The Inklings, Oxford
“H er lock?” the March Hare said, staring at the message Alice had managed to send to him by phone from Italy. He had stopped cleaning the bar’s floor, and no matter how his ears perked up, he couldn’t solve it. Sometimes the March didn’t want to think too hard in case those who controlled the light bulb in his head read into his thoughts.
“So Alice is alive,” Fabiola said from behind the bar, serving a couple of customers. “The Pillar only made us think she died.”
The March didn’t comment. Fabiola’s quest to kill Alice had become redundant. He wondered if it was the whiskey she drank in the Inklings that messed with her head. Mental note, he thought: there is a reason nuns shouldn’t drink whiskey or wear tattoos.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know, Jittery,” Fabiola said.
“I am not pretending,” he answered. “You should have known she was alive all along if you’d switched on the TV and watched the news.”
“I have,” Fabiola said. “I just didn’t want to think about it. My biggest priority now is to persuade the Mushroomers to be part of my army.”
“Any luck, White Queen?” The March noticed a few customers’ heads turning when he called Fabiola by her Wonderland name. But hey, who believed in Wonderland anyway?
“Tom Truckle is working on a serum that should bring sanity to the Mushroomers.”
“Good luck with that.” The March continued cleaning. “I doubt the pill-popping doctor can help anyone with their sanity.”
“I hate it when I hear you talk like that,” Fabiola said.
The March said nothing. To him, the war didn’t mean anything. All he cared about was going back to Wonderland and never growing up again. He’d been reading Peter Pan lately, and the idea of never really growing up resonated with him even more. Adulthood sucked marshmallows.
“So tell me about the clue,” Fabiola said. “Is Alice in trouble?”
“She is,” the March said. “Reds again.”
“Maybe they’ll succeed in killing her this time.”
In his mind, and though he respected Fabiola dearly, he wanted his broom to transform into a double-headed axe that he could roll in the air and immediately chop off her head with. The March loved Alice too much, and Fabiola was being unreasonable.
“It’s a clue that should help her open a coffin with a groove in it,” the March said. “It says ‘her lock.’ Do you happen to know about that?”
“Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you,” she said. “But I’d assume it’s a clue Lewis designed.”
“Why so?”
“Because it’s a Carrollian phrase. ‘Her’ refers to Alice. ‘Lock’ refers to…” Then she suddenly stopped.
“Lock refers to what?” The March was curious. “The lock on the coffin? A metaphor for the coffin being locked?”
Fabiola suddenly smiled. It was a devious smile. Very much unlike her. Sometimes the March wondered if she’d been possessed by the Cheshire. It would explain her sudden change. But the Cheshire couldn’t possess Wonderlanders. Certainly not Fabiola.
“I think you know what the clue is,” the March said.
“In fact, I do.” Fabiola poured herself a drink, and then two free drinks for the customers at the bar. “But I am not telling. She won’t be able to solve it anyways.” She made a toast and gulped happily, leaving the March in pain, wondering what the world “lock” really meant.