Down the Rabbit Hole

“Alice?”


Alice Kemp stirred, and Weston shook his head, then checked to make sure he still had the locket. At first he could not find it, as he was no longer wearing a coat, but then he felt it at his hip in the pocket of the strange pants he was wearing, surprisingly like the pair Alice had on.

“Maybe insanity is not the nightmare I thought it would be.” Alice being next to him was a wondrous delusion.

He was speaking aloud but to himself, a sometimes unfortunate habit, and quite naturally, the man thought Weston was addressing him.

“Oh, my lord, I assure you. You are as sane now as you were yesterday. Something most unusual has happened, and as soon as I am certain the lady is well, I will explain it to both of you.”

“Kemp. Her name is Alice Kemp.” The earl took her hand and felt for her pulse. Alice’s hand was as warm and soft as he remembered, and her pulse was not much quicker than a normal beat.

As he watched, her impossibly long eyelashes fluttered, and he smiled at the green eyes he had never forgotten, any more than he had forgotten how she felt against him.

“Weston?” She asked more than said his name, and as her eyes cleared she moved to a sitting position. “Where am I?”

She brushed at the pants with an expression of disgust, if not outright revulsion. “Showing the outline of my legs is very embarrassing.”

“Yes, Miss Kemp, I am sure, but I can explain if you both will give me your attention.” The gentleman was wringing his hands again.

As was typical of Alice Kemp, she went on as if she had not heard him. “Where are we and why am I here?” She looked from the gentleman to Weston. It was not a friendly look. It was more like a glare.

Weston stood up and began to circle the room. The mantel that had needed paint last night was now a green marble. The room looked well-kept and dusted. “Now. I want explanations now.”

The man nodded, a series of short rapid movements that showed he was ready to comply.

“First, my name is Mr. Arbuckle. Until today and for many years, centuries even, I have been the caretaker of a magic coin. It was placed into my keeping in the early nineteenth century, where I was born and raised, and I have been responsible for it ever since. I have not always been in control of it, but I have always been responsible for it. But that is another story entirely.”

Weston rolled his eyes. If he was not mad, then this man must be.

“Listen, please, my lord.” He turned and bowed to Alice. “And you too, miss.”

“How do you do, Mr. Arbuckle. I am Miss Kemp. It appears I have been kidnapped and have no choice but to listen to your fantastical story. Luckily, I have always had a fondness for fairy tales.” Her disdain was obvious. She stood up and moved to the fireplace and chose the sharpest poker in the lot. “If I do not like what you have to say I want to assure you that I am more than capable of defending myself. Is that perfectly clear?”

Now that was the Alice Kemp he loved. She had a unique way of taking command of a situation. He did his best not to react at all.

“Yes, miss. Yes,” Arbuckle said as he took a step back, even though he was not within striking range. “And my story will sound fantastical, but will be amazingly easy to prove.”

Alice—he really should try to think of her as “Miss Kemp,” but once you have held a woman in your arms and made love to her it was almost impossible to think of her with any element of formality, so “Alice” it was—lowered the poker but moved closer to the library door.