The Madness of Cadmea; or The Lunatic Couturier
SEVEN
"I loved and I loved, and I lost you,
I loved and I loved and I lost you,
I loved and I loved and I lost you,
And it hurts like hell."
- Fleurie, Hurts Like Hell
The Seamstress could not recall how long it had been since the villain - Jefferson - had left. It felt like it had been forever. The days after he left Wonderland were near exact copies of one another; a dark night full of unclear nightmares where she always awoke crying out his name, and would blindly lie to herself that she had not been doing that long before he even first appeared in Wonderland. There would be a cold bracing wash in the stream in a failed attempt to clear her jumbled mind, scratching out a breakfast from scraps proffered by the wily cat and woodland finds, then cleaning and mindless sewing and sewing and sewing, and tea - that is if she remembered on her good days, or if the cat arrived to gently remind her to eat. Her labor was her only escape.
The Seamstress had long forgotten the name Jefferson had so briefly given her. It was odd to think she could so clearly recall his but not her own, and as a result she'd concentrated on thoughts of him often soon after he left, a bewildering part of her terrified that she would forget him.
As the days passed, his dark-lashed, blue-grey siren's eyes were soon the only part of his face that she could clearly recall, save for the times when the blackbirds that continually pestered the cat swooped in, feathers rippling, spread wide, driving against the dusty streams of the sun. It was then that she could see him walking away from her, the dark folds of his coat trailing dramatic and long behind him. In truth, any other vague memories she had of him were of him with his head down between his broad shoulders like the leader of some fallen army, walking away, always walking away…
She wanted to chase the madness right out of her head, sometimes, thinking it might bring him back. She could have perhaps pretended she was not mad when they'd first met, but ultimately it would have been a useless endeavor - it wouldn't have been enough. She didn't think anything could be enough to keep him from leaving if he wished.
If she were not heartless, she would have wondered more often if it was her madness that chased him away, or something else. If she had been in possession of her heart, she suspected the uncertainty would have devastated her, so she was ever thankful it was missing, hidden away somewhere beyond the dark villain's reach. His memory was somehow still an ache within her veins, though, and the glimpse of sun in his eyes wouldn't be banished or forgotten, no matter how little sense it made.
One late evening a knock came upon her door, and she started, for never had the sound come at such an hour. She was hesitant to move from her seat near the fire, for she was quite alone save for the company of her shadow - the cat had disappeared some time earlier in the day and hadn't returned - but the choice was taken from her as the simple door was kicked inward, the wooden latch splintering from the force.
The Seamstress was too confused, indeed too stunned to move. She sat with her hands buried in her sewing, head turned to the door, and in from the darkness marched six soldiers wearing the queen's colors and carrying swords and torches and long pikes.
"Are you the Mad Seamstress of Tulgey Wood?" one of the blank-faced soldiers snapped from beneath his silver helm, voice echoing hollowly.
The Seamstress felt her eyes widen comically, her brows climb up her forehead, and she wordlessly rolled her long, sharp sewing needle between her fingers.
That was the night she was taken to the castle and ordered to labor in silks and satin's worth more than her life for the unforgiving Queen of Hearts.
Once the Seamstress was ensconced in a massive workroom in the castle, she finally stopped having screaming fits, much to the relief of the soldier and the queen's overworked Knave.
One could not blame her, the Seamstress thought with a sniff, being snatched in the night from the only home she'd ever known and made to walk a narrow bridge to the castle with an endless, black yawning chasm on either side would rattle anyone's brains, especially hers, which were literally scrambled beyond reason. The skies around the mighty castle and mind-boggling maze were moonless, starless, and dotted with the gigantic moving shapes of floating landmasses. It would be a terrifying sight to behold even in the light of day...and on top of all that, they'd not even allowed her time to retrieve her favorite shears. She felt naked without them!
"The Queen demands a sample of your finest work by High tea tomorrow," the Knave announced impatiently, tossing her worn bags at her feet, already closing the large iron doors. "This is your task - if she approves, she will want to know how you came to be in Wonderland, and I assure you, it would save your head to have a good answer."
"Just a 'good answer'? Not necessarily an honest answer, then?" the Seamstress asked flippantly.
The Knave scowled at her and slammed the doors shut.
