Chester Cheshire grinwild's Arc

Chapter 3 of 15

Chester sat in his purple chair and watched the gate. A white shape slipped along the low wall, ducking behind a chair, then a teapot, then the fountain. Harrietta. She was edging toward the path out of the square, watch already in her paw. Chester sighed. He had built her a whole party and she still wanted to leave. He flicked his tail and the cobblestones answered. A small chair pushed up beside the table where her seat should have been. Blue and white wood. Two tall ears carved into the back. A round cushion that fit her exactly. Harrietta stopped sneaking and stared at it. "Ridiculous. Ridiculous chair. Ears? Ears on a chair?" She climbed onto it anyway. Her feet touched the footrest. Her back fit the curve. She grumbled into her collar and did not get up. "For your hands," Chester said, and set a tray in front of her. Four white teacups. Four white saucers. Gold rims. Nothing else. "Stack them. Perfectly. Then unstack. Then stack again." Harrietta opened her mouth to complain and shut it. She lifted the first saucer. She set the first cup. Her ears went still. She checked her watch, lined up the handle, and placed the next cup so the handle matched the first to the degree. Chester watched her work and felt his grin tighten. It was the dullest game he had ever made. She loved it. He slipped out of the chair while she measured handles. His house stood at the edge of the square, crooked and tall. Inside, the shelf along the back wall waited for him, carved dark wood with curling sides. Every compartment was empty. Not a single book. He had pulled Harrietta out of the last one and never replaced it. Chester pressed his paws together and pictured a red leather spine. A book formed in his hands and sagged. Ink ran between his fingers and dripped to the floor. He tried a blue one. It melted before he could read the title. He tried a small one. It puddled on the shelf and slid off the edge. Chester licked ink off his thumb and looked around the room for anything he had missed. At the writing desk by the window, a raven stood on the blotter with a quill clamped in its beak. It had been there the whole time. He had never put it there. The raven tilted its head. Chester laughed out loud. A raven with a writing desk. The oldest riddle in his old book, standing in his new house, holding a pen. "You," Chester said, and crossed the room. "You and I are going to make a book." The raven set the quill down on the blotter and waited. Outside, Harrietta clicked another cup into place and checked her watch. Chester pulled up a stool.