Kitabı oku: «Alice in Zombieland / Алиса в Стране зомби», sayfa 11

Bowing deeply, he murmured, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Alice mirrored his bow awkwardly, her cheeks warm with embarrassment. The Queen smiled, her composure fully restored. “Think on the prophecy, child,” she said, her voice kind once more. “And know that you may visit me whenever you wish. Rest well. You have much to prepare for.”

FIVE
On ashes and time

Alice lay sprawled across the bed, staring up at the delicate canopy of embroidered silk above her. It was grand, ostentatiously so, with golden tassels hanging like miniature suns at each corner. Yet, as she shifted slightly, the fabric let out a faint creak, as if it might crumble under too much scrutiny. The events of the day spun in her head like a whirlwind, leaving her in a state of exasperated reflection.

“What a peculiar day,” she murmured to herself, rolling onto her stomach and tucking her hands beneath her chin. “First, tumbling down that dreadful rabbit hole – honestly, who builds a hole so deep without at least putting up a sign? Then the Caterpillar, all riddles and smoke rings. The creatures in the forest, the Cheshire, and that tea party – lunacy! And finally, the Queen, all thorns and grandeur, declaring me the savior of Wonderland, as though I'd ever volunteer for such nonsense.”

She turned onto her side, her gaze unfocused as she traced a finger along the edge of the bedspread. “But maybe,” she murmured softly, turning her face into the pillow as her fingers clenched the edge of the bedspread, “I don't have a choice at all.” The words trembled in the still air, and a faint, helpless shiver ran through her as the thought refused to let go, its weight pressing down harder. It lingered, unwelcome and heavy, as the melancholy weight of the day settled into her chest.

Her gaze drifted to the room around her, its opulence overwhelming in its fragility. The walls were covered in intricate wallpaper depicting sprawling vines interspersed with deep red roses. A chandelier hung precariously above, its crystals shimmering like trapped starlight. The air was unnervingly still, silent as if the world outside had ceased to exist. On a small table by the bed rested an ornate clock, its face adorned with tiny, unmoving hands that seemed frozen in mid-thought.

“How fitting,” Alice muttered, her eyes narrowing at the clock. “Even the time here doesn't know what it's meant to do.”

Her mind wandered back to the Rabbit's begrudging guidance to this room. He had led her down twisting corridors lined with tall, arched windows that let in little light, the glass fogged as though hiding secrets. The castle felt like a maze – a grand, intimidating labyrinth where every turn seemed to lead back to the same place. When they'd finally arrived, he'd given a terse bow before scuttling away, leaving Alice to fend for herself.

Exploring the room, Alice had found little comfort. The furnishings, though luxurious, had an air of being too fragile to touch, as though they might disintegrate if handled carelessly. The wardrobe, a towering structure of dark wood with gilded edges, seemed almost oppressive. She'd opened it out of curiosity and found it empty save for a single dress – a garment that looked suspiciously like the one she'd been wearing earlier, now miraculously mended.

Her eyes had then fallen on the clock, its frozen hands drawing her closer. There was something about its stillness, the quiet defiance of its unmoving face, that both irritated and intrigued her. She'd touched it lightly, her fingertips brushing the smooth surface. A faint metallic whine had followed, almost like a sigh, and she'd pulled back immediately, her pulse quickening.

Hands that point yet cannot move.

Near the clock, she'd also found a small book bound in faded red leather. It had been tucked beneath a pile of decorative pillows, as though someone had intended it to be hidden but hadn't tried very hard. The title on the cover read,The Clockmaker's Journal, and though the pages were mostly indecipherable – filled with complex diagrams and notes in looping handwriting – one phrase had stood out:

Each tick is a goodbye dressed in brass.

Alice had closed the book with a snap, a faint frown creasing her brow. “Each tick is a goodbye dressed in brass,” she repeated under her breath, wrinkling her nose. It sounded like something her grandmother would underline in one of those weepy love novels she kept hidden in her chest – dramatic, overly polished, and so obvious it nearly made Alice roll her eyes.

Of course they were running out of time – there was a horrible, creeping disease crawling through the land, and every second spent without a cure brought it closer to the end. It wasn't profound, it was obvious. Anyone with eyes and a bit of sense could've figured that out. With a sigh, Alice flipped through the rest of the little book, hoping for something more useful. But the writing was barely legible, scrawled in such a messy, looping hand that she scoffed aloud. Even her own handwriting was neater, and her sister was always telling her it looked like a chicken had stepped in ink and danced across the page.

With a sigh, she placed the book back on the nightstand and let herself fall backward onto the bed. There was nothing left in the room to explore, no more secrets hiding in corners – just emptiness disguised as luxury.

“If this is meant to guide me,” she said aloud, “then they've certainly a strange way of doing it.” Her fingers brushed the edge of the bedspread, and her thoughts wandered. Her mind latched onto the image of the Queen, regal yet so carefully composed, her every word laced with a kind of desperation that now seemed clearer. What if the Queen had cast aside the Red King? Isn't that how “lost, poor souls” of kings end up? Exiled in some damp forest while everyone conveniently forgets they ever had a throne?

She slipped a hand into her pocket and withdrew the Red King's watch cap. Staring at it, she muttered softly, “The crown that glints but doesn't shine.” The phrase hung in the air, and her thoughts drifted to the Queen's crown, gleaming with unnatural brilliance, and then to the King's crown in her memory – a dull, faintly glinting artifact.