Down the Rabbit Hole

Alice nodded with a small smile that brought an inordinate amount of joy to his heart.

Turning his attention from Alice, he made his way to the front hall. As they walked down the stairs that circled the entry hall, Weston noted that, while the place looked the same, the decor was different.

“It looks familiar, but parts of it are not at all as I recall,” Alice whispered to him, and he smiled at the intimacy, nodding.

Yes, he had no doubt this was his town house. The Rembrandt hanging at the landing proved it. He knew it was the same place, but so much around it was different, and for the first time the earl wondered if Mr. Arbuckle might be telling the unholy truth.

Did he even need to say that the next few hours were the most amazing of his life thus far? He knew the memory of this terrifying, horrifying, incredible look at the future would astound him forever.

There was the obvious. Thousands of horse-free carriages, which Arbuckle called “cars,” some large and some small, filled the roads. Conveyances called lorries took the place of carts, but still managed to block traffic as much as the old horse-drawn drays had.

Buildings were tall, huge. The lifts they rode on made stairs unnecessary except for emergencies. There were still pockets of small homes. Mayfair retained much of its nineteenth-century look. Even Berkeley Square was still there, if marred by the hideous building that was the American Embassy.

“What surprises me as much as the change,” Alice said at one point, “is how much has remained the same.”

Indeed he had noticed that too. London remained a hub of the world. People of all nations were on the streets, some hurried and on business, others shopping at a leisurely pace. He was delighted to see that the Burlington Arcade remained, with some of the same shops he frequented.

And Hatchards!

The bookstore still had pride of place on Piccadilly. Alice suggested they go inside, and Mr. Arbuckle agreed.

There were books displayed in far more dramatic ways than in his day, when stacked books near the door had been the only announcement of new publications. Now there were stands as tall as he was, with bright, even bold, covers. He moved from one to another, running his fingers over the smooth paper covers of three or four different books. No more leather covers. And authors seemed to crave publicity, as their pictures were a prominent part of the back cover.

One of the displays particularly caught their attention. The book was Alice in Wonderland, and Mr. Arbuckle explained that it was a perennial children’s favorite.

“That could be a story about us, Weston. For this London is, indeed, a wonderland.”

The earl turned to their guide. “How did this Alice reach her Wonderland? Was it by time travel as well?”

“No, my lord. She fell down a rabbit hole.”

“I did that once too,” Weston said with a laugh. “Well, my horse did. He fell in the rabbit hole and escaped unharmed, but it left me more dizzy than clearheaded. For a day I saw two of everything. Was that Alice in Wonderland’s experience as well?”

“No.” Arbuckle shook his head.

“Shall we purchase a copy?” Alice asked, and made to lift one from the stand.

“You may, if you wish, but you will not be able to take it back with you. If you take something with you, then you must leave something behind. The space-time continuum, you know.”

Weston’s expression must have looked as confused as Alice’s did, because Arbuckle shook his head. “Of course you have no idea what I’m talking about. As I said before you can only go back with what you came with, and that would be the locket. Unless you wish to leave the jewelry behind?”

Weston shook his head. Arbuckle nodded. Nothing was said, but each understood the other.

“If the people pretending to be us must leave the coin, what will they bring back?” Alice asked, as though she had not witnessed the silent commune.