The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(127)

“So similar, in fact, that we feel quite at home here,” Jane went on. “The clothes, the furniture, you with the same age and appearance our Dodgson would have had in 1858 . . . all that made us believe for a moment that we had traveled back in time . . .”

“But time travel isn’t possible. And seeing that lens, which you don’t treat as an antique, but rather as an everyday object . . .”

“And seeing that there isn’t a single mechanical servant in here . . .”

“And that you are working with mathematical theories that have been obsolete in our world for a lot longer than forty years—for centuries, in fact . . .”

“In brief, seeing all that made us realize that we haven’t traveled back in time, but rather to another universe. A world very similar to ours, but with a few differences.”

The young man’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times before he managed to ask, “And h-how am I to know that you aren’t simply s-s-stark staring mad?”

“Mr. Dodgson . . .” Jane looked at him with infinite tenderness. “Does the poem The Hunting of the Snark mean anything to you?”

The professor went pale.

“I . . . well, I never. It’s an idea I’ve been mulling over for a poem, but I haven’t mentioned it to anyone yet . . . How can you . . . ?”

“You will write that poem,” Jane confirmed. “You will write it in a few years’ time, and it will be truly wonderful. It has always been my favorite. Our Charles once confided in me that the idea came to him when he was very young . . .”

Dodgson, whose pallor was taking on a greenish hue, leapt to his feet, although he immediately had to hold on to the back of his chair. He ran a trembling hand across his noble brow.

“Am I to u-understand that you come from . . . a-another universe?” he reiterated. “A world that is the same as this, aesthetically at least, b-but much more, er . . . evolved?”

Wells and Jane nodded as one.

“And h-how did you get here?”

“That is rather difficult to explain, Mr. . . . Charles, may I call you Charles?” Wells asked. “It feels more normal.” The young man nodded. “Oh, thank you . . . Perhaps it would help if you could imagine a kind of . . . rabbit hole that connects two different universes across hyperspace.”

“And where is that hole now?” asked Dodgson, gesturing toward their surroundings.

“It must have imploded after we came through it,” replied Wells, recalling the deafening noise he had heard shortly before he jumped. “I fear this was a one-way journey.”

He shot Jane a worried look, but she pressed his hand. After a brief silence, Dodgson ventured another question.

“And on the other side of that rabbit hole someone identical to me, w-with my name, is living a p-parallel life to mine?”

“That’s right, Charles,” said Wells proudly. “He was my teacher. A brilliant scientist. He created the hole that brought us here.”

“And why hasn’t he come with you?”

Wells and Jane looked at each other, this time with deep sadness.

“Well, you see . . . ,” Wells began.

“Because they killed him before he had the chance,” interrupted Jane.

She gave a brief summary of what had happened in his laboratory on the Other Side before they managed to jump. By the time she finished, Dodgson was looking at her aghast. Just then the kettle started whistling in the kitchen. Bobbing his head politely, the young man left the room swaying like a drunkard, moving his lips and shaking his head, as if he were talking to himself. And while he was away, the couple held the following hurried conversation in hushed tones:

“Why did you tell him he had died, Jane?” Wells asked. “Do you think that was a good idea?”

“Why should he care?” Jane said, surprised. “After all, he didn’t die, his other self did . . .”

“Yes, but if the two Charleses were born on the same day and have so many other things in common . . . don’t you think they might also die on the same day? And who wants to know the possible date of his own death?”

“You could be right . . . And yet, as you can see for yourself, they aren’t that similar. As far as I recall, our Charles was never keen on photography, nor do I think he cultivated the friendship of little girls when he was young . . . Wait a moment!” Jane squeezed Wells’s arm. “What name did he call that little girl?”

“Alice . . .” Wells searched his memory. “That’s all I remember.”

“Liddell,” Jane declared, her eyes flashing with excitement. “Alice Liddell. And what is our Charles’s wife called?”

“You know perfectly well, my dear, she was your friend: Pleasance Dodgson . . .”

“Yes, yes.” Jane nodded impatiently. “But her maiden name is Liddell! And can you guess what her middle name is?”

Wells, who was flabbergasted, didn’t reply.

“Her full name is Pleasance Alice Liddell . . . ,” Jane explained. “Do you see? Our Pleasance is that little girl! Although here it seems her parents have changed her names around. Lie down, Newton! Now it all makes sense . . . Our Charles was twenty years older than his wife, do you remember, and neither of them liked talking much about how and where they met. It was rumored that during his wedding preparations there were more inspections than usual, and that Charles had to make countless visits to his relationship advisor as well as go through his prenuptial reports several times . . .”