Alice in the Prison of Hearts (Alice: Pick a Card Book 4) by B. A. Lovejoy

Author:B. A. Lovejoy [Lovejoy, B. A.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2022-07-05T00:00:00+00:00

14

A MOST OUTRAGEOUSLY AWFUL THING HAPPENS (AND ALSO THE CATERPILLAR BECOMES INJURED, BUT LESS ON THAT)

Within a matter of minutes, I was standing within the Hearts Estate, watching as the increasingly deranged Rabbit seemed to stray further and further from sanity as he quickly paced the same length of floor about eight times, neglecting to inform me of the reason why as I stood there scowling and watching him.

“I think you should know,” I said in disgruntlement, still irate at the injustice of having been tugged along behind Fitzgerald without my consent as the other members of our party took off into the gardens, “that the dim much prefer a dark, hedge filled environment with the occasional bramble, thus making the Heart’s Maze the logical place to go,” I spat. “As it is woodsy and outdoors, where things tend to wander about,” I snapped. “Not a library.”

And definitely not the Hearts Library, if the dim were ever to be a real thing, as the whole library was so brightly lit and perfectly visible from all directions that if such a thing as a dim, an entirely made-up creature that I had invented all on my own, were to exist; it most certainly wouldn’t choose to exist there.

No, because Dim were all mystery and intrigue, they lived for the thrill of the hunt, and the Hearts library? Well, that was nearly the opposite of mysterious and intriguing, unless one were to reconsider the thousands of rounded shelves that reached on forever and find them quite disturbing, which I imagined someone could. Just not me. I was used to the books flying through the air by then, and the row after row of long stretching shelves, I had familiarized myself far too much with them prior to my visit in Spades, thus resulting in my current situation of being locked in Hearts by the Courts.

Not that I bore the ancient, tortoise librarian ill will, or anything. Nor begrudged the library itself and its indiscreetly placed reserved collection for my dastardly deeds—even though one could have argued that putting a highly classified collection so close to where others were allowed to read was just asking for trouble to present itself. Books were simply collections of paper and ink, they could not be to blame for anyone’s less than exemplary actions, for they only contained stories and ideas, once you familiarized yourself with them you were left to choose what was next. A book did not hold your hand and force you to do something.

Or, at least I had not yet met one to do such a thing, but I supposed there was still time remaining for that to happen in the long stretch of time before I returned to England, and I shouldn’t have been surprised if such a thing were to happen to me or anyone else.

Very little phased me in Wonderland anymore. Or, at least, very little of my environment in Wonderland phased me anymore—the same could not be said of

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