Harrietta “The white Rabbit”'s Arc

Chapter 3 of 7

Harrietta came back to the cobbles at midday with the journal sealed in her apron pocket. She did not open it. Chester knew about it now, which made every page inside it worthless. If she wrote down one more thing where he could see her, he would only show her what he wanted her to see. She needed a new way to watch him, and she needed it before he pulled the next guest through. She found him at the head of the long table, eyes half closed, paws spread. The air above the empty chair shimmered. The plain seat she had watched for days was gone. In its place stood a tall chair with carved curls and pale flowers worked into the back, the kind of chair meant for a girl in a tower. Beside it, on the table, a cake rose in three pink tiers shaped like a castle, with tiny windows and a spire on top. Not a spade. Not a card. He had lied with the petals. He had wanted her to write down the wrong guess. Her ears went hot. The ace had been bait. While she had filled pages with spades, he had been preparing for a princess. She backed away from the table before he opened his eyes. She ran for the striped trunk of his house. The door under the roots was unlatched. Inside, the air smelled of paper and old tea. This was where the books had come from. This was where the next one would be written. She moved past a low desk and stopped at a tall, dark shelf along the back wall. The shelf was carved with curls and crooked edges. Every row was empty. He had pulled every story out of it. She squeezed into the gap between the shelf and the wall and crouched low. From the slot between two shelves she could see the desk, the door, and a clear stripe of the table outside. She took two sips from the small flask in her pocket. The ticking in her head softened. She set the journal on her knees and did not open it. She would not write a word he could find later. She would only watch, and remember, and decide what to do with her own two paws once she saw who he pulled through. The door creaked. Chester padded in, humming. He did not look at the shelf. He climbed onto the desk, took up a long feather pen, and laid a blank book flat. He dipped the pen. He began to write. Harrietta held her breath behind the empty shelf and watched the ink move. For the first time since the petals, he did not know where she was.