Harrietta “The white Rabbit”'s Arc

Chapter 4 of 7

From the slot in the carved shelf, Harrietta watched the quill move. The raven held it in its beak now, head tilted, dipping into a small pot of ink. Chester stood at the desk with one paw flat on the open book, eyes half shut, lips moving. The raven wrote. Chester imagined. Harrietta understood it then. He could not make a book alone. He needed the bird. She pressed the journal flat against her knees and did not reach for it. The ticking started behind her left ear. Small at first, like a fingernail tapping glass. Then louder. The shelf around her felt suddenly too tight, the carved curls digging into her shoulder, the empty rows above her head smelling of dust and dry glue. If the ticking grew, her foot would start, and her foot would knock the wood, and Chester would turn. She slid her paw into her bag for the tea sachet. Earl grey. Two sips and the noise would drop. Her paw shook. The bag tipped off her lap. It hit the floorboards with a soft thump and a clink of the flask inside. Harrietta froze. The quill kept scratching. The raven did not look up. Chester's ear twitched once. He turned his head a quarter inch toward the shelf, and his mouth pulled into a slow grin. He winked. Then he reached across the desk and lifted the purple book out from under the raven's beak as if she had not made a sound at all. He held the book flat in both paws. Vines crawled across the cover in green ink, still wet, curling around the title. Chester pushed one paw down into the page. The cover went soft. Ink pooled around his wrist and dripped onto the desk in fat purple beads. He pulled. A girl came out of the book by her hair first, brown hair past her feet, small ribbons tied through it, a purple dress crushed at the shoulder where his paw had gripped. She blinked at the lamp. Chester set her on her feet and bowed. Harrietta grabbed her bag and slipped out the side door before the raven turned. She ran for the cobbles. Halfway across the path she stopped. A tower stood beside the tea table that had not been there an hour ago. Pale purple stone, climbing roses, a small flag at the top. He had built the girl a house before he had built the girl. Harrietta forced her legs forward, reached the table, climbed into her seat, and poured tea with paws she could not quite steady. She had what she needed now. Chester could not write alone. The raven was the lock. Break the bird's hold on the quill and the party stopped pulling guests. She took two sips. The ticking eased. She thought of Alice, and of the shelf, and began to plan.