There was something magical, almost REAL about those shared imaginings, but time marched on, especially with the convulsions Victorian England has withstood over the past years. Families moved, children grew up all too quickly -- or they didn't grow up at all, due to unhappy but all-too-common accidents and illnesses. Eventually, everyone went their separate ways, and there was little to be heard of each other over the intervening years -- until Alice's death and funeral brought them back together.
There could perchance have been some silver lining to this cloud, save for another tragedy that struck at the drizzle-drenched funeral: Mr. White was supposed to read a flowery verse composed to sing Alice's praises, but a terrible accident took his life, right in front of his timid wife and brood of children. He pitched headlong right into the open grave and snapped his neck on the casket.
Then came the police and the journalists and the questions. Was he pushed? Who was near him? Did he say anything? Did anyone have a personal grudge against him? Hardly -- none of those gathered, save for his own family, had seen hide nor hair of him for a decade or two, it seemed.
So, the funeral came to a very awkward close, with Mr. White's mortal remains taken off to the morgue. A few of those gathered have retired to the Princess Alice Pub, where a few of those who traveled to the funeral have been staying in the rooms upstairs, and the back-room "snug" is reserved for a small club of sorts.
A Miss Rosemary Gardner says hushed and soothing words to a somber child, Integra Wingate. In the confusion and bustle when the funeral guests were finally sent away, Integra was separated from the rest of her family, and sought out her uncle, Mr. Griffin Paisley, who was quite easily found -- seeing as he was set up to be the funeral photographer and had his equipment to pack away.
Mr. Henry Madden frets nervously in the corner, going from side to side of the chess table, apparently playing a game against himself, occasionally letting out squelched nervous giggles, then quietly chastising himself. His garish attire further accentuates the look of a flamboyant-but-harmless madman, as it seems like he's fallen fully into stereotype upon finally inheriting the family haberdashery business.
The plush chairs in front of the fireplace are therefore free for Mr. Paisley, Mr. Johnson, and Mr. March, to mull over the strangeness of the day, with drinks that young Ginny just delivered. Through the curtained doorway, "Honest" Tom Sullivan tends bar, while his daughters, Ginny and Effie, tend tables, and his wife Matilda is back in the kitchen cooking for those few patrons who are actually here for meals.
This being Whitechapel, some of the "ladies" are "working girls," and occasionally head out so that they don't attract undue attention from the patrolmen who stop in now and again -- a fact that makes Rosemary nervous, as she's a naive girl who came in from the country with her twin sister, Maryrose, and had little idea of what to expect in London.
Mr. Paisley swirls his glass and looks into. "I've photographed many of the deceased," he notes somberly. "But never.. at the moment of transition.. before. I'll likely have to turn the prints over to the constables."
Achilles Johnson has of course removed his bowler hat, it being indoors, but he holds it over his chest. "Terrible tragedy, what happened to poor Mr. White." He is a medium-height man, about 34 years old, with short black hair and male-pattern baldness, with a small but well-groomed mustache, and over one arm is slung an imposingly large umbrella-- most adequate protection against the persistent rains. He looks over to the others. "I can't help but feel as if some sort of foul play was at work. Sinister forces of darkness perhaps."
"Perhaps, but it did not seem to me if anything supernatural or criminal happened; the poor man slipped in the mud. I doubt the photos would be of much interest to the constables. A terrible accident, but hardly one to blame on goblins and fairies," Harrison remarks as he lightly brushes some of the day's dust from the brim of his hat before hanging it on the top of his cane. "As is written in the current serials of the Strand Magazine, "The simplest answer is almost always the correct one."
+++ Greywolf note: In this alternate universe, the Strand started publishing in 1888, not 1891. ;)
"True, but.. I'd rather there were some other explanation, for the sake of the children," Griffin admits. "When I was that age, it was easy to believe that everything had some greater design behind it. That someone made the leaves on the trees and painted the roses red, and all that. It would be terrifying to think that death could come.. randomly."
"Oh!" gasps Rosemary. "Speaking of roses, I really must tend to my sister. She was so broken up, she went straight up to the room. I can't neglect her for long. You know how she is." Turning to Integra, she says, "Now, you be a strong girl, and don't get out of sight of your uncle, you hear?"
Achilles shakes his head. One of his eyes is crossed by a white scar, faint but noticable. "Almost... But not always. Journalism is made up of that faint margin of improbability, the moment where reality veers off of the straightaway and into the wild brush. I should be most interested in a print when you get the picture developed, Griffin. Perhaps for publication?"
