The Circlet Treasury of Erotic Wonderland by J. Blackmore

Author:J. Blackmore
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Riverdale Avenue Books

If This Be Not Love, It Is Madness

Theresa Sand

When Mary Ann saw the Mad Hatter kissing the White Knight, she knew he was not mad.

They were in the alcove of the Hatter’s little home. She had a letter from the White Rabbit stuffed in her apron, and she had walked into the Hatter’s house with angel’s trumpet in her hair. It was only dawn, but she was already late. Her mind was a whirligig of tasks and chores, which the White Rabbit deemed unimportant in comparison to the delivery of his numerous letters of many shapes and sizes (sometimes ones so small she had to pinch them between thumb and forefinger).

But all those thoughts vanished as soon as she witnessed the Hatter and White Knight in a passionate embrace. She was so shocked she dropped her basket of mushrooms. She was light on her feet, but her voice carried (the White Rabbit was always shushing her), and her gasp caused the White Knight to break away from the kiss.

The Hatter said nothing, lax in his repose against the wall. His eyes remained shut even as the White Knight stumbled around the room in search of his sword and his armor. He mumbled his apologies and bashed his knee against the table before ducking out of the house, his armor piled up in his arms.

Still the Hatter did not move, or speak. His hat was on the floor, and his black hair was mussed. He was a beautiful man but hid it with ill-fitting clothes and unkempt hair. Mary Ann often found herself daydreaming about what he must have looked like when he was a singer at the Queen of Hearts’ court, dressed in gilded finery, his raven hair brushed away from his face, revealing his high cheekbones and generous mouth.

“Mary Ann,” he greeted softly, his lips quirked into a smile. “If you like to watch, you should have come earlier.”

He turned his head, opened his eyes, and set her in his clear, obsidian stare.

She ignored the rush of heat to her cheeks, grabbed her basket, and strode over to the dusty alcove, the letter in her free hand. She halted in front of him, ignoring the rapid beat of her heart. It was always that way when in close proximity to the Hatter, and she chided herself for it. She was widowed. She had a child. She was not old, but she was hardly a silly girl.

The Hatter stared down at the letter between them, considering before he plucked it from her fingers. His fingertips grazed her hand, and she snatched it back as if he had burned her.

“Is this from the White Rabbit?” he asked. His voice was melodious and low, as if ready at any moment to break into song.

Mary Ann ignored her surprise at such a simple question. The Hatter never asked them. He preferred riddles and rhyming. After Alice, he had sunk into stranger behavior and proclaimed that Time, in even greater revenge of his attempted murder, had moved him forward to midnight.

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