Author's Note: I love this chapter, I must say. I love how much my girl Jane rambles; I find it adorable, as well as her little quirks [my favorite is her naming game]. I feel quite a lot of kinship with her- we're both lost in our own worlds, never quite fully in reality. I also think that Jane's personality was very much influenced by her play-by; Evanna Lynch is the actress that plays Luna Lovegood in the Harry Potter series. I think that caused Jane to be a bit more daydreamy and eccentric than I meant for her to be, but I must admit I adore that about Jane.

Please enjoy the obligatory "Author depicts main character's life in England before we get to Wonderland and the part the reader actually cares about- bring on the Hatter!" chapter!

Costume Note: Remove all spaces.

Jane's oriental robe looks like this: http:/ www. corbisimages. com/ images/ 67/ 73 A 17132- A 4 BF- 4598- A 4 F 4- 771 CAFD 108 D 1/ IX 002407. Jpg

The baby bonnet looks like this: http:/ roses- and- teacups. com/ Bonnets/ 101_ 1586 Lavender Ecru Side 2. jpg

Jane's ballgown looks something like this: http:/ www. curatedobject. us/ .a/ 6 a 00 e 54 f 9 f 8 f 8 c 88340120 a 7 d 7 e 314970 b- 500 wi

When she changes out of her ballgown, I'm imagining her dress to be basically a replica of Alice's blue dress, but in purple. Yes, I realize that this style of dress would be 25 years out of fashion for Jane, but given that she made it in a fit of rebellion, I don't think she'd care.

Original Character Face Claim: As mentioned above, Jane is portrayed by Evanna Lynch. Or at least, an Evanna Lynch-like creature [delicate, dreamy features, big green eyes, long unruly reddish gold curls]. Mary Ascot is portrayed by Rachel McAdams [a la Mean Girls]. Lottie Devereaux is portrayed by Emma Stone. Witzend the kitten is portrayed by this bit of adorable: http:/ 5 clans. webs. com/ cute- grey- kitten. jpg

Naming Game Note: Elaine comes from Arthurian legend, especially as pertains to Alfred Lord Tennyson's poem The Lady of Shallot. The Queen of Sheba is a biblical reference.

Disclaimer: Yes, I realize the Jabberwocky poem reads a bit differently in the Burton movie. However, I used the full version as it's seen in Through the Looking Glass, for reasons best left unexplained if you don't want me to give away bits of the story I'd rather let you work out for yourself.

Similiarly, yes, I am insinuating that the book Jane is reading is basically Carroll's works, even though I attribute it to other sources. Because I thought that was funny.

Special Beta Thanks: Thanks to Jiffie for assuring me that Jane was [so far at least] a believable character.

25 Years Later—

Ascot Manor was alive and buzzing with excited activity. Servants bustled through the halls, vigorously scrubbing silverware and polishing already perfect stair rails, chasing down every invisible fleck of dust and making the manor shine. The guests who had already arrived floated through the halls, amusing themselves with games of Blindman's Bluff and Hunt the Slipper, or an excursion to sketch the ruined abbey in Allentown, the village connected to the estate. Overseeing them all was Lady Agnes Ascot, a long list in hand as she ordered everyone about in preparation for this evening.

Lord Ascot was due home today. He had spent over a year in India [not including travel time], expanding the Company's well-established holdings and strengthening the Company's ties with their Indian trade partners. A week-long house party had been arranged to welcome him home, as was Lady Ascot's tradition. Ever since Lord Ascot had first purchased the Company, nearly thirty years ago now, he had been traveling all over the world. And every time he came home, Lady Ascot threw him an elaborate welcoming party, which some joked only drove Lord Ascot to leave again.

Currently, Lady Ascot had thrown herself into her favorite pastime— ordering everyone around— with gusto, in an attempt to forget her misgivings about the party. From what Lord Ascot had said in his letters, he was planning on announcing his retirement from the Company at the ball this evening. He was expected to turn the reins over— not to his son, but to Andrew Manning, who had taken over Alice Kingsleigh's role with the Company after the flighty thing had run off. Andrew had arrived at the manor yesterday, with his wife Margaret, his mother-in-law Helen Kingsleigh, and his children, including his son-in-law Etienne Devereaux.

