A/N Beta'd by the wonderful StoryWriter831. Everything belongs to JK Rowling.
...
And so, in such a bewildering situation and mysterious surroundings, I began to establish a kind of daily routine.
There was no clock in my room, so my mealtimes were dictated by my hunger. It was something of a mystery that, however early or late I appeared in the dining room, the food was always as hot and fresh as if it had been served mere moments before my entry.
Lucius never failed to join me at the table, but he never himself partook of the meal, though he would sometimes take a glass of wine or spirits at dinner. He seemed to take a perverse satisfaction in watching me eat—or to be more precise, in watching me squirm by watching me eat. He was certainly no convivial host, barely a companion: more a sardonic kind-of superintendent.
Our conversations were usually curt and combative. Sometimes they would begin civilly enough: him asking me if I had recovered any memories, me asking him when he thought the snow might finally abate. But it never took long to descend into discordance.
"I don't understand why you won't tell me, at least, which country we are in. What possible harm can there be in telling me that?"
"At present, there is no need for you to know."
"If you told me where we are, it could help to trigger my memory about how I got here."
"A plausible theory. How unfortunate that you won't be able to put it to the test."
"Why not?"
"What did I tell you about curbing your curiosity, Alice?"
"It isn't idle curiosity! It's a valid question, absolutely pertinent to my situation."
"On the contrary, it has no bearing on your situation whatsoever. Let us suppose I told you we were in Alaska...what would you do differently if you subsequently discovered that we were actually in Siberia?"
"Are we in Siberia?"
"Perhaps," he replied, with a mocking flicker of a smile. "Anything is possible."
And round and round we'd go. Always, always, the sparring ended in his favour. He was unflappable, and had a knack for flustering me, so that no matter what point I tried to gain—however reasonable it might be—he managed to effortlessly twist my words and deform their meanings, then offer them tauntingly back to me.
But for all his maddening crypticness and drawling contempt, I could never quite hate the man. Worse, I could feel myself being somehow...drawn to him. There was something undeniably compelling about him, a magnetism comprising his strangeness, beauty, imperiousness...and something else. He seemed to radiate with...god, what was it? ...Power. That was it. It was both frightening and fascinating, tangible and treacherous. I didn't trust it, yet something within me seemed to thrum to it.
Indeed, the strange compelling draw I'd felt for him from the start seemed to intensify with every frustrating encounter. His presence was like a powerful magnet, messing up my already-so-damaged internal compass, so not only was I blank and lost, but I was becoming increasingly disoriented too.
I also remained afraid of him. Though he had never been violent since the altercation in the dining room, he did not scruple to physically intimidate me. A sudden step towards me, a clenched fist resting casually on the table, him stooping too closely over my chair...all these tacitly threatening gestures served to remind me that while in his house, I was to play by his rules.
And admittedly, there were times when I was tempted to disobey the boundaries he had imposed, for the house seemed riddled with secrets that I longed to investigate.
Strange, chilling occurrences kept me always on edge: inanimate objects that seemed to move in my peripheral vision, sibilant whispers that haunted my steps in the long, stone corridors, candles that silently ignited of their own accord, as evening drew near...and once I heard the echoing peal of a woman's voice—laughing or crying, I could not tell which—that made my hair stand on end. I tried very hard to convince myself that it had been a bird's strange cry.
It was like the place was...haunted.
Of course, some puzzles I was able to reason through: the bath which always stood full of clean, hot water could be on some kind of automatic timer, even though I never saw or heard it running. I presumed the robe and towel hanging in the bathroom each day were put there during the night, I hoped by a maid or housekeeper, for I certainly didn't like the thought of him coming into my room while I slept... And I didn't really believe Lucius lived completely alone. There must be staff to keep such a large house in order—to prepare the food, at least—not to mention the fact that my bed was always remade by the time I returned from breakfast each morning.
But I could never properly satisfy my reasoning with tangible proof.
I wanted so badly to ask Lucius the meaning of all these many unsettling, eerie things. But he had promised 'unpleasant' consequences to my curiosity, and having already encountered his brutality twice, I had no wish to incite it again. Although I no longer feared an unprovoked attack, I sensed that beneath the surface of suave sarcasm the man's temper was volatile. I still believed him capable of doing me harm.
He's like the man in that creepy fairy-tale Blue Beard, who warns his wife not to be too curious, I thought with a shiver. And she goes and discovers the murdered bodies of all his previous, too-curious wives... And that thought went a long way to keep my inquisitiveness in check.