"Oh, I think you do not give children enough credit, Griffin. How many died last year alone in the textile mills while climbing under the looms to fix a jam? Or how many came down with brittle bones whilst working at the match factories? In our modern age, children are required to grow up quickly," Harrison points out. "Well, at least the majority born to the working class, anyway."
"Best of health to your sister, Miss Gardner," Paisley says to the woman. "Thank you for helping with Integra as well." He isn't exactly sure who the Gardner twins are, though.
"And no, I'm not bitter because my father made me learn bookkeeping when I was eight. Not bitter at all," Harrison adds. "Our dearly departed friends are just ... casualties of modern living; that's all. I wonder what they have in the tap today..."
Miss Rosemary Gardner stoops over and smoothes out a stray lock of Integra's hair, smiling sadly and fondly, then nods. "A good night to you all. And mayhaps we can see each other under happier circumstances on the morrow, God-willing." With that, she heads out, taking the side exit through the billiards room toward the back -- where stairs lead up to the Princess Alice's rooms for rent.
Achilles Johnson, the newspaper journalist, nods to Rosemary as she departs, then eyes Integra with misgiving. In his experience, this usually ends in trouble of some kind. Well. How much trouble can she get into in a well-lit place like the Princess Alice? "Aye, let's toast to dear departed Alice, and pray that she is getting along well with the children of Heaven."
"I still have the tea party photograph," Griffin notes. "I should fetch it down and see.. Ah, perhaps that's a bit morbid though." He raises his glass instead. "Yes, to Alice.. and Mr. White. May they find peace on the far side of the rabbit hole."
Integra quietly hops up into the spare plush chair in the darkened corner, smoothing out her skirts, then idly kicks her shoes back and forth, paying far more attention to them with her downward gaze than to anyone or anything else in the room.
Achilles looks curious at Griffin's choice of toast, but raises his glass to it nevertheless. "To Alice and Mr. White!"
"Aye, may they find peace and happiness in a new tale; a better one than this life sought to write for them," Harrison agrees. Since he lacks a glass currently, he just lifts his cane and hat in a small salute.
Henry Madden stifles a nervous giggle. "Hear, hear!" He forces his expression to something more appropriately somber, flushing embarrassed, and raises his glass.
The newspaper journalist glances to the side, but frowns as he sees nothing. He sips his "Wm. Younger India Pale Ale" contemplatively.
Griffin holds his glass up a bit longer than usual, and then lowers it and looks around the floor instead of sipping from it immediately. "Curious," he mutters.
Mr. Madden giggles, off-kilter. "All this talk of white rabbits. I think the spirits are playing tricks on me." He quickly quaffs the rest of his drink.
"You two are acting oddly. Surely both of you can handle drink better than that," Harrison, the only one without a glass, observes.
Integra suddenly startles, making a small squeak. "Uncle?" She hops off the chair and dashes across the room, clinging to his sleeve. "Are there rats in here?"
"You don't happen to know where the Whites are staying, do you?" asks Mr. Johnson of the others as he prepares himself to leave. "It just came to me that it might be a good idea to offer to publish Mr. White's eulogy for Alice-- the poor chap never did get a chance to give it in life, after all. And to offer my sympathy to the bereaved, of course."
"I shall speak to Mr. Sullivan about it," Griffin promises, and pats Integra's shoulder. "Would you like to go up to my room, Integra? You can read while I use the darkroom. The rest of you are welcome as well, although my lodgings are humbler than the snug."
"No, but I imagine I have a record of a current address back at the shop. They were often customers, you know. The liked to be informed when anything unusual came in and on the market," Harrison answers. "Would you like me to bring it to you on the 'morrow?"
Henry Madden seems to be lost in thought, staring in the direction of the fireplace ... or, no, in the direction of the mirror just above the fireplace. "It went right through," he mutters. "That settles it. I am, quite officially, drunk. Do I sound it?"
"That depends," Griffin replies to Madden. "Do you remember whose turn it is in the chess match?" he asks with a bit of a grin.
Achilles smiles at Mr. March. "That would be capital, Harrison." He pauses to examine the shelves that run along the walls of the room, his single good eye squinting.
Laughter intrudes from beyond the curtained door. Someone must have just told a particularly funny joke, or perhaps someone just passed out stone-cold drunk. There's an embarrassed titter from Ginny Sullivan, one of the serving girls. It all seems quite detached from the mood in the smoking-room.
