“My name is Vollrath. Mr. Harte and I were in the Tutor Corps together many, many moons ago, when Queen Issa was still a newborn princess. We were, the top two students in our class, but for as long as we were in the Corps, Mr. Harte remained first-in-class while I was supposed to be content with second. I am incapable of being satisfied with second place in anything, so…” the tutor’s ears angled back, stiff, as if buffeted by a strong wind, “…not wanting to be forever at Mr. Harte’s heels in the propagation of White Imagination, I began to devote my knowledge and intellect to the service of Black
Imagination. And with as much truthfulness as I allow myself-for too much makes one dull, dull, dull-I may say that I became its premier scholar. I offered my services to any Black Imagination practitioners willing to pay me the outlandish sums I demanded, and I lived a life of glorious decadence. But about the time of Issa’s coronation, I became entangled with an overambitious smuggler and it became necessary for me to throw myself into the Pool of Tears. I haven’t been back to Wonderland since.”
A graduate of the Tutor Corps in the service of Black Imagination? A scholar of malice and foe of Bibwit
Harte? It was time for Redd to announce herself:
“I am Redd Heart, granddaughter of Queen Issa and eldest daughter of Queen Theodora and King
Tyman, both of whom are dead.”
Vollrath immediately dropped to one knee, his head bowed. “I didn’t realize I was conversing with royalty,” he said. “I apologize for my lack of proper respect, Princess.”
Princess. Redd bridled at the word. “You might ask why Wonderland’s heir apparent is in this foul and slummy place. The answer: because my birthright has twice been denied me, once by a traitorous mother who connived with my younger sister (both dead by my hand), and again by an upstart niece who this moment wears the crown that looks so much better on my head than it does on hers. Now get up. And call me ‘Your Imperial Viciousness.’”
Vollrath rose to his feet and put a thoughtful finger to his bloodless lips, about to speak, when- “Monsieur Vollrath,” the skinny torch-bearer said, “unless you want to be late…”
“Yes, yes, Marcel. Your Imperial Viciousness, if you will deign to tell me, I’d like to hear more about your niece-and of course, what you intend to do to her-but I’m presently on my way to an engagement in a catacomb not far from here. I’d be honored if you and your feline friend would join me as my special guests. The entertainment is to be provided by a pupil of mine-one who, although not from Wonderland, has talents I think you’ll appreciate. Afterward, we may discuss your niece at our leisure, and if I can be of any service to you whatsoever, I shall not hesitate.”
So Redd and The Cat followed Vollrath and Marcel along a zigzag of cobwebbed tunnels until they emerged into a catacomb well lit by torches. Though large, the crypt was crammed with tables. At one end, opposite a bar made of coffins, a pile of human bones took up most of an elevated stage. In the center of the room, a heavy-set man with an ink-dark mustache was urging on what appeared to be waiters readying the room for an influx of customers.
“Chop chop!” the man was booming. “Chop chop! Sacrenoir’s performance will begin on time or not at all! Marcel, where have you been?”
“Forgive my delay, Master Sacrenoir,” Marcel said.
“I’m to blame for our tardiness,” interrupted Vollrath. “But I’ve just made what I hope will be a profitable association for all of us. This is Her Imperial Viciousness, Redd Heart, and her feline companion, who have just arrived from my former home.” Addressing the Wonderlanders, he said: “This robust gentleman is Master Sacrenoir, a former apothecary from Lyons gifted in a particularly unsavory practice of black magic.”
“A ‘master,’ is he?” Redd said, amused.
Sacrenoir eyed the visitors. “I hope the lack of focus so evident in their persons doesn’t represent what’s within their heads. I need to check on my bones.” The magician hulked over to the stage, where he made a great clatter rearranging femurs and pelvic bones and skulls.
“Master Sacrenoir has never shown much talent for courtesy,” Vollrath said, “especially before a performance. Come, we shall sit at the best table in the house.”
The tutor led Redd and The Cat to an alcove at the left of the stage, separated from the main room by a curtain of heavy black velvet. Within the alcove was a single table.
“We should be comfortable here,” said Vollrath. “We have an unobstructed view of the stage, but if I pull the curtain partway closed, like so, we have complete privacy, as we’re out of sight from the audience. Any refreshments you desire are of course compliments of moi.”
Guests were starting to arrive, and Marcel had hurried over to the catacomb’s entrance to greet them. “Good evening, my pretty friends! Good evening! And how fortunate you are to be at the master’s one and only Paris performance! The event is shortly to begin! You risk the master’s wrath if you don’t immediately take your seats! Also, let’s not forget, there’s a two-drink minimum.”
The guests consisted solely of the wealthy and aristocratic, the women decked out in pearls and embroidered lace, smoking cigarettes through long ebony holders, while the men looked sophisticated in their tuxedos, tapping canes of polished rosewood against polished shoes as they sipped absinthe from narrow glasses. Within minutes, the catacomb filled to capacity. Touched by no human hand, an iron gate clanked shut across the entrance, unnoticed by the illustrious guests packed in at their tables, who were chatting loudly and laughing the hearty laughter of the privileged until-
Ffftsssst!
The room fell dark, the torches miraculously snuffed out as one. A woman screamed. A ripple of titillated laughter passed among the tables. A violin began to play a melody at once languid and stern, the work of no known composer. With the sudden crack of breaking wood-
Voila! A single cone of light illuminated Sacrenoir standing center stage before his pile of bones. In the light’s dusky reaches, black-gloved Marcel could be seen playing his violin.
“Hurrah!” the audience cried. “Sacrenoir, magician extraordinaire!”
They rose to their feet, whistling and applauding and calling out in approval. Sacrenoir put a finger to his lips-Ssshh!-and waited until they had resumed their seats, quiet with expectation.
“It is said that when a person dies,” he began in a voice that seemed to address not those before him, but a numberless multitude as yet unseen, “whichever of his animal appetites are left unsated at the time of his death do not die but live on in the ether, in the very air we breathe, waiting to take up residence in another. I say, let the dead have their appetites back!”
“Give the dead their appetites!” the audience shouted.
Sacrenoir closed his eyes and his lips moved in an incantation impossible to hear over the strains of
Marcel’s violin. The bones piled behind him began to shift and creak. “Oooooh!” someone moaned, in imitation of a ghost, and everyone laughed.
Neither Sacrenoir nor Marcel seemed aware of the audience, the one mesmerized by his own incantation while Marcel’s melody rose to a crescendo, his bow streaking faster and faster on the strings of his violin. The bones skittered and scraped across the stage, arranging themselves into complete skeletons and, as
if sprung from their very marrow, rotted burial clothes formed, hanging loose from hips and shoulders. The audience sat rapt and horrified.
The resurrected dead turned empty eye sockets on the crowd, fleshless jaws moving up and down in a grotesque imitation of speech. But the sounds coming from those empty throats and tongueless mouths, and which passed through clicking teeth, were no imitations.