The Seamstress shrugged, stood and listened to the tumblers click in the lock, and then turned to examine the room. There were three magnificent stained-glass windows set into the wall far above, but they were dull with the night. She could not see the soaring ceiling in the darkness, for beyond the fire in the large hearth set well behind a bed-sized wooden desk, there was no light. A tray on the desk held a large faded teapot - a touch told her it was stone cold - and a chipped cup. The heathens hadn't seen fit to offer cream or honey, nor even a crust of bread. Mmph.
Turning in circles away from the desk, she continued to examine her surroundings. Abnormally tall shelves lined the walls, nearly every cloth bolt jammed into the stacks a shade of black, white, red, gold or silver. There was silk and satin, leather and lace. There were prints the likes of which she'd never seen, yards upon yards of ribbon spools and open drawers and baskets overfilled with twinkling notions; jeweled buttons, chains, real gold and silver frog enclosures, sequins and nonsensically-high stiff lace collars and flowing cuffs. One dark corner held up to twenty dressmakers mannequins, and another a long, narrow table covered in tapes, tools, needles, pincushions, chalk, thread and...shears.
Unknowingly, a disturbing smile crossed her lips as she walked toward the table. She watched her hand reach out, as if directed by someone else, and pick up the ridiculously large silver shears. She held them up, walking slowly to stand before the fire, and found herself laughing as she examined their sharp perfection in the wavering light of the flames.
If the Knave was surprised by the look of boredom on the Seamstresses face late the next day when he arrived with a guard to escort her, he was too stress-ridden to show it.
"The Queen demands to see you," the Knave said through gritted teeth. "Where is your work?"
"I'm afraid I could not oblige her highness," the Seamstress announced.
"Y-you, what?" the Knave spluttered.
"The finest work I ever accomplished has sadly departed this land. Some time ago, I'm afraid. It was a bespoke coat and suit, and it has no equal. Since I can never surpass that quality, it would be an insult to the queen to even try." The Seamstress yawned, patting her mouth politely.
The knave looked around, thrown, as if to see evidence of her work strewn about. There was nothing. His face was rust red when he returned his attention to her.
"This is unacceptable, especially after her highness has offered you refreshment and safe shelter! She will order your head off your shoulders for this!"
Refreshment and shelter? Pfft. Cold tea and prison, more the like.
The Seamstress sighed impatiently. "Very well, if she must, then she must."
The Knave sucked in a hissing breath through his teeth. "You really are mad!"
"It seems so," the Seamstress hummed.
Growling, the Knave threw a directive at the hollow-faced soldiers and they came behind her to march her out of the room.
"Will she truly have me beheaded?" she asked the Knave's back as they moved through the echoing corridors.
"Undoubtedly," the Knave responded archly, and the Seamstress grinned.
When they reached the courtyard where the court gathered and where the throne was located, the Knave left her to mount the steps to the the red queen and heft a long, curling horn to his ear to listen to her speak through it. He spoke back to her in a low voice, and the Queen, hidden behind a many-layered veil, stiffened visibly and turned as if to stare down the ghostly Seamstress. She whispered into the horn again, and the Knave straightened with a smug look upon his face. He motioned to a soldier holding an ax nearby, and he turned out to be the queen's headsman.
The Seamstress saw the ax raise out of the corner or her eye, but continued to smile inanely at the queen.
The cut was painless and swift...and surprisingly not lethal.
The Seamstress dropped her smile, shifting her eyes to look down at herself, and then to look at her body upon the stones. She glanced over at the headsman, who held her severed head aloft by her long, tangled silver tresses, and then rolled her eyes.
"Well, this is very disappointing," the Seamstress sighed, how she had no idea for she was no longer attached to her lungs. "I'm still alive."
The headsman almost dropped her, her words caught him so off guard. She looked over at him and narrowed her eyes. "Not very competent at your job, are you? All swing, no follow through. Tsk. I could have done a better job with my shears."
The court gasped, and the headsman turned his masked face to look askance at the queen, but even the queen seemed taken aback. She whispered to the Knave again.
The white-faced Knave cleared his throat and gestured to the Seamstress with a shaking hand. "The Queen wishes to know how you came to this land."
The Seamstress drew the corners of her lips down. "Why do you ask as if it's such an impossible thing? I'll be happy to tell you - I simply woke up here, in the wood."
The Knave blustered, but she made a show of trying to shake her head with some humorous results. "I tell you true, I awoke in Tulgey Wood, mad as - well, as a March hare. I have my trade and nothing else - no memories of a life before, only insanity and scars. If my answer does not please you, please, by all means make the distance betwixt my neck and skull permanent. It matters little to me, and there is no one in this world who will lament my passing."
