The Curious Case of Mary Ann Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title page

  Other Books by Jenn Thorson

  JABBERWOCKY

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  IF YOU ENJOYED THIS BOOK...

  THE CURIOUS CASE OF MARY ANN

  JENN THORSON

  Waterhouse Press

  PITTSBURGH, PENNSYLVANIA

  Copyright © 2017 Jenn Thorson. All rights reserved.

  Published by Waterhouse Press. Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, U.S.A.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or other—except for brief quotations in reviews, without the prior permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9838045-9-8

  Cover design by Dave White.

  Cover photography by Ben Yokitis.

  Printed in the United States of America

  To all the dreamers, gleeful weirdos and outsiders.

  You matter.

  Other Books by Jenn Thorson

  THERE GOES THE GALAXY (TGTG, Book One)

  THE PURLOINED NUMBER (TGTG, Book Two)

  TRYFLING MATTERS (TGTG, Book Three)

  Very soon the Rabbit noticed Alice, as she went hunting about, and called out to her in an angry tone, “Why, Mary Ann, what are you doing out here? Run home this moment, and fetch me a pair of gloves and a fan! Quick, now!” And Alice was so much frightened that she ran off at once in the direction it pointed to, without trying to explain the mistake it had made.

  “He took me for his housemaid!” she said to herself as she ran. “How surprised he’ll be when he finds out who I am!”

  Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland (1865)

  JABBERWOCKY

  ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

  All mimsy were the borogoves,

  And the mome raths outgrabe.

  “Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

  The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

  Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

  The frumious Bandersnatch!”

  He took his vorpal sword in hand:

  Long time the manxome foe he sought—

  So rested he by the Tumtum tree,

  And stood awhile in thought.

  And as in uffish thought he stood,

  The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

  Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

  And burbled as it came!

  One, two! One, two! and through and through

  The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

  He left it dead, and with its head

  He went galumphing back.

  “And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

  Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

  O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”

  He chortled in his joy.

  ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

  All mimsy were the borogoves,

  And the mome raths outgrabe.

  Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There (1871)

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Wonderland and Looking-Glass Land, as created by Lewis Carroll, have always held a dear, rather obsessive place in my heart. The dream-like qualities, the whimsy, the juxtaposition of color and darkness, humor and harshness, truth and madness have captivated my imagination since childhood and the concepts have grown along with me. So when the idea for Mary Ann sprung up, I knew it was a book I had to write.

  I’d like to thank the folks who have welcomed this project and boldly joined me for this tumble down the rabbit hole, offering their kind support and very good advice along the way.

  Thanks to my cousin Diana Vencius for lending me her perspective and listening ear before Mary Ann had even made it to the paper. It meant a lot.

  Thank you to my beta readers for providing invaluable feedback, catching the things my eyes could no longer see and helping to make me a better writer.

  Many thanks to my cover designer Dave White and photographer Ben Yokitis for their time and talents. I presented them with this collection of mad objects and they transformed them. Hearty (heart-y?) huzzahs go their way.

  I would also like to thank Jill Henkel for helping to name my walrus when my walrus-naming skills were not up-to-snuff. I firmly believe everyone should have a friend who’s a talented walrus-namer. It enhances life considerably.

  1

  How many Unbirthdays was it for Queen Valentina so far this year? Three? Four? Mary Ann Carpenter wondered, as she wound along the path to her father’s house. At least three, she tallied, the last one still quite vivid in her mind. Oh, the fuss Mr. Rabbit made about having his uniform just so, and the gift presented thus and his trumpet polished to a dazzling shine. As if Mary Ann would ever fail him in any of those tasks. As if she had some long history of negligence — of slatternly methods — and hadn’t been running the household silently, smoothly, all along.

  And now the fussing had begun anew. Mary Ann only prayed the Queen’s latest gift would live up to expectations. The young housemaid had truly, if not also literally, stuck her neck out for this.

  She wasn’t even sure how it happened. Her employer had been working himself into the usual tizzy over royal gift-giving, and in a mad moment of actual vocalization Mary Ann heard herself say … words: “My father could craft the piece for the Queen’s special day.”

  She’d baffled herself with the very sound of it. This was a land where outstretched necks got the quick, jolly chop of the executioner’s axe should Her Majesty not be properly delighted.

  Now she wished she hadn’t spoken at all.

  Mary Ann’s father was, of course, not only a talented contractor but also the finest woodworker around. He put real passion into the items he carved, and Mr. Rabbit had commissioned a piece that promised to astound. The sketches alone had been enough to send the furry gentleman’s gloved hands a-fluttering, whiskers quivering in anticipation, sweet words predicting a future of royal favoritism, rich comfort and bright possibility.