Miffed as she had been that Mr. Manning had supplanted Hamish as heir to the Company, Lady Ascot had done her duty and graciously shown the Manning family to their rooms. She was rather surprised to see Helen; after all, it had been from Ascot Manor that Helen's younger daughter Alice had disappeared twenty-five years ago. A packet of letters had been found by the base of the ancient oak tree, explaining that Alice loved them all very much but that she would never return to England again, that they shouldn't worry about her and she was safe and happy. Despite the best efforts of Scotland Yard and the private investigator Lord Ascot had hired, no trace of Alice had ever been found. Lady Ascot couldn't say that she was surprised; she had always known that Alice was flighty and given to whims of fancy. She had probably taken up with some lowborn tradesman and run off with him.

Shaking her head, Lady Ascot turned and went inside to confer with the cook about the menu for the midnight supper. There was no use in crying over spilled milk or in reminiscing about what could not be changed. Richard would announce his retirement tonight, Agnes would play the gracious hostess, and with any luck offers would be made for both her granddaughter and her ward. Compared with these events, memories of the past meant nothing.

The world could have come crashing down around her ears, and she would have paid no mind.

Thus was the opinion currently being not-so-softly proclaimed by twenty-year-old Lady Mary Ascot to her especial friends, nineteen-year-old Emily Smythe and twenty-five-year-old Alice Charlotte Devereaux, nee Manning, as they sat huddled together in the very back of the spacious rowboat. The opinion pertained to the young lady sitting by herself in the very front of the dinghy. Said young lady spoke nothing in response to Mary; in fact, she made no signs that she had heard her 'cousin.' Currently, her pale-complected face was upturned, and she was staring up at the clouds with an expression that Mary spitefully called her 'cow face' [though Alice Charlotte, universally known as Lottie, called it her 'Rapturous Daydreaming Eyes'].

Jane, as Mary loved to remind her, wasn't a true Ascot at all. She was a foundling, left as a baby on the Ascots' front steps when she was approximately six months old. Likely the child of a disgraced maid or charwoman after a tumble in the hay with an undergroom, Mary often sneered [an opinion learned at the knee of her grandmother]. Lady Ascot would have sent the child to an orphanage immediately, but her kindly husband had inexplicably insisted upon keeping the babe. So the child was taken in as a ward, to be a cousin and companion to Hamish Ascot's daughter Mary. To Lady Ascot's consternation and bewilderment, Jane had been treated as a full and equal member of the family, given just as strident an education as Mary. Lord Ascot had even provided for the foundling in his will and assured her a handsome dowry when the time came for her to marry, as though she were his own flesh and blood.

However, just at the moment, Jane wasn't thinking about her tenuous status within the Ascot household, nor about Mary's snide comment, nor even about the impending party where her foster mother was sure to matchmake. Her mind was firmly focused on the pictures she could see within the clouds. There was a rabbit cavorting with a rhinocerous… and there, a Pegasus breathing fire… and why, that one looked exactly like a tophat with a sash dancing around its brim!

Jane had always known she was different from her family, even before she had learned that she was a foundling. True, Hamish also had red hair, but only Jane had green eyes. Only Jane had the imagination to see pictures in the clouds, or to work out entire conversations between flowers. When she was younger, she had even dreamed up an elaborate fantasy that her real parents would come for her, announce that she was a princess, and whisk her away to a magical kingdom. She had long ago given up hope that her parents would ever come for her, and she knew that she was no princess, but even now at age eighteen her Wonderland was as real to her as it had ever been. Whenever real life became too tedious or oppressive, she was off to her adventures again, slaying monsters and dancing with talking animals.

Perhaps she should escape to Wonderland tonight, she thought. Instead of dancing the odious quadrille with less than inspiring specimens of potential husbands, she could be off getting rescued from dragons by dashing knights, or dancing a waltz with a prince. Or, if she'd rather not engage in those mundane activities, perhaps she could be a gallant knight like Don Quixote.

"Jane!"

With a small gasp, Jane was forcibly torn from her imaginings by the forceful voice of her foster mother. Blinking, Jane realized that the rowboat had landed, and everyone else had disembarked. How long had they been there? From the way everyone was staring at her, apparently quite a while. Oh dear, had any of her internal monologue been spoken aloud? She had a regrettable tendency to ramble on uncontrollably until she was called back to herself… A rosy blush covering her cheeks, she scrambled out of the dinghy and meekly walked to Lady Ascot.

