There was not a piece of furniture in my room that was not splintered, or a wall that was unmarked by my scraping fingernails when I tried to flee. The sprigged wallpaper that had once been so pretty, was in tatters. My mattress was now kept on the floor, stinking of old urine... and spattered blood.
“I cannot comment on her level of treatment until I might observe the patient myself. Do send her in.”
My father was the one to fetch me, his red face warning that I was to behave before his guest. He led me into the dayroom by a grip on my thin shoulder and stood me before a grey-haired stranger.
Blue eyes cast to the rug, I stared unblinking at the polished shoes of the one they wanted to give me to.
He set his hands to his knees and leaned forward. “She is a pretty thing.”
It was expected for me to softly smile at the compliment. I did so robotically. “Thank you, sir.”
“Look at me, Alice.”
Older than my father, but more sturdy by half, sat a well-dressed man with grey hair and thick sideburns. Tidy hair oiled back, he smelled of cigars and rosewater. I met his eyes, uncomfortable with the practice, and tried to keep my fingers from fidgeting in my skirts.
“Very pretty indeed, but why is she dressed like a child at her age?”
My father’s disgust at having to speak on such topics was obvious. “So long as she behaves as a child, she will be treated as one.”
The old stranger addressed me directly. “Do you want to wear stylish clothing and be presented to society, Alice? Is that something you look forward to?”
“Yes, sir.” I wanted that more than anything. A true smile, one born of hope came to my lips as I glanced to where my mother sat. “And to wear my hair up like Mama.”
My mother cleared her throat, pretty blue eyes whirring about the dayroom, landing on anything but me. “She may behave in childish ways, Sir Rothfield, but Alice is accomplished with the harp. Her penmanship is flawless. We have done all we could to craft the girl into a lady in preparation of her coming out.”
The stranger kept his brown eyes upon me, measuring something I could not grasp, but spoke to my parents. “Has she ever grown violent? Has your daughter harmed the staff or struck one of you?”
At this, my mother seemed unsure how to answer. She shook her head, but frowned. “No. Alice is meek. It’s herself she harms, wreaks havoc upon her room, her clothing, her furnishings.” Softness left her voice and she barked, her face sour. “Show him your arms, girl.”
Turning my wrists upward, I lifted my sleeves. Forearms gnawed with teeth marks, marked with scratches, were pale and mottled in bruises.
“It’s a wonder she has all her fingernails today. The girl is usually missing at least one. She bites them down to nubs.”
The old man leaned forward, perusing the map of injuries on my forearm. “Yet still finds a way to scratch herself? Singular. When she is in these fits, is her demeanor much changed?”
My mother was at a loss for words, her explanation half-formed. “You see, ummm, she waits until alone. We’ve never seen...”
“And who is charged to watch her in the evening hours?”
“She is locked away to keep her mischief contained. Her nanny sleeps in the room beside her, and has never once heard a thing. It’s deviousness on Alice’s part, she plots, then blames her destruction on phantasms.”
Bushy brow lifting in my direction, the stranger prodded me for an explanation. “Is this true, Alice?”
I had not been exposed to a new person in ages, and somewhere under my silence and melancholy, a horrible screw of hope twisted around and around. Foolishly, I sought help. “It is not I, sir. It’s the ones the rabbit brings. They torment me night after night.”
Eyes narrowing in thought, the man hummed to himself. “Delusions... self-harm... paranoia... general hysterics.”
My father finally added to the conversation. “Can you set her right?”
“Of course!” Jovial, a smile was offered to my father, and the stranger even let his eyes twinkle in my mother’s direction. “Tell me, has Alice begun her monthly courses?”
My face must have grown as red as a beetroot.
“Five years now.” Even my mother was uncomfortable with such forthright talk to a male. “It was a very upsetting time.” Lowering her voice as if another might hear the terrible thing my mother was about to confess, she whispered, “She claimed that some bloody woman was pulling things out of her. At night, Alice refuses to attend to it and bleeds all over the bed, her clothing.”
That was a half-truth. That was not what I had said to my mother the first time I had found blood on my sheets. And I only bled freely when my courses came unexpected and I was unable to creep from my bed. For every evening my womb cramped, I could rely on a very specific guest: the Red Queen.
Four nights she’d circled my bed, and then the day the blood had ceased, a rare visit from the Hatter had come instead. He’d been stalking the floor in the same manner of the naked bloody woman.