"Mine," Madden says, still staring off, past Griffin. "But ... no, wait, those don't match up quite right, either. It's all wrong somehow. But I'm still there. And you are, too. So that much is right."
Paisley turns to look where Madden is staring, thinking again of that old photograph.. but that's back up in the apartment, not here.
The possibly-not-entirely-sane hatter staggers away from the chessboard, absently setting his glass on a nearby shelf running along the wall, as he makes his way toward the fireplace, and reaches up toward the mirror over the mantelpiece.
"Of course his youngest tried to sell me a glass doorknob a few weeks back. She claimed it was a crystal ball! Imagine!" Harrison explains to Achilles. "And for a pound no less. A pound for a used knob that likely cost a shilling new. Why ..." He pauses, then looks towards the curtained door. "Is there a party tonight? Rather a poor choice for a party night, all things considered."
The reporter runs a finger along the shelf. Clean. "Dusted recently," he notes with evident surprise. He looks over to where Griffin has engaged Madden in conversation. "Life does go on," he says quietly to Harrison. "Did you offer her a trade of something else marked up from a shilling to a pound?"
"He's right there," Madden claims, pointing at the mirror. "Hopping around. Fluffy and white ... with ... with a waistcoat. Can't you see him? Oh! I think ... I think he sees me. Is that a pocketwatch? I do so think it is."
Griffin looks into the mirror, one hand on Integra's shoulder. "What are you on about, man?" he asks Madden.
"Well ... there was a hat we couldn't sell. It was old and faded and ... " there Harrison trails off and finally looks over to Madden. "Good sir, now is not the time or place for bad jokes!" he chides.
"Perhaps he's drunken a bit too much," Achilles says to Harrison, but nevertheless he tenses, preparing to steady the mirror, should the haberdasher threaten to topple it.
There in the mirror, a little white rabbit hops about, scurrying along what should be the north side of the room. Upon closer inspection, it appears to have a small pocket watch and a waistcoat from which to pull it, and little white gloves with which to hold it, and, after all, the pocket watch should be normal-sized, so perhaps the bunny isn't so small after all. The details seem to shift and reassert themselves, the more one thinks about it, even though a glance to the corresponding corner of the room reveals no such rabbit. Before there's much to do about it other than gape, however, the rabbit looks back, and such a disapproving look it is! It snaps shut its pocket watch, and with that SNAP, the mirror over the mantelpiece ripples and contorts.
At once, a wave of disorientation passes through all gathered in the little snug room. Integra lets out a sharp cry, and her eyes roll back as she passes out, falling over against her uncle Paisley. Left seems to become right, right to left, and then back again, and everything seems much the same, yet different. And ... the rabbit is gone. Perhaps it was all just some sort of delusion. By judging of the laughter in the main room, it seems that nobody in there is the least bit disturbed by the goings-on.
And Harrison snaps his fingers! "Of course! An opium den must have opened near by and we are afflicted with its foul vapors," he concludes triumphantly. "And why those who have been drinking are more quickly affected. We just need some fresh air."
"God save the Queen, what was that?" whispers Achilles. For a moment his scar pulses even whiter than normal. He blinks, then peers at his glass suspiciously. Hmm. No, it tasted quite normal.
Harrison spins his top hat that rests on his cane, bounces it off, then catches it with his free hand and places it atop his head. "And to prove it, I'm going to go into the billiards room where one of the hallucinations fled and prove it was not real," he tells the others.
Griffin is too busy to deal with the weirdness, as he sets down his glass on the sphinx so he can scoop up his niece in both arms. "Integra! Wake up, young lady."
"A capital idea!" Madden proclaims to Harrison. "Let's chase that rabbit! Just mind any rabbit holes."
The reporter looks over at Madden and Griffin. "Harrison's right, it's probably nothing but fumes. Has one of your experiments perchance boiled over, Griffin-- or perhaps run away with our imaginations?"
In the mirror, Madden's reflection seems to react even more quickly than Madden himself. The mirror-Madden grins wickedly, puts on his own hat, and dashes arm-in-arm with mirror-Harrison out of the room. Now, it would seem that neither Madden nor Harrison have a reflection in the mirror. Integra's mirror-reflection, consequently, wakes up immediately, grinning as well, and trots off-frame, presumably in the direction of the curtains leading to the bar. Little girls, even their reflections, shouldn't be going that way!
Harrison sticks his hand in his waist pocket, possibly checking something first. "Indeed. It all has a logical explanation behind it. Even the part where Achilles knew about rabbits," he declares.
