3
T here isn’t much time to digest the sentence Fabiola uttered. The bar’s door flings open. A man and a woman enter. Everyone else leaves immediately.
The man is tall and has an oval head. Like a cantaloupe. The woman is stocky, short, and mean. There is something wicked about them. Not exactly morbid. But a feeling of inevitability surges through me. Then I realize who they are — time itself.
“You think she is the one, Mrs. Tock?” the tall man asks the short woman as if I am a silent picture on the wall.
“Could be.” Mrs. Tock knocks her cane on the floor. “Hard to tell. But she’s got that look.”
“What look exactly?” Mr. Tick says.
“The look that says, ‘I can’t go back to yesterday because blah blah blah.’”
I find myself staring at my tattoo.
“Meet Mr. Tick and Mrs. Tock,” Fabiola says, obviously not fond of them. “The two creeps that messed up time in Wonderland.”
“Pleasure to meet you again, White Queen.” Mr. Tick plays with his hairies. “Sad to see you go from warrior to drunk, though.”
Fabiola grips the chair tighter but suppresses her anger.
“How does it feel to deceive people into thinking you’re an angel in the Vatican?” Mrs. Tock says. “Or, tell you what, let’s skip the subject for now. We’re here for the girl.”
“Me?” I say.
“Didn’t Fabiola tell you about the offer?” Mr. Tick says.
“She was about to.”
“Let me summarize it for you.” He grabs a seat and sits, tapping his pocket watch. “I’m afraid we have little time.”
“But, you’re time.” March Hare says.
“Shut up, March,” Mrs. Tock says. “Go play with kids. Or eat your cereal.”
I’m about to stand up for him when Fabiola grips my hand. I sit back, reluctant to know what’s going on.
“We have an offer from Black Chess,” Mr. Tick says.
“So, we’re playing with open cards now?” Fabiola says.
“Why not? The Inklings are ready. So is Black Chess. All in the name of World War Wonderland.”
“Get to the point,” I demand. “Who in Black Chess sent you?”
“The big guys, which I’m not going to reveal,” Mr. Tick says. “Trust me. My offer is more tempting than knowing who really runs Black Chess.”
“I’m listening,” I say.
“She is feisty, Mr. Tick,” Mrs. Tock remarks.
“A desirable trait if she really is her,” Mr. Tick says.
“Cut the crap,” I say. “Why are you here? Talk or leave.”
“Before we talk, let me ask you a question,” Mr. Tick says, leaning forward. “What do you know about time travel?”