"Where's your head, girl?" the elder woman hissed before turning and heading up the lawn.

Jane sighed as she followed in the wake of the others; ah, the eternal question of her youth. The query that plagued her, followed her through every adventure, every awkward moment Jane inadvertently caused by being so very different.

Mary stared at Jane for a moment before giggling and turning to whisper in Emily's ear. Jane bent her head, a dull flush staining her pale cheeks. Mary was always very much amused by Jane's unintentional gaffes. She could be quite cruel with her ridicule when she chose to be, and Jane was certain that Mary would mock her later, when Lady Ascot wasn't nearby to insist upon decorum.

For a single moment, Jane wondered if her parents would have been as impatient with her imagination. Or would they have understood? She liked to think that they would have understood, even encouraged her daydreams. Quickly, she shied away from the painful subject. Her questions were profitless; she would never know her parents. Because whatever her parents had been like, whatever their beliefs, they had still abandoned her. They had left her on the Ascots' doorstep and walked away from her, and she would never know them.

The black hole of her parents was agonizing; she often wished that she had just one bit of proof of their existence besides the simple fact that she lived and breathed. She didn't know anything about them; not their names or what they looked like, or even what they had meant to call her. Lady Ascot had been the one to name her Jane, and she'd never felt like the name fit her. It had led to one of her favorite games as a child—Who Am I Today?, or the Naming Game. She had always been a voracious reader, and if she found a name in her stories that she liked, she would try it on for size. As she'd gotten older, she'd learned that her foster family didn't appreciate her games [except her foster father; Lord Ascot had always been rather amused by her imagination], so she had kept it to herself, like all her other flights of fancy. Currently, for example, she was Elaine, because she'd been floating on the water like the Lady of Shalott… just not as tragically.

"Jane, Lord Ascot is waiting in his study to speak with you." Lady Ascot said in clipped tones. "The rest of you, off to your rooms. The ball will begin in two hours, and I expect all of you," she fixed her gaze on Jane again, who tended to be late unless it was tea time, "to be on time and properly dressed."

Ignoring Mary's and Emily's snickers, Jane hurried towards the impressive mansion where she'd lived all her life, except for those two years in India. Refusing to see the painful blandness of the house—the dull portraits of dull Ascot ancestors, even duller stands of suits of armor, and complete lack of color—she hurried up the grand staircase to the second floor, turning to the left and following the long hallway down to the end of the west wing, before knocking on the door to Lord Ascot's study.

"Come in, my Queen of Sheba."

Smiling at his nickname for her [chosen because she was constantly seeking knowledge and wisdom], Jane opened the door and slipped inside. She was greeted by the comforting scents of old books, cognac, and worn leather. Lord Ascot was sitting, not behind his desk, but before the empty fireplace, a welcoming smile on his face as he stood and opened his arms, into which Jane obligingly ran.

"Welcome home, Papa Richard."

Richard Ascot smiled, holding his foster daughter close to him. Though he would never say so, Jane was the child of his heart. His son had always been a useless dandy, a nitwit, and a mama's boy; his granddaughter was spoiled and only affectionate when she wanted presents, even though she was twenty years of age and should be past such childish fits. But his Jane… she had hungered for a father, and he had missed having a daughter since Alice Kingsleigh's disappearance. Jane even reminded him somewhat of Alice; the same spirit, the same endless imagination and ceaseless questions. Richard smiled to himself as he settled back into his armchair and Jane sat on the ground beside him, folding her hands on his knee and resting her chin on her interlaced fingers. What a blessing Jane was to his old heart, he thought, as he absently stroked her unruly ginger curls, which they both preferred hanging loosely down her back.

"And who are you today, my Queen?" he asked gravely, though he smiled.
"Elaine, for now," she replied, "and you are always my Solomon. Did you go to Bombay again?"
"Of course, Lady Elaine,." he smiled, as a footman walked in, wheeling a tea cart with him. "I have new teas for you."
She smiled delightedly, "You spoil me."
"Of course I do." he said indulgently. "And if you tell me enough stories, I'll buy you a new hat."

