mad

A million lights, a hundred million make up New York City at night—and Alice is somewhere down there, down the rabbit hole or past the looking glass. I can’t see her, and the not knowing drives me mad (mad, mad, mad as a hatter). But whiteness is temporary; she belongs to my kingdom, where she’ll be greeted with celebration; and if her little heart ceased beating, I would feel it in my own, even blackened and brimstone-blasted.

I watch from the condominium’s balcony. It’s a high perch, and this reassures me, but height makes no difference whether I’m man or raven-eyed beast. The Shewolf must have charmed, persuaded, seduced one of the Seventy-Two—Ronove?—into concealing the child with enough force that I can’t—I can’t, I can’t see her.

But she’s here, she’s living flesh and blood. Which means that, unless that little nuisance of a bitch actually makes good and delivers the White child unharmed, I can find her. Not with my legions, not with faith or glory, but with the skin and bone that I’ve built in a latticework over them. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve played the bloodhound.

And when I find my lost Alice, I’ll tell her that the fruit was sweet (eat me, drink me), and she should have another bite.