Somewhat belatedly, the real Integra recovers, under the combined attentions of Uncle Paisley and Mr. Achilles Johnson. "I'm so sorry, Uncle," she whispers. "Everything has gone strange. Have I woken up yet?" She reaches down and pinches herself. "Ow!"
"Yes, child, you're quite awake now," Griffin says, turning so that Integra can't see the mirror. "Do you need to lie down? I believe the day has caught up with you."
Madden leaves the mirror, no longer concerned with its dishonest reflections, and makes his way around the corner to inspect the side-exit from the room. "Well, nobody out there but the cigar-store Indian keeping watch. Good work, Chief!"
Achilles stares at the mirror, having noticed the distinctly unnatural behavior of the reflections. "I say, that's not cricket." He looks back at the curtains, then at his mirror-image and that of Griffin Paisley's. Well. The real Griffin is busy with the real Integra, so it falls to him to do something about it. "You there! That's no place for a respectable young girl," he barks at the mirror.
Harrison now heads in the direction of the billiards room. His gait is practiced and calm; and his cane taps lightly on the floor as he goes.
Suddenly, the mirror-Integra pops back into view, hopping back into place so hard ... that she shatters into a thousand pieces! Well, that certainly wasn't the intended effect at all, now was it? Just in front of the fireplace, a frilly apron falls to the floor. Had that been perched on the mantle, unnoticed, until just now? (Quite probably not.)
Griffin does turn at the sound of shouting and.. breaking. "Ace, really.. you should know better than anyone that your face is a mirror's bane.." he jokes, until he notices the apron.
Achilles blinks, then rubs his eyes, even if one of them doesn't require the attention. "Perhaps I spoke a bit harshly, but I do think that's taking 'shattering' a bit far."
"That apron.. shouldn't exist," Griffin says softly. "It was turned into rags at least a year ago, after Integra outgrew it.. and wore it out quite thoroughly first."
Seeing the apron still there, and a continued strangeness of mirror, Achilles frowns. "Are you sure it isn't just another one that happens to look like it? They must have made a thousand of the things." He glances over to the billiards room where Harrison and Madden are going.
Adjoining the snug room is a side-street entry-way on Wentworth Street, with the door to the street on the north, another doorway leading to the Billiards Room to the east, and the south wall primarily occupied by a wooden statue of a Cigar Store Indian, advertising the fact that the Sullivans sell cigars here in addition to their other consumables. It is this large wooden figure, however, that promptly falls over as Harrison and Madden enter. "Look out!" Madden cries, but Harrison's own reflexes are sufficient to avoid the minor danger. The way it fell ... is odd -- as if it were pushed, but no one is there.
"Pick it up, see if there is a name sewn into it.." Griffin asks Ace.
Harrison draws out the old service revolver from his jacket pocket and fingers it at his side; readying it ... just in case. "Here now, we are trying to mourn the loss of a friend. Chunking the chief at is is very poor manners; someone could have been hurt. Not to mention that it's damaging something worth at least two pounds. Come out here and apologize!" he declares.
Achilles moves to shield Integra and Griffin from the direction of the doorway, his umbrella out in one hand, scooping up the apron with his other. "Hashashins, or perhaps thuggees from India. You'd better keep your niece back here in the light, Griffin, we don't want her getting hurt."
Seeing as things of a more normal - if threatening - nature are occurring, Griffin sets Integra down in one of the fireplace-facing seats, and looks towards the curtained off door into the rest of the pub. But should he involve others just yet? Instead, he goes to pick up the apron.
The little apron has embroidered on it -- and quite nicely and carefully, at that -- "Integra Wingate." Something about it feels especially substantial in Achilles's hands, vaguely familiar, though he is quite confident he's never seen this apron before. The apron has a couple of little pockets, and within them a few lumps that seem to suggest small prizes such as thimbles or shiny stones or the like.
The journalist willingly relinquishes the apron to Griffin's care. "It might be hers," he allows.
"Integra, did you get a new apron?" Griffin asks, as he brings it to his niece.
Once Griffin gets a look at it, there's no doubt about it. This is the apron that was, but can't still be. There's the tell-tale little loop of thread on the back that snagged once on a button, and had to be trimmed. And even without looking at them, he can imagine the baubles Integra would promptly stuff into those pockets once given a chance.
Integra gasps. "You ... you found it!" And then she looks puzzled, as she reaches out for it.
Handing it over, Griffin says, "Well.. I'm sure I have it in the darkroom still as well, for cleaning the trays.." He looks a bit confused himself. "When you last recall wearing it?"