Tea and hats, Jane's two weaknesses. Thus bribed, she launched into her stories—tales of what had actually gone on under the Ascots' roof, mixed in with the more persistent of her daydreams and flights of fancy. In reply, Papa Richard took her on a journey to Bombay and Calcutta, Agra and Mangalore, as if they hadn't written each other letters nearly every day since his departure. They spent a pleasant hour thus engaged, and disappointment was evident on Jane's face when the clock chimed five o'clock.

"I have to go get dressed for the ball." She said reluctantly.
"You might as well hop to it, then, m'girl," Lord Ascot said, "you won't want to be late."

Sighing, Jane stood, kissed her foster father on the cheek, and headed up another flight of stairs to the third floor, walking down the hallway to her own room. The rest of the family had their sleeping quarters on the second floor, as well as Lady Ascot's morning parlor, Mary's den, and Lord Ascot's study. But Jane had long ago become enamoured with this small suite of southern-facing rooms, and Lord Ascot had ordered them renovated for her. As opposed to the rest of the house and Lady Ascot's bland decorations, Jane's rooms were a riot of color—apple green silk on the walls with cream and gold trim, accent fabrics of sky blue and blush pink with dashes of sunny yellow. Mother Agnes had been scandalized; Papa Richard delighted. This suite was Jane's retreat from her family, the one place where she was free to lose herself in her imaginings without fear of reproof.

She locked the door behind her, thankful that she still had an hour to herself before the ball began. This year was Jane's debut into Society; she would be put on display as eligible for matrimony, like a heifer going to auction. Her every movement, word, and attribute would be observed, weighed, and torn down, and if she made a single mistake Lady Ascot would have her head. How she wished she could just stay up here in her own lovely room, instead of having to endure this ball…

Alas, she could not. She knew very well that now that she was eighteen, Lady Ascot would bend all of her considerable energy towards getting her married. Well, if she only had an hour, she was going to make the most of it. Hurrying to her closet, Jane grabbed a plain ballgown the color of oatmeal and threw it on the bed. She often despaired of the clothes Lady Ascot had made for her; well-made and tasteful the gowns might be, as suited a young lady of quality, but she swore her foster mother was allergic to color. She'd come to absolutely loathe the color white and all its infinitely boring shades. Ah well, Papa Richard always came to her rescue, bringing her pretty colored sashes and ribbons and pieces of jewelry. Tonight, she would wear the set of emerald necklace, bracelet, and earrings he had brought her from India. They were tastefully expensive, which would please Mother Ascot, and they brought out her green eyes, which would please Papa Richard.

Muttering to herself in despair, Jane tossed two petticoats and a clean chemise over the ballgown. She was just stepping to her dressing table to comb her unruly hair when a small, distressed-sounding mewing made her pause. She glanced over her shoulder, laughing softly when she saw a furry face sticking out from beneath the dress.

"I'm sorry, Witzend," she purred, rescuing her kitten from the dress that had covered it.

Jane had rescued the grey and white kitten with eyes as green as her own from being drowned when it was discovered in the stables two months ago. Lady Ascot and Mary hadn't been very keen on Jane keeping the 'little beast', as they called it, but once the kitchen developed a mouse problem the feline proved her worth. She'd earned her unusual name because the kitten was just as odd and inquisitive as her mistress; Lady Ascot swore the kitten drove her to her wit's end. Jane had giggled, imagining what kind of place the end of one's wits might be like; she had promptly added the place to the borders of her Wonderland. Witzend must be the most wonderful place in the kingdom, aside from her parents' palace, she had decided. The most delightfully mad people would all live there, and she could host tea parties that lasted for days. They would play Musical Chairs and juggle their scones, and no one would think it the least bit odd when she saw pictures in the clouds.

The mewing of her kitten jerked Jane out of her daydreams. Sighing, she set Witzend down in her basket, scratching behind the cat's ears. Stripping out of the bone-colored day dress she'd worn on the water, Jane wrapped herself in a robe that was a riot of colors—an Oriental garment that had been a birthday present from Papa Richard a few years ago. Well, it wasn't really her birthday; they had no idea when she had actually been born. Since she had been found on the Ascots' steps on June 18, they declared that her birthday. In her mind, Jane referred to it as her un-birthday; her true birthday must have been sometime in December, if she had been six months old when she was found. Shrugging, Jane spun around, admiring her robe. Of course it looked somewhat silly atop her chemise, corset, and petticoats, but at least the silken garments had colors.

