unkind. In fact, she is entirely too much so.
The silence between them wasn’t comfortable, as it normally was. She didn’t like it at all.
If that is the ticket she wishes to take, punch it, then Fair is fair.
“When I was small,” she began, her voice flat, “ten or eleven years old, I used to live in Oxford.”
Jemima prickled, but let her continue.
“I lived with my mother, father, and my older sister. Father was the dean of the university, and mother mostly kept to mine and Lizzie’s studies with the assistance of Nan.”
She clutched her dress, her already pale knuckles turning whiter, “One night, I… there was a fire. They still don’t know the exact cause, but my entire house caught up in flames. If it weren’t for Dinah, I wouldn’t have been able to escape out the window. I still got burned, but unlike… unlike the rest of my family, I survived.”
She was so used to Wonderland coating everything in fantastical colors, sights, smells, that recounting them slowly, calmly, seemed… foreign. Strange.
Alice’s jaw clenched, a motion she didn’t currently have the bodily control to undo, “I was interred at Rutledge Asylum afterwards. Anyone losing their family in such a way would drive them mad but I-I was only a child. They’d no idea what to do with me, so they simply… put me away. Nan tried her best, but for many years, I was… catatonic. I said nothing, I did nothing, I was just trapped inside my own head.”
She almost didn’t notice the expression of horror on her friend’s face as the phantom smell of smoke seemed to echo somewhere within her head, ever present.
“In all honesty, being catatonic was the best part of the experience. When I do remember being awake there, it was awful. Inhumane. The way they treat people who need help makes me wonder if there are any good doctors at all.”
Alice swallowed, her throat dry, “I was a child. I was a child and for ten, almost eleven years, I was kept in that dreadful privvy of a hospital being experimented on by those hackneed doctors and nurses. I fixed myself. I had no choice. They would have kept me there forever. I don’t ever, ever want to be close to going back.”
Her skull throbbed and the muscles in her arms pulsed. She drew down on herself, I knew recalling this wouldn’t be pleasant, but I can’t say that I expected the urge to tear things open with my teeth.
“So… so that is why I ask you, if, god forbid, they somehow ask of me to you… please cover for me. I’ve got nothing between myself and a padded room again, at the moment.”
After a moment and a few unsteady breathes, she stated, “I’d rather die than ever go back there.”
She said it like she meant it, and she absolutely did.
When she finally glanced up at Jemima again, the expression on her face was… almost knowable. There were things there she often saw when people recounted her story, usually without her involvement and in hushed whispers to one another. A bit of pity, her least favorite, but mostly… what she assumed to be understanding, of some sort.
Alice saw her raise her left hand towards her back and falter before touching her.
The little bit of disappointment she allowed herself to feel needled in her already very-needly brain. She wanted Jemima to touch her like she normally would. A friendly shove, perhaps, or a lingering hand between her shoulder blades comforting her where her words failed.
She hadn’t craved that before, not since she was very small.
It tasted bittersweet to want to be touched, blackberries wanting to be physically comforted for the first time in years, but choked in the nettles and thorns of the fact that she knows that she couldn’t dare ask that of her. Not after she’d asked for everything else today, scaring her out of her wits.
Alice knew better than to ask, anyway. She was used to things being denied.
Jemima’s voice is as soft as ever, a little sad but attempting to be reassuring, “I… if anyone asks, yes. I don’t… I won’t lie and say I’m not still… worried. But if the policemen visit Philip again, I’ll hold fast. I’m not good at lying anyway.”
”I’m very aware.” Alice trie
d
to crack, but Jemima only smiles before it wilts.
“ Thank you, for telling me. You didn’t have to,” she stated, rising to her feet and smoothing out her ruffled nightgown.
“Well… thank you for listening.”
Jemima began to creep back up the stairs, and Alice began to follow, only to be stopped. Surprised, she looked up questioningly.
Her friend smiled weakly- from this angle, it was a bit easier to see the dark circles beneath her eyes. The hand on the railing closest to Alice actually looked to be littered with small criss-cross cuts in various places, usually on her fingers.
“I-I should probably let you get going. If you still need rest, that is,” her expression indicated that she very much didn’t want to be saying those words, but she did out of obligation, “I’ve got a lot of… barbering studies to attend to. I-I didn’t get a chance to tell you, since you were… out. I’m trying to work with Uncle Philip doing more than sweeping hair.”
Alice didn’t quite know what to make of that information. Bewildered, she asked, “Oh. Congratulations, I suppose… when will you be about town next, I suppose?”
Jemima sighed through her nose, taking another few steps up. Alice didn’t follow this time.
“Whenever I finish becoming knowledgeable enough to cut, I believe.”
“Did something happen?”
They locked eyes for a moment, seemingly searching for answers and neither finding any.
“Pop by the shop sometime in the afternoons if you want to chat a little bit before that day comes. I’m afraid I don’t currently have a lot of spare time on my hands.”
Alice was too far away to put a hand on her shoulder to pat it before leaving, instead opting for a wave that seemed entirely too polite, accompanied by words that seemed just as much, “I will. It was nice seeing you again.”
Jemima sent her down a nod one more melancholic smile before disappearing inside, leaving Alice alone in the neighborhood she definitely didn’t belong in now that she was gone.
Notes:
Random burst of muse: ACTIVATE!
I hope this update finds you all well- free time is a little sparse at the moment, but I'm glad to still be able to update this every now and again at a reasonable clip. I've actually had a friend to discuss Alice content with, so it definitely helped get the wheels turning again enough for me to finish and check up this chapter.
I'm worried about Wonderland (Aren't we all), and I hope I'm able to bring through the anxiety of interfacing and connecting with people you actually like whilst mentally ill being a challenge (and in Alice's case, something that could lead to legitimate danger).
SIGH I just want them to be okay, but that's a long time coming.
If you have any questions, comments, suggestions, PLEASE let me know, it makes me so happy to read the comments my recurring readers leave, it makes my day every single time ;w;
Love and hugs,
-Bea <3
Chapter 10: UPDATE: TITLE CHANGE AND COVER ART
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Notes:
Greetings, and with a surprise little update for my readers!
The title of this fic is going to be changed. For those who don't follow my twitter, I've actually plotted everything up until the climax of the story, and have a good idea where I want it to end. That doesn't mean the end is in SIGHT at all, because we still have a bit to go, but it is planned at the very least.
As well: I finally made a fake 'cover' for it!! It's been difficult, as I have quite a few plates spinning on my fingers at the moment, but I felt it deserved it.
For the millionth time, thank you for reading. I'd adore some suggestions, things you'd like to see- what truly makes it easiest and the most fun to write is interaction with the audience. The comments always make things feel just a little brighter!
Love and hugs,
-Bea <3
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