  It was with these thoughts that Mary Ann took the path from Neath back to Turvy, the land of her birth. When heading through Turvy, it was preferable not to think about the journey itself, or you’d never get where you were going. The topography was notoriously obstinate. It was better if you snuck up on your destination at a yawning saunter rather than have any direct sort of aim. In fact, it was best you wish to never arrive at all. It was the only sure way of getting there on time.

  Mary Ann pushed back the low hanging bough of a tree — “I beg your pardon!” snapped the foliage, for the scenery did enjoy its umbrage — and she considered how her reluctance to meet with her father was a real asset to this sort of travel. It wasn’t that she dreaded or feared or even didn’t like Rowan Carpenter. It was hard to dislike someone you didn’t know (though she understood some people managed it quite well). It was the simple not-knowing that made these family reunions so very, very awkward.

  She found it funny that she could picture every curve, every line of her father’s artistic style.
But as for his views on the things that mattered (croquet and cabbages, tea trays and twinkling, or any of a hundred other subjects that drew people close), he stood a cipher. The only thing she knew for certain were his thoughts on child-rearing and they were this:

  Children should be seen and not heard.

  Also not seen.

  It was a simple philosophy and more workable than one might expect. The thing was accomplished by making the child as useful as possible, as soon as possible, in someone else’s paying household far, far away.

  As Mary Ann ducked under a giant mushroom and searched for the connecting path through the woods, she admitted that, on the whole, Rowan Carpenter’s approach had worked out sufficiently for both parties. Yes, there were adjustments to be made, sacrifices to endure. But if she hadn’t found herself far away in that first useful position at the age of ten, Mary Ann Carpenter might never have become the person she was today.

  She might never have discovered her powers of invisibility.

  Ah, she remembered that first time it happened like it was a quarter past two, which it had been. She was serving as a lesser maid in Beatrice, the Duchess of Additch’s household, a domicile of particular bustle and unconventional culinary habits. She could still picture the Duchess there, stuffed in the large armchair, squinting at the sampler that would ultimately bear her favorite morals. This woman was simply determined to have herself a hobby and had landed on needlework as a noble endeavor. Unfortunately, she was hopeless at needlepoint and even worse at threading the needle. After two weeks’ effort, all she had to show for it was a sore thumb and a large and crooked red “T” in the far corner. It took so long to get there, she’d quite forgotten the phrase she’d planned to stitch in the first place.

  “‘T,’” she mused, drawing a finger over the thread, frowning. “What starts with ‘T’?”

  “Six o’clock starts with tea,” shouted Cookie Mills, from the kitchen. “Should I prepare sandwiches, as well, Your Grace? I could do you some nice chili pepper ones, in a lovely peppercorn spread, with a tablespoon of beautiful pepper and—”

  “Tablets! Tablets start with ‘T,’” exclaimed the Duchess, a sudden light shining in her dark eyes. “I shall write down all my best, most clever aphorisms on pen and paper before I stitch them. And the moral of that is: don’t count your letters before they’re stacked. Or: a stitch in line takes time. Now where is that pen and paper?”

  At the mere mention, Mary Ann flew across the room to a little desk and snatched up paper, pen and ink, setting them down on the table before her.

  But the Duchess hadn’t noticed. She was too busy looking under the seat cushions and peering into the flower vase. The Duchess even searched under the cat, much to the cat’s splay-legged dismay. “Where is that pen and paper? Do we not have any? Are we completely out?” She shot a dark look toward the kitchen and raised her voice, projecting it Cookie-ward. “That soup last night was suspect. A bit inky, if you ask me. And far too pulpy and …” Then her eyes fell upon the table’s contents, and the cat was tossed by the wayside. “Oh! Never mind! Here they are.” As she said this, she looked hard at Mary Ann, standing there before the table.

  No, that wasn’t precisely true. What she did was look through Mary Ann, across the room and out the window and down the lane and across the field, like the girl was nothing more than a momentary vapor. “I found them! Right where I left them. And the moral of that is …”

  Invisible. Mary Ann had felt it happen.

  After that, it happened regularly. With every passing day, she noticed how she could be in the room, directly assisting with something, yet hear her employers divulge the most intimate secrets around her. She overheard all the neighborhood gossip. She saw all the ugly habits of grooming and not-grooming, boredom and binges. It would be powerful information, if Mary Ann ever cared to divulge any of it. But that would require her to share, and words felt so wasted when they were flung into the chill of the air. It was so much better to keep them to one’s self, where they could gather together, still treasured, safe and warm.