Kneeling at the foot of her bed, Jane unlocked the cedar chest where she kept all the things she didn't want her foster family to touch. A soft smile touching her lips, she pulled out an old book, bound with leather, the pages edged in gold. This book was her newest treasure. One day, a few weeks ago, Jane and Witzend had gone to rummage through the attic during a long, rainy afternoon. It had been an angry, miserable rain, not at all the comfortable sort of curl-up-in-a-chair-with-a-book rain. Once upon a time when she was younger, Jane had spent many an afternoon having adventures in the attic; fighting off monsters, playing dress up, and dreaming. Since Lady Ascot had been working on her embroidery and Mary had for once been at her own home with her parents, Jane had happily gone to the attic to see what she could discover.

She had found a small box shoved in a corner, her name written on the lid. Inside had been a wicker basket, a filmy blue blanket, a matching blue baby bonnet trimmed with lace and seed pearls, and this book—Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. After a moment's thought, she had deduced that these articles must have been found with her as an infant, and she had carried the box down to her room to hold and cherish and wonder about. The book especially was a treasure. She had wanted to race through it, but she forced herself to read slowly, to savor every word. Why had her parents tucked this book into the basket with her? What messages had they wished to convey to her? She read the stories over and over, determined to solve the book's mysteries.

Fingering the delicate, inricate beadwork on the brim of the bonnet, Jane smiled sadly. The materials used—the finest silk, genuine pearls, intricate lacework—suggested someone wealthy had owned this, putting to rest the theory that Jane was the daughter of a disgraced maid and a poor tradesman. The level of skill and love in the craftsmanship was obvious. The blanket and bonnet had been made for a beloved child. But if she had been so treasured, and if her parents had had the means to buy her such beautiful things, why had she been abandoned? Pushing aside the depressing thoughts, she settled down to read.

`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, has 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.

She smiled to herself as she re-read the poem she had memorized; what beautiful nonsense. Most people would dismiss the poem as complete rubbish, and would object to the large number of made-up words. But it all made perfect sense to Jane, as if it were another language she alone understood. The picture was so clear in her mind— the beautiful, heroic Alice battling and defeating the terrifying Jabberwocky. Jane shivered; where had Alice ever found the courage to face such a monster? Shaking her head, she smiled; leave it to her to feel more kinship for a fictional character than for anyone in her own world.

Tilting her head, she tried Alice's name on for size. It was a lovely name, strong and beautiful as its bearer was sure to be. From what Jane had heard from her Papa Richard, an apprentice he had once had— Alice Kingsleigh, daughter of Charles Kingsleigh, who had founded the company which Papa Richard now owned— had been the very most Alice-est of Alices. Alice Kingsleigh, and the Alice in her book, both deserved the name. It was the name of a heroine, a right proper name for the Slayer of the Jabberwocky or the girl who had taken over her father's company. But for her it would not do. She didn't have Alice's… what did the book call it? Her muchness. Anyone who wanted to bear the name Alice must have oh so very much muchness, and Jane did not. She was just… Jane. Just Jane.

The chiming of the clock, tolling fifteen-till-six, broke through her reverie. Sighing, Jane slid off the bed, reciting the poem to herself as she hurried into her dress. Her voice changed easily between accents— her native British, Spanish, Indian, French, before settling on a vaguely Scottish brogue. She shivered; strange how much more menacing the poem sounded, when spoken with a Scottish burr.

Wrenching herself from her daydreams, again, with an effort, Jane sat before her vanity table to force her unruly curls into a coif that would meet with Lady Ascot's approval. Finally, she deemed herself as ready as she'd ever be, and hurried downstairs as she slid her hands into elegant elbow-length gloves.

She had to admit, she loved dancing; especially the lovely, lilting waltz. Jane had always loved dancing. When she was a little girl, still too young to attend any parties, she had danced on her own in the gardens, often making up dances when she grew bored with the ones Papa Richard had taught her on the sly. Now that she was older, she could dance the entire night away. She may have no desire to be a debutante or a bride, but she was more than happy to dance as long as the musicians played. Music was an especial sort of magic to her; the melodies would hold her spellbound, and she would feel something stirring deep within her, a part of her that longed to merge with the music and lose all sense of herself.