The snow showed no sign of abating, and I began to wonder if we were somewhere Arctic. It was a marvel the place was so warm—and it was just as well that it was, for I was extremely under-dressed for the climate.
The miraculously-appearing bathrobes were all I had to wear, putting me at a perpetual disadvantage, and I was certain Lucius intended it that way. I hated having to always appear before him barefoot and in a single layer of flimsy material, when he was always immaculately turned out, right down to emerald cuff-links and starched cravat. It felt demeaning. But when I complained, he politely advised me that if I objected to the robes I could always go without. The accompanying sneer of repugnance made it clear that such a spectacle would be rather a punishment, than otherwise, to him.
"But where are my clothes?" I demanded. "And my shoes? What happened to them, may I ask?"
He smiled witheringly. "By 'clothes' am I to understand you mean the pitiful rags you arrived in? "
"Yes." (Replied through gritted teeth.)
"Ah." He shrugged. "They have been disposed of."
"Great. Well, can't you lend me a woollen jumper or shirt, or something at least half-decent? You must have something I could borrow—"
"That is quite out of the question." And he had given me one of his unassailable 'conversation closed' looks.
It did cross my mind that the bathrobes were a kind of security against my leaving. I wouldn't get very far in three foot of snow clad only in a scrap of silk. But if that were true, if he didn't want me to leave, then why did he dislike my presence so much? Why did he go out of his way to treat me like a particularly stupid, annoying child? Wouldn't he be glad if I left?
...I just couldn't make him out.
The days had a surreal, dreamlike quality to them—a dark dream, the kind that warps and deforms the more you try to harness and control it.
There were long stretches of numbness and boredom spent alone in my room, punctuated by episodes of frustration and despair as I struggled to face the enormous chasm that was my lost memory. I would spend hours lying on the bed, cross-referencing the things I knew with the things I must therefore have experienced, and that way try to conjure up some shred of recollection. It became something of a habit, just before sleep, to whisper alphabetical lists of girl's names ("Abigail, Anna, Audrey...Bethany, Briony...Caroline, Charlotte..."), hoping my own one might somehow jump out at me; so far, without success. Before descending to breakfast in the morning I would stand before the mirror, just staring and staring at my reflection, trying to find...me, somewhere in my eyes...
But it was hopeless. All I saw were shadows. Shadows in the glass.
...
"This house must be very old," I commented one morning at breakfast, about a week into my stay. "Do you know when it was built?" I kept my voice neutral and my expression casual, staring at my breakfast with studied indifference. "Fourteenth or fifteenth century, would you say?"
Lucius did not reply, so I tried pressing on a little further. "I'm sure it has a very interesting history. Are there any records or books about it?"
I risked a glance up, and saw he was regarding me with an amused, if not very pleasant, smile. The slight cock of his eyebrow assured me that he saw right through me and had no intention whatsoever of conceding an answer.
I blushed, annoyed and nettled by his reticence. Exasperated words bubbled to my lips. "Exactly what am I supposed to do while I'm staying here?! Since this snow is apparently never going to end and you won't let me ask you anything about anything? I'm so bored that I'm thinking about playing skittles with those antique vases down the hallway. I don't know what I'd use as a bowling ball, though..." I held Lucius's gaze challengingly. "Any ideas?"
The expression in his voice mirrored the one on his face. "I'm sorry, were you addressing me? I had presumed, or rather hoped, that those incoherent ramblings were for your benefit alone. They could hardly be for mine."
"I suppose that knight in the stairwell could go without his head," I continued, choosing to ignore him. "It's not quite the right shape, and it will definitely leave scratches on the floor...but you wouldn't mind, would you?"
He did not even blink. "Why don't you go ahead and find out?" It had more of the resonance of a threat than an invitation.
"Well, can I at least get something to read? You must have a book somewhere in this house. Or is reading considered a violation of your rules?"
Lucius looked at me rather intently, a sudden interest lighting his eyes, as if a question had occurred to him that he would like answered. "I will show you to the library presently," he said, with an elegant wave of his hand.
This abrupt announcement took me entirely by surprise. I was divided between excitement and doubt, for the strange gleam in his eyes disconcerted me, and I spent the remainder of breakfast expecting him to revoke this concession.
But sure enough, after I finished eating, Lucius led me back down the hallway, coming to a halt outside a large set of double-doors, near to the staircase, and opposite the knight recently under discussion. The huge slabs of oak swung silently inward at the merest brush of his fingertip, and with his usual mocking courtesy he handed me over the threshold.
I gasped aloud.