  “It’s impressive how you do it,” the cat, whose name was Chester, told her one day, after a particularly long session of invisibility. “I especially like how it comes over you all at once. I’ve never managed that myself. I’m always leaving bits of me behind, then gathering them up again. Can’t resist. I always feel like something exciting will happen the moment I completely vanish. You must teach me.”

  But Mary Ann just smiled and stroked the cat on his soft, striped head. How could she explain that one could not teach what one did not understand?

  And how long was it that she stayed in the Duchess’ service? She considered this as she ventured down the path to her childhood home.

  Four years, she decided it was. Four years, at an eighty percent invisibility rate, until she took the position with Mr. Warren Rabbit. Or, rather, until the position took her.

  That was such a curious day; she’d been simply walking past his house from the market when the gentleman came scrambling out in a panic, pleading with her to help him find his reading spectacles. The whole thing smelled of desperation. Well, the task was done soon enough as she pointed them out there, on the top of his head. It was at that moment he decided what he really needed was a solid, clever housemaid on his staff. “Someone to fetch, find and point out spectacles, as necessary,” he said. “I notice you happen to be in the garb of one such creature. Could it be? Are you … a housemaid, my dear?”

  She indicated she was and he offered her the position on the spot.

  As Mr. Rabbit’s home was pretty and quaint and — most refreshing of all — it resided outside of a cloud of seasonings, Mary Ann agreed. When you were invisible, it was easy enough to leave a position. People only started asking questions when the chores didn’t mysteriously get done.

  Mary Ann was just wondering how long it had taken before the Duchess even realized she’d gone, when she snapped back to the present and noticed her father’s domicile was but a few steps before her. Lose yourself in thought, find yourself where you need to be. And she took the path along the side of the cottage, to her father’s workshop.

  The scent of fresh sawdust hung in the air, a telltale sign of busy, creative fingers. “Father?” she called, “I’ve come about the mirror. You’d sent a rocking horsefly saying it’s finished?” They were the best way to get messages quickly.

  But a shout rang out. “No! Don’t come in here, Mary Ann! Go away! It’s not done, it’s —”

  She swung open the door and there stood two figures, her father and someone in a beautiful red-hooded cloak. The cloaked man was brandishing an elaborate axe. And before Mary Ann understood what was happening, he drew it back and sliced an arc through the air. The blow landed—landed directly into and through Rowan Carpenter’s neck. The axe came away dripping red. Her father’s head came away altogether, dropping to this villainous stranger’s feet and rolling—hideously rolling to a stop on the floor by the counter. Mary Ann screamed and the figure turned. But Mary Ann was not invisible now and she didn’t need to see the stranger’s face to know it. All she could see was that cloak, the deep red, white and gold embroidered pattern like the back of a playing card, the unmistakable sign of the Neath Royal Court. Her skin went cold and before she could think, she was out the door and down the path from her father’s workshop.

  The footfall was a rush behind her, as she dashed madly off the path and through the woods.

  The trees — old friends, these — called out to her in her wake. “Easy there, dear child! Have some respect for your elders!”

  And: “Wherever is the fire, young human?”

  And: “Mind the roots, please!”

  “Behind me. This person chopped down my father!” she explained breathlessly, not daring to slow. “And now he’s after me!”

  “Well, that’s a leaf of a different color!” said the Oak. Then: “You, sir! Where do you think you’re going? This young lady says you’ve be
en causing trouble. Let us have a look at your face.”

  Mary Ann could not help herself. Still running, she turned to see. The trees had the stranger caught in a tangle of limbs and vines. An oak branch reached out and pulled the cloak away.

  The Knave of Clubs? The valet to Neath’s King and Queen of Hearts was the one who murdered Rowan Carpenter? The markings on his tunic were unmistakable. She saw the man was still wielding the axe and seemed to be struggling for momentum to chop himself free.

  There was no time to gape. Mary Ann’s feet seemed to recognize this first. They’d started off before she could even gather up her skirt, and they sent her thumping through the forest blindly fleeing Turvy.

  It being Turvy, however, the more desperately she longed to go home, the further away she got. Fear had made her fast but forgetful. Soon she found herself deep in a part of the land that she didn’t know well. What’s more, she began to realize that returning to Neath was likely the worst of all choices. After all, that was the valet’s home, too. A few inquiries about the daughter of Turvy’s famed carpenter and this valet to the Hearts Royal Family would find her in a heartbeat. It was not only risky for her, but dangerous for Mr. Rabbit. Not to mention, the risk of returning to Mr. Rabbit without Queen Valentina’s Unbirthday present.