If only her dancing partners weren't quite so boring. She had hoped that the fact that she was a foundling of unknown parentage would drive away the vast majority of suitors. Unfortunately, Lady Ascot had too much influence over the ton. Ward she may be, but Jane was still of the House of Ascot, with a generous dowry and the assurance of alliance with the aristocracy. Hence, Jane found herself the object of nearly every eligible bachelor in the room— quite to the annoyance of Mary, who had found herself more than once left on the sidelines without a dance partner. Lady Ascot would no doubt be pleased by the impression Jane was making; after all, the sooner Jane had married, the sooner she was no longer Lady Ascot's responsibility or problem.

Nobody had come to claim her for this dance. Instead of sitting with the other unclaimed ladies, Jane had slipped into the hall to dance with herself— not one of her more lively made-up dances, but another bout of waltzing. Humming along with the music, she dreamed up a partner for herself. An inhabitant of Wonderland, of course; no citizen of London was good enough to invade her daydreaming. He was a King, his bearing regal and dignified without being pompous or stiff. He was impeccably garbed in black trousers and tailcoat with black shoes so shiny she could see her reflection in them; his shirt, cravat and gloves were spotlessly white, his vest the same green as her emeralds. He wore no crown on his head; he didn't need one. One needed only to look at him to see that he was royalty. He shared her pale complection and green eyes, and he held her warmly and protectively, smiling down on her proudly as they twirled and spun through the hallway. Her companion was perfectly familiar to her; she imagined she was dancing with him during every ball she attended.

"Good evening, Father," she murmured, smiling up at him, "I'm so happy you could make it; I've missed you. Were you and Mother off in Witzend again? Did you host a tea party there, just the two of you? I wish I could have joined you."

Sudden snickering made her gasp and whip around to see Mary and her toadies watching.

"I told you," Mary smirked, "talking to herself again and dancing with a figment of her imagination! She's quite as mad as Alice Kingsleigh was!"

Jane fisted her skirts, feeling her face turn red with suppressed anger and embarrassment, but an unlikely champion appeared in the form of Lottie Devereaux, who stomped her dancing slipper and glared at Mary, hands on her hips.

"I would remind you, Mary, thatAlice Kingsleigh was my aunt, and my namesake," she said, her voice quivering in anger, "and there are still some who love and miss her, more than anyone would ever miss you."

Turning on her heel, Lottie ignored the amazed Mary, instead threading her arm through Jane's and leading her away.

"You shouldn't take what Mary said as an insult." She confided, leaning her head towards Jane's as if they were equal in age, instead of Lottie being five-and-twenty and married. "My mother told me that her father always said the best people are mad, and since my Aunt Alice was quite a bit more mad than most, I'd consider it an honor to be compared to her."
"You're very kind." Jane said, a small smile on her face as she looked at the older girl. "Your Aunt Alice was my Papa Richard's apprentice, wasn't she?"
"Yes indeed, she was the one who arranged the Company's trade routes with China." Lottie said proudly.
"She sounds like a wonderful woman." Jane replied.
"Oh, she was," Lottie smiled, "I wish I had had the chance to know her; she disappeared when my mother was expecting me, you see."

It didn't take any more prodding for Lottie to share all kinds of amazing stories with Jane— how Aunt Alice had believed in six Impossible Things before breakfast, how Aunt Alice had believed that flowers and animals could talk, that she had written down stories of a place called Wonderland for her sister Margaret to read aloud to her babies— Lottie, and later, her younger brothers James and Richard, and her younger sister Helena.

Jane blinked, "Wonderland? Not… not Alice's Adventures in Wonderland?"
"Why, yes," Lottie said, surprised, "my grandmother had the stories published. They're quite popular children's books, I understand; how do you know of it?"
"I found a copy of it in the attic a few weeks ago." Jane said, stunned. "To think, I can read your Aunt Alice's stories!"