It was just so beautiful! I stared and stared around me, gravitating into the centre of the room, turning in circles, just marvelling in breathless amazement.
The entire interior was lined with row upon row of gleaming mahogany bookcases, stretching up to an impossibly-high, vaulting ceiling. I counted six tiers of cases, each partially obscured by a baroque railing of gilded vines and leaves, behind which a narrow balcony stretched along each level. The cases were filled with hundreds—surely thousands of books, all exquisitely bound in dark leather. There were no windows; the light came from vine-like branched candelabras which seemed to grow out the very walls, their ornate stems suspending lamps like glowing fruit.
Perhaps most breath-taking of all was a beautiful spiral staircase in one corner of the room, ornately carved with the same lovely motifs as the gilded railings, providing access to the desired balcony.
"How can anything be so beautiful?" I murmured, I thought to myself, but it seemed Lucius had heard my words.
"It is one of the finest in all of—." He stopped suddenly, recollecting himself. "In all of the country," he said.
Approaching the nearest bookcase, I selected a book at random, reverently opening the cover...then my wonder turned to confusion as I realised it was blank. Totally blank, inside and out. I turned it over, leafed through the pages, staring in growing consternation and dismay. Nothing. No title, no text, no embossing on the spine, just nothing.
It was the same with the next book. With every book I opened, in fact.
Lucius stood there, near the library doorway, silently observing me flick through page after page of blank vellum, his silver eyes fixed watchfully on my face, a smile deepening the brackets around his mouth, no doubt at the growing mutiny of my expression. Obviously he was toying with me, and I was sorely tempted to hurl one of the heavy tomes right at his smirking face.
"Something the matter, my dear?" he said at length, his tone mockingly polite.
"Yes," I snarled, "with you, evidently. What sort of person keeps a whole library full of blank books? Because the answer is definitely not, 'a normal one'!"
"They are blank?" He sounded genuinely interested, and rather pleased.
"Oh, ha, ha. I suppose you think it's hilarious, do you?"
"It is somewhat amusing, I own."
"Well, I don't find it amusing." I raised my eyebrow pointedly. "I think you're stooping rather low."
His eyes glinted at this, but the smile never wavered. "Do you, indeed?"
"Playing mind-games with an amnesiac girl isn't exactly the epitome of good breeding, is it?"
Lucius chuckled, as if at some private joke. "Ah...that, my dear, is a subject for another hour. For now, there is something else that may, perhaps, engage your interest." So saying, he moved to the far corner of the room, beckoning me to follow. Glowering suspiciously, I moved over to where he now waited. As I approached he directed me to where a small, obscure cabinet stood, half-hidden by shadows.
An engraved panel fastened to its top read, 'Profana, Propaganda & Sæcularia'.
With a last suspicious glare at Lucius, I knelt to inspect the books inside. Unlike the handsome tomes lining the walls in solemn uniformity, these books were dog-eared and mildewy, their edges frayed and bindings loose—but at least I could read the titles written on their cracked spines. They appeared to be an odd mix of classic works, fairytale anthologies, and antique scientific textbooks, in a variety of ancient and modern languages. They were crammed into the cabinet in no apparent sequence. 'Tables of Toledo'...'The Odyssey'...''Macbeth'...'Brüder Grimm Kinder- und Hausmärchen'...The 'Canon of Medicine'...'Le Morte d'Arthur'...'The Tempest'... And right at one end, 'Alices' Adventures in Wonderland'.
I reached for this one, opening a page at random, half-expecting it to be as blank as the previous books. But I was surprised and relieved to discover it contained the original text and accompanying illustrations.
"These, I suppose, you can see?" Lucius's voice was just as smug as before. I had the feeling that if I answered, "Yes" it would only serve to gratify him in some incomprehensible way.
Instead, I grabbed an armful of books, and muttering very ungracious thanks as I pushed past Lucius, I stormed up to my room. The blank covers and empty pages of those thousands of beautiful books had deeply disturbed me; their blankness seemed to mock my own. I hated the helpless feeling of not being able to rationalise the nonsensical things I was confronted with, before my very own eyes.
It was yet another baffling mystery to add to an ever-mounting pile.
...
I was eating my dinner that evening, as had become customary, under Lucius's disconcerting, lynxish gaze.
He had been watching me for some time, his head tilted slightly back, the usual disdainful curl playing on his top lip. He held a glass of some deep ruby-coloured liquid, swirling it slowly. His hand seemed too large for the delicate crystal vessel, it looked almost precarious in his grasp. But the elegantly relaxed lines of his fingers disproved the possibility of clumsiness, which was more than I could say about my hands, however much smaller and nimbler-looking.