"But you are - where are you from?" the Knave asked angrily. "You will answer if you wish to have your head reattached to your body!"
The Seamstress sighed again. "I do not know...now if you've quite finished, I demand to be properly beheaded."
The court gasped again, though there was a nervous laugh or two also to be heard.
The queen burbled something to the Knave again, and he straightened with a crick of his back. "The Queen wishes to know why you desire to die."
The Seamstress blinked. "I have no heart, your highness. No family, no warm memories. The man I would love if I could...became frightened of me and ran away. I live day-by-day fighting my own instinct to harm myself. This madness...is maddening." She gave a high-pitched giggle, then abruptly silenced herself, taking a bewildering deep breath before saying steadily, "I am content to die by your merciless hand."
The much-bedeviled Knave's jaw dropped. His eye twitched. The queen stiffened again.
Bored and frustrated, the Seamstress swung her pale eyes over to the nervous headsman and glared at him. The visual effect of her displeasure, along with the monotonous swinging of her raw, red-lined throat in the air made even the headsman draw back slightly.
The Knave suddenly announced, to the surprise of no one, "The Queen wishes you to know that, indeed, she is quite without mercy - and as such, she has no intentions of being the means of putting an end to your suffering."
The Seamstress opened her mouth to say something cutting and force the issue, but the headsman slapped his free, gloved hand over it.
The Knave gave the headsman a 'just so' nod, and continued on. "However, since outsiders are not welcome here, you will be banished beyond the Looking Glass. The kind of magic needed to bring you here no longer exists on the other side of the mirror. You will never return."
The members of the court tittered behind their jeweled masks and fans. The queen waved languidly at the headsman, and he grunted as he bent to realign the Seamstresses head with her body, much like two magnets being snapped together,
After a long moment, the headsman picked her roughly up by the scruff and set her on her feet.
The Seamstress angrily bared her teeth, her hair a riotous mess, and then yanked up her black skirt to reveal a curving white thigh - and the large silver shears from the workroom strapped to the side of it. She expertly flipped the weighty shears into her hand, and made to thrust the sharp ends into the exposed side of her much abused throat.
The headsman was faster, however, and yanked the shears from her grip with a sharp sound of alarm and disbelief. He grabbed her shoulder with his other large, gloved hand as if to shake the madness out of her.
The crowd stepped back as one, shocked screams and shouts assaulting the charged air.
The Seamstress ducked angrily away from the big man, and fisted her hands, turning to stare intensely at the silent woman upon the throne - she didn't get another chance to open her mouth, as a number of guards dragged her off her feet and hauled her away down the bridge they'd marched her along the night before.
The Knave seemed distinctly relieved to see her go.
Down the path to the tall glass mirror they went, the Seamstress and her small crowd of hollow-faced guards.
The Seamstress scowled at the appearance of the mirror, and looked over to where the nosy caterpillar usually lounged to see that it had conveniently taken itself off to parts unknown, it's giant mushroom standing tall and alone...however, as she watched, a pair of large cat eyes appeared around the thick stem and blinked at her.
A guard threw her bags at her feet, and motioned for her to take them and step up to the mirror.
"Walk through, or I'll throw you through," muttered the guard.
The Seamstress rubbed a palm across her aching, reddened neck, feeling a band of raw skin, and reached down to grab her belongings. She straightened, sneaking a sad smile from beneath her hair at the wide cat eyes, and then childishly stuck her pink tongue out at the guards before hopping backwards through the rippling surface of the mirror.
A/N: The story is moving along a bit at last. The Queen of Hearts - I know it's supposed to be, well, spoilers - but I kind of waffled on that here. She could be, or not, I guess it doesn't matter too much to this particular story. (Don't ask me why it took the Queen so long to take notice of her)! Convenience!
Keep in mind in the next chapter that Cadmea/The Seamstress has been in Wonderland for quite some time now, Jefferson's last visit there was around eight years before she was exiled. A lot has happened in the Enchanted Forest since then, including Jefferson's meeting and subsequent marriage to Priscilla and the arrival of Grace, their daughter; not necessarily in that order. Hmmm. Anytime, now… :) We'll be catching up with Storybrooke in and around Season 1-2 of OUAT. Please, keep reading and I'll keep writing.