Jane was astounded, Alice Kingsleigh had had a Wonderland— a kingdom every bit as magical as Jane's own Wonderland. Her Alice wasn't a fictional character after all, but a real flesh-and-blood girl that Jane understood and could relate to! She felt a strange affinity for Alice, as if she were discovering a long-lost friend. Moreover, Jane's birth parents had left her with a copy of Alice Kingsleigh's stories; why? What message had they been trying to leave her? She peppered Lottie with questions, hungry for every bit of knowledge she could get about her new heroine. Along the way, the girls merely began to talk, Lottie sensing the great void in Jane's life caused by lack of friendship and instinctively trying to fill it.

Unfortunately, Jane and Lottie's talk was truncated when Jane spied Lady Ascot approaching, a look of firm determination on her face. Appropriating Jane's hand with ease, she marched her ward onto the dance floor, where another uninspiring specimen of boy-passing-as-man waited for her. Recognizing Lady Ascot's matchmaking ways, Jane gritted her teeth, determined to endure this dance before making her escape.

That proved to be easier said than done; Lord Whatever-His-Name-Was was pompous, ignorant, and boring, so thoroughly convinced that Jane was flattered by his condescending to dance with her that he spoke of nothing but his own virtues. Jane suppressed a groan; why did this have to be a quadrille? The dance went on and on, seemingly without end, by the time it was finally over, she was beginning to fear she'd gone quite, quite mad.

The second his back was turned, Jane bolted. She left the ballroom as quickly as she could and rushed upstairs, locking her bedroom door behind her. That stupid ballroom filled with insipid people who cared about meaningless things and had not one iota of imagination or muchness between them…!

Snarling, Jane flew headlong into one of what Lady Ascot called her 'temper tantrums', and which everyone else referred to as one of her 'fits'. Her fits had been cause for much concern when Jane was younger; Lady Ascot had been firmly convinced that Jane was a lunatic, a condition she must have inherited from her parents. No wonder they'd abandoned her, if they had been mad! She ripped off her bland dress, snatched the hairpins out of her tresses, and yanked off her corset, throwing them any-which-way.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and glared. She looked half-wild, her hair flying about her face and her eyes snapping hazel with anger, but she didn't care. Frowning, she ripped open the doors to her armoire and took out her favorite dress— plum colored, she'd made it herself in a fit of rebellion against her foster mother's phobia of color— and exchanged her delicate dancing shoes for her sturdy sky blue half-boots. Tying a sky-blue sash around her waist, she sank onto her bed, gathering Witzend and her book into her arms. Desperately, she wished for a way to disappear, if only for a while; to escape her bland, boring existence where she was treated like a pariah, suitable only to be married off to the highest bidder.

What she wouldn't give to fall into Wonderland right now, she thought ruefully. She could find Alice, and together they could explore every inch of their fantasy world. They could talk to the flowers, and go on grand adventures; perhaps Alice could even help her find the castle where her parents were waiting for her, and she could meet her father and dance with him…

Jane scoffed at herself, she had believed she was past the age where she could dream about meeting her parents. She would never find them; and if they were alive, they certainly weren't royalty. Her father wasn't a handsome, dashing King, and she would never join Alice in Wonderland. She was doomed to remain here, to be married off to a stuffy unimaginative aristocrat that she would not love, forever trapped in a colorless, lackluster world... It made her want to scream. How she longed to escape…

A flicker of movement caused Jane's gaze to snap to the looking glass over her vanity table. Odd, there was no one else in the room with her, and she hadn't moved… Clutching the sleeping Witzend to her chest, she walked to the mirror, reaching out to touch the surface and make sure she was imaginging it.

Her fingers passed right through the mirror.

She gasped, yanked her fingers back, and stared. Then, overcome with curiosity, she slipped her hand back in. How amazing; how was this possible? The viscous material was neither solid nor liquid; it flowed around her, thicker than water but thinner than pudding. She was entranced by the substance; it looked like mercury, and was just as fluid.

She started when she heard footsteps coming down the hall, dismayed when she recognized the tread as Lady Ascot. She didn't want her foster mother to drag her back down to the ball to pair her off with some high and mighty lord… She made her decision quickly. Slipping her baby bonnet between the pages of her book and wrapping her book in her baby blanket to protect it against the fluid of the mirror, she scooped up her treasures, made sure she had a good grip on Witzend, and clambered onto her vanity table, boldly stepping through the looking glass.