THE PAST: THE QUEEN’S LIMOUSINE, OUTSIDE THE ASYLUM
N ow that I know what changed my dark heart, I tell the Queen she and Mr. Jay have to take the pill when I take it. I tell her that I’m still determined to forget and spend the rest of my life in the asylum.
The Queen complies and confirms Mr. Jay has taken the pill. I only ask her to watch the sunset outside for one last time before I resort to my madness inside the dark asylum. The Queen complies, and now we’re outside in her limousine, driving around.
“You can still forget about the pill,” the Queen, sitting next to me, advises. “You can rule the world when we win the war. I have information that someone has found a way to bring the Wonderland Monsters into this world. Week by week, they will arrive and wreak havoc on this world until we take our revenge on humans.”
I let her talk, not paying attention. I know the rest already. I even know the parts she doesn’t, like the Pillar helping me out of my dark world and turning me into a hero.
I am taking a deep breath. I will need it. I have a big plan ahead of me. I need to focus.
I have a handful of Lullaby pills hidden in my fist. When the limousine stops at an intersection, I pull them out and stuff them into the Queen’s mouth, choking her long enough until she swallows them all.
The driver tries his luck at fighting me. I twist his head with my hands, and he ends up staring backward at the comatose — and now amnesiac — Queen of Hearts. “I need you to drive me somewhere,” I tell him. “Or I’ll never fix your head.”
“I’ll do what you want,” he says. “Please, Alice. Don’t kill me.”
I turn his head back. It doesn’t fit exactly — it’s a little skewed at the cheeks — but he is glad he is alive.
“Thank you,” he says. “Where to?”
The million-dollar question. I focus hard, trying to remember Mrs. Tock’s address, the one she gave me through the pink pill in the Inklings. I think the Lullaby pill I took in the past, messed with the pill I took in the present, where I came from.
Remember it, Alice. Come on!
As we chug through the streets of Oxford, I can’t remember the address. Maybe I’ve been exposed to too much emotional stress. I should remember it.
We kick the Queen out on the street. The driver puts her in a garbage can, telling me he loathed her and would do anything for me.
When he comes back, we drive left and right, everywhere, hoping the buildings will make me remember, hand me a clue.
Where does Mrs. Tock live now?
Then it comes to me. I’m not just in the wrong area. I’m in the wrong city. Mrs. Tock’s address is in London.
“London it is,” the driver says.
“I will need my wheelchair first,” I remind him — also reminding myself that I am a cripple.
“It’s fixed on top of the car. Don’t worry.”
“And I will need you to help me up a few stories in London. Got that?”
“I will do what you ask for,” he says. “May I ask where I will be lifting you up to?”
“A hidden room in the Big Ben tower.”