The Dark Forest: A Collection Of Erotic Fairytales(159)

I nodded, earnest to have my chance at the fairy. “Yes.”

The turbulence was gone from his barking. He’d grown contemplative and sedate. “I want to kiss your cheek.”

That seemed a fair trade, though I was certain if his face was near mine, his dust would settle into my hair. Even so, I turned my head and presented the side of my face.

There was no kiss, not at first. Instead, I heard the clink of my stolen tooth being dropped into my cup. Before I could turn my head to make sure he was not playing some trick on me, the Hatter clicked his tongue. I remained still, my eyes, of course, locked upon the white rabbit.

I jumped at the touch of ice on my face, fingers colder than death tracing the bones of my jaw and eye socket.

“Do you know how many years I’ve been coming to visit, Alice?”

One? Maybe two? It was hard to say. One night bled into the next... an endless loop of sleepless murk.

“An eternity, sweet Alice.” He was utterly indulged, touching my face as I’d never let him before. “Are you not happy to have me?”

I favored him immensely over the others. “You are the only friend I have. I even told Mama and Papa about you.”

“Yessssss, yeeeeesssss, that is what I am. I am your friend.” He stole his kiss, but he missed his mark, pressing his lips to the corner of my mouth instead. “And friends give presents to one another, do they not?”

His mouth had been wet and I’d shivered, longing to wipe the back of my hand over my mouth. “They do.”

“Then will you not give me the tooth as a token of our friendship? It would make me very cheerful.”

He had taken his seat again, his knees high and his hat crooked. I turned away from the horrid rabbit and looked to my cup. In the small porcelain bowl laid my bloody tooth.

It was a currency, I could see that. With it, I might buy leniency from the Hatter’s temper. Still I was very unhappy to hand it over, pushing the cup closer to my guest, eyes downcast and voice timid. “You may have it.”

“I will be much better to you than any fairy...”

No, he wouldn’t. I let out a sigh and watched his fingers dart out to pocket my offering. He was grinning again, tapping his toes as he crooked a finger at the broken teapot across the room. It flew to his hand like a darting bird flies to a tree.

Mouth agape, I almost fell out of my chair.

It lacked a handle and he had to hold it with his great long fingers curled around the teapot like a spider. Even so he poured. Steaming tea came out the spout.

“I have made you cold. You need a warm drink.”

What was this magic? First, the tea pot came at his call, and now there was real tea in my cup.

“Take your cup now. Be a good girl.”

I did as I was told, mesmerized and delighted. The tea was at my lips, I sipped daintily, pinky up just like he had taught me.

I knew the flavor, he’d created my favorite variety, and indeed, it did warm me. The fluid mingled with the grit in my mouth, with the blood, and washed both away.





Chapter Four





“You look a mess, Alice.” My mother buttered her toast, angry to see the dark circles under my eyes, made all the worse against my sallow pallor. “It’s positively shameful.”

Dutiful, I smoothed my pinafore and kept my eyes downcast. For years I had heard the same castigation that I had grown less beautiful than before. “I am sorry, Mama.”

She was fresh in peach silk, her golden hair arranged to showcase her glowing health and beauty. “Do you not think you are too old for nightmares and the abuses you heap on your nanny? Most girls your age have outgrown their governess, they speak Latin and French... yet you still wet the bed.”

The shame I felt at her words, if I could have sunk into the fine dining chair and burst into a puff of dust, I would have welcomed it. “I told you, Mama. It wasn’t me who wet the bed. It was the boys. They did it right in front of me.”

My father slammed down his fork, the china on the table clattering. “That is enough!”

“Are you going to tell us these imaginary boys scratched you too?” Eyes the same shade of blue as mine, looked down to where my sleeve showed a hint of my wrist. The edges of a scabbed line of scratches peeked out for my mother to frown at. “That you did not do that to yourself?”

No one ever believed me. “I didn’t.”

“These imaginary friends of yours, at your age, it is an embarrassment to our family!”

I had heard them talking, my parents, the servants, about my oddness. I had heard them call me strange and wicked, and I had cried to the Hatter on the nights he came to see me, and I had tried to be the most obedient student even with my awful harp teacher.

“Please listen to me, Mama.” For a moment, I thought to beg my mother to hear me, and then the sad weight of inevitability sank deep into my belly. They were tired of my stories and excuses. I vexed them, my nanny had grown to hate me, and there was no point in any of it. So I lied, hoping it might make them happy. “There are no boys. I wet the bed.” The lie tasted worse than the Hatter’s dirty fingers. “It was I who cracked the mirror on my bureau, and I who put the frog in Nanny’s chamber pot. I confess.”

My bid for mercy had been for nothing. My mother’s head, her hair piled up and shining, was turned away from me. “Go to your room, girl. I cannot even look upon you anymore.”