"What have you been reading this afternoon, Alice?" he suddenly enquired.
I stared up at him, surprised by his question. "I nearly finished The Tempest," I said, through a mouth full of food.
Lucius looked faintly pained by the fact I was still chewing. He waited pointedly until I had swallowed, then he said, "And? Are you enjoying it?"
"Yes," I replied. "I must have read it before, or seen the play. I recognise quite a few of the speeches."
"It has an interesting premise, don't you think?"
I looked at him dubiously. "You mean a bunch of people being shipwrecked on an island?"
"No, my dear, that is hardly a premise, is it?" His tone was light and drawling, but his eyes gleamed intently. "I mean a...sorcerer, using his powers to restore rightful dominion over his would-be usurpers. Did you not find that interesting?"
"Um...I suppose so," I answered hesitantly.
"You suppose so. What a refreshingly original reply."
My cheeks burned. "I'm sorry," I said acidly. "I forgot to prepare an essay."
He looked amused at my pique. "I don't require an essay. Merely an opinion."
"Oh, you mean I'm actually allowed one?"
Lucius's eyes narrowed at my flippant tone. "But of course," he murmured. He set his glass down and then bestowed on me a mocking smile. "So, tell me, Alice: what was it that interested you, if not the premise? Enlighten me."
I picked up a piece of bread and began to shred it, chagrined and consequently ruffled. "I don't know. The way it's written, I guess. The beauty of the words."
A sharp, enquiring look passed his features. "Then your appreciation is chiefly...aesthetic? You felt no special interest in its themes—for example, the supernatural elements of the work?" He paused, leaning forward slightly. "The magic?"
There was something cryptic in his voice that made me feel like it was a trick question. His gaze had become a little too piercing, and I felt myself getting flustered and confused. "I suppose so,"—I flinched as I realised I'd repeated the words for which he'd already mocked me. "I'm not—I hadn't really thought—I mean...why do you even care what I think?" I finished snippily.
Lucius leaned back again. "Oh—I don't." He looked pleased, too pleased.
I frowned. I felt I had somehow conceded a point, without being party to its significance.
What a strange thing to be smug about, I thought. It's just a play....
...
...That night I dreamed...
I lay on the shore of a remote island—alone, cradled by soft, sun-warmed sand. I was naked but not self-conscious; daydreaming, lulled by the whispering waves and sweet breezes caressing my bare skin...
The sun began to sink, and as the sky darkened, the island began to shrink around me. It shrank and shrank until it was mere feet in diameter...and I roused from my reverie to discover I was no longer on an island, but lying on a bed, inside the dark, stone bowels of a castle. I sat up, suddenly panicked, recalling that I was supposed to be looking for someone.
A flight of spiral stairs sprouted out of the ground—I jumped off the bed and began to ascend them.
...Dull lamps lead me upwards, ever upwards, but as I passed they sputtered and died, and everything behind me was plunged into deepest blackness. I realized the stairs themselves were falling away, and I began to run. I knew if I stopped running I would fall backwards into the nothingness. As I ran I tried to call out to the person I was searching for, but I couldn't remember their name... Instead I cried, "It's me! I'm here!"—but I was answered only by the echo of a woman's eerie laughter, which turned into the mocking 'Kraa!' of a crow...
I was getting tired, and my legs couldn't keep up with the encroaching darkness—the faster I tried to run, the slower I became—and suddenly I tumbled back, my arms outstretched as I fell, my mouth shaped into an O of a voiceless scream...
...I landed softly on my back. I was in a shadowy, sparsely-lit corridor stretching endlessly in each direction, the walls of which were completely covered in gold-framed portraits of sleeping figures. I lay there, afraid to move lest I awaken the portraits...I feared they would deride my nakedness. I feared they would mock my confusion.
A person appeared suddenly next to me, but it wasn't whom I had been searching for.
"What are you doing?" It was a man's voice, although his face was shrouded by the shadows.
"I'm looking for him," I said. My own voice was high-pitched, juvenile, distant.
"Who? Who are you looking for?"
"I can't remember." And I began to cry like a child.
The man knelt and gathered me up in his arms, pressing me against him. There was a sickening, squeezing sensation—then the corridor changed into my own room, and the man was laying me on the bed. His silky white-blond hair hovered just above me, and I reached up to touch the ends with my fingertips...he pressed something to my temple, and murmured a word...
...And my dream faded to blackness, like the dimming lights at the end of a play...