“We’re time, darling,” Mrs. Tock says. “We don’t joke.”
“Ask older people,” Mr. Tick adds. “Or the man who just missed his ride outside.”
“Or the student who’s going to fail tomorrow’s test because he didn’t respect us, time, enough and ended up sleeping through his classes,” Mrs. Tock says.
“Or the man who is going to die in” — Mr. Tick stares at his watch — “about three seconds before he ever did what he always wanted to do.”
“And why?” Mrs. Tock snickers at Mr. Tick.
“Because he thought that time, us, is on his side.” Mr. Tick high-fives Mrs. Tock. He has to lower his hands though.
“We get it,” Fabiola says. “Tell us why you want to send Alice to the future. Why would Black Chess openly offer us this? What’s the point?”
“Didn’t you figure it out yet?” Mrs. Tock sneers.
“Here is the deal,” Mr. Tick says. “Black Chess will use our services because we have common business interests. They want to send Alice into the future so she can locate what’s left of the Six Impossible Keys.”
Chapter 5
“Wouldn’t it be more convenient to send me back in time to know where I hid them?” I ask.
“And risk the possibility that you may have changed their location in the past twelve years and then forgot about it?” Mr. Tick says.
“Or better, the possibility of you using them for your own cause while you’re in the past?” Mrs. Tock says.
“I’m not sure I’m following,” I say.
“The logic is that in the future, the keys should have been already used, and that either Black Chess or the Inklings has already won the Wonderland Wars,” Mr. Tick says. “Also, there is one other advantage.”
“Which is?”
“The rules of time are that you can bring objects back from the future, but not from the past to the future,” Mr. Tick says.
“Aren’t you time? Change the rules,” I say.
“We’re actually working for Time. Mr. Time doesn’t want to be known at this time in history. But we have full authority to talk on his behalf,” Mr. Tick says. “So just humor us. We can’t send you into the future without your consent.”
“So let’s say she follows this loony plan and brings back the keys from the future,” Fabiola says. “Why would Black Chess help us do that?”
“Black Chess’s problem is the whereabouts of the Six Impossible Keys. Taking them by force from you isn’t the trouble. They believe they are stronger,” Mr. Tick says. “So the idea is bring the keys, have them in your possession, and fight us when we try to take them from you. They’re up to that challenge.”
If I accept, we’ll have to have a plan to hide the keys immediately. Maybe I can find a way to send a message back to the future. It’s risky.
“What do you think, Fabiola?” I say.
“I say no. Because you’re the only one who knows the whereabouts of the keys. Sooner or later, you’ll find them here without their help. They need us. We don’t need them.”
“Wouldn’t you want to know for sure if you’re the Real Alice?” Mr. Tick asks me. “Think of it. All the evidence you gathered from the past could have been given to you. Maybe the sneaky Pillar played you into thinking you were the Real Alice. How do you know he didn’t plant the keys you found in the basement of your house and made you think you’d found them yourself?”
“I met Lewis Carroll’s ghost in here,” I say. “He told me I’m the Real Alice.”
“It’s a ghost. An apparition. Who said it can’t be manipulated?” Mr. Tick argues. “But the future never lies. You will definitely know if you’re the Real Alice by finding all the keys there and knowing what happens to you in the future.”
“I’m not so keen about my future without my past,” I say. “I think I’ll decline. Please leave now.”
“She leaves us no choice, Mrs. Tock,” Mr. Tick tells his wife.
“I hate it when people don’t accept our kindness.” Mrs. Tock shakes her head.
Suddenly the March Hare stiffens in place, as if electrified by an invisible current. He falls to the floor.
“We planted this. Cyanide in his milk,” Mr. Tick says. “To wake him up, he needs an antidote. And only we have it.”
Fabiola reaches for her Vorpal sword, but neither of the two loons flinch.
“I wouldn’t do that, because the only way to save the March Hare is to go back in time and relieve him from his poison,” Mrs. Tock sneers, all the joy in the world flaming in her eyes. “Cyanide is incurable.”
“Besides, it’s time that cuts like a knife. Not a Vorpal sword,” Mr. Tick mocks Fabiola. “So please sit down and accept our offer.”
I stare at their ugly faces without flinching. I muster the look of the unafraid, but my knees are shaking. Not the March Hare. Please don’t kill him.
“Think of it as a school trip on a bus,” Mr. Tick tells me. “Except you don’t have to kill your classmates this time.”