Somewhere in the streets of Oxford, Present day
I 'm back in Oxford, walking the streets all alone. I’m in a haze, unable to forget the Chessmaster’s words. What secret about my family did he keep for himself before he died?
Oxford, though cold, is much better than the bitter, stinging freeze I experienced in Russia. It feels like home after all. A word I’m not sure I fully know the meaning of. The closest home to my heart is still the asylum. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I miss my solitary confinement in that darkened room with my Tiger Lily and the writing on the wall.
I sit on a bench and try to collect myself underneath the drizzling afternoon rain. The sky above is a veil of grey, the color of my life, the color of all the mysteries I haven't been able to solve.
I look around and see everyone else is tucked under the safety of their umbrellas. I used to own one. It shot Bandersnatch teeth for bullets and assisted me in jumping from the top of a tower once. I killed the Muffin Man with it. Not sure where it is now, but I’m sure it never protected me against the rain – or my madness.
I lift my head up and let the raindrops tickle my face. A good feeling. It helps me think I’m not a figment of my own imagination – or Lewis Carroll’s.
In my silence I pray to the rain that it would help me cleanse myself from whatever evil I’ve committed in the past, when I worked for Black Chess. It’s a mystery how those who seek good in life always ask for forgiveness, while it hardly crosses the mind of the purely evil.
What puzzles me more is the fact that I’d ever joined Black Chess. How did that happen? Was it after the Circus? What was I thinking?
Lowering my head, I realize I’m gripping a phone in my hand – I think it’s the Chessmaster’s, but I can’t seem to remember for sure. Like I said, everything is still a haze after he mentioned my family.
The phone beeps. I’ve been dialing the Pillar’s number for some time, but he hasn’t answered.
Where is he? I need to ask him about my family.
It crossed my mind earlier to ask others. I could have asked Fabiola, but she is still wounded in the hospital from the events in Russia. And the March Hare would be useless, lost in a childhood he failed to outgrow. Jack came to mind, too, but I don’t know where he is.
How come I’m so alone? I’m Alice Wonder, goddammit.
The phone still beeps. No answer.
If there is a puzzle of all puzzles, then it’d be how the Pillar is still my only friend. Such an evil manipulative man who, according to the Chessmaster, taught me everything bad I did back in Wonderland.
Do I really want to ask the Pillar about my family? I doubt he will tell me anything. If he does, it will be all riddles. I’m fed up with riddles. I’m fed up with killing Wonderland Monsters and chasing lost keys, most of the time not really knowing why.
I want to have a normal life, like a normal hormonally-imbalanced, tantrum-throwing, mad nineteen-year-old.
The phone stops beeping. No one picks up. I dial again.
Why isn’t he picking up?
Sometimes I think of him like a puppet master. The Pillar knows everything. He only tells enough to keep his mysterious plan going. He plays me like marionette. Plays everyone. He knows everything, probably more than Lewis Carroll himself.
But why does he fight for me?
Maybe it’s nothing admirable and noble. What if I’m just his apprentice from the days back in Wonderland, and all he wants is to get me back on my feet, so I’ll assist him in more killing and wars?
An inner feeling tells me that’s not it. The moment the Chessmaster told me about my family, an idea flickered in my head. A frightening idea, yet so beautiful – in a wicked way.
Come on, Alice, spit it out. Don’t keep it inside.
It’s a silly thought, but it would explain so much. A thought I shouldn’t be thinking. A haunting revelation that needs confirmation: Could the Pillar be my father?