"Keep down and low," advises Mr. Johnson as he brandishes his umbrella in the direction of the billiards room. He squints into the darkness trying to see whatever shadowy assassins might be lurking.
Meanwhile, the unseen others fail to show themselves ... at least, not directly. The wooden figure of the cigar-store Indian, however, does not rest lightly on the floor like it really ought to. Instead, with a bit of wobbling, as if hefted up by two invisible sets of hands, it raises up, and thrusts in Madden's direction, slamming into his gut. Meanwhile, in the mirror, Griffin's alternate pays no heed to the apron (in fact, there is no apron visible in the reflection), and instead reaches below-frame, then comes back with a fireplace iron. But wait -- in the present world, the matching fireplace iron is hovering in the air as well, in the same place -- but held by no one!
Fortunately, as the fireplace iron comes swinging through the air, Achilles' fine-tuned reflexes pay off: he parries with his oversized umbrella. It's not quite a suitable weapon, but better than going bare-handed, under the circumstances.
"Oof!" Madden staggers back, gasping for breath as the head of the cigar-store Indian slams into his gut.
"Right!" Harrison says as he aims his revolver in the direction the Indian came from and fires a shot! After all, no one seems to be there, but maybe a warning shot will scare them off.
"You assassins have certainly refined your techniques," Achilles grudgingly admits as he deflects the fireplace iron. "But luckily for me, this is a Paragon Imperial umbrella-- it's made to take a beating! And a beating is just what I'm going to give you, if you don't desist your violence at once!" He glances at the mirror and begins to put two and two together. But let's try the simple things first-- he tries to sweep his umbrella through the space where the apparition should be, if he were standing the way the mirror indicates.
If indeed there were some invisible opponent occupying either space, both Harrison and Achilles should have found their marks. However, nothing seems to be produced by the effort other than a few shouts from the main room, a shatter of glass as if a tray was dropped, and then more laughter. Meanwhile, in the mirror, Mirror-Achilles appears to be dashing off-frame in the direction of the curtained door, while Mirror-Griffin is still in view (looking away toward a mostly empty room, but occasionally glancing back over his shoulder as if to sight just where everyone is).
Achilles's umbrella passes through space where by reason there should have been a body, leaving him surprised. It would have hit, he has no doubt of that. He glances toward the mirror again. "Griffin!" he calls. "Do you have by chance any of your photographic paraphlernia? Something might be useful in this deuced odd war of shadows!"
The poker lamely, almost blindly lunges toward Achilles, but it has clearly lost the element of surprise, and Mirror-Griffin seems to be having quite a bit of trouble trying to glance toward the mirror and swing at his (invisible?) target at the same time. Meanwhile, the cigar-store Indian lunges about, but seems to be suffering from a lack of coordination. Briefly in the mirror, Mirror-Madden can be glimpsed holding part of the cigar-store Indian. It is a very clumsy sort of combat indeed.
Meanwhile, behind the curtain, Ginny's voice can be heard. "Is everything quite all right in there? My papa will be quite sore with you, if anyone is dead!" Not exactly the sort of reaction one would have expected from Ginny to a gunshot, truth be told; she seems to be taking it awfully well.
"It's up in my room," Griffin notes, as he hunches over the chair to protect Integra. "Break the damned mirror, Achilles!"
"I say!" Madden proclaims, as he tries to wrestle with the floating cigar-store Indian. "You're getting it all wrong. It's backwards, you see. Jog it to the left when you ... oof! Oh, you already figured that part out. My, you're clever!"
"And rack up damages against my bill? I'll watch the girl, you take care of the mirror," Achilles retorts.
"Then throw a coat over it!" Griffin suggests.
The cigar-store Indian swings back, then forward again with a heave-ho, and Madden is too slow to get out of the way. "Boof!" He staggers back several steps, with the wind clearly knocked out of him. The cigar-store Indian floats forward into the room, bowling him back, and Mirror-Madden and Mirror-Harrison are both visible, if one looks through the mirror a certain way, hefting the mirror-cigar-store-Indian. Meanwhile, the poker makes another attack at Achilles, but mirror-Griffin's fighting skills appear to be lacking the ability to overcome a simple brolly.
Ginny Sullivan, one of the serving girls, finally pushes her way through the curtain, holding a bottle of brandy. "Now, what's all this?"
"Ginny, you have to cover the mirror!" Griffin calls to the woman.
"Oh! Of course!" Ginny cries, as if she as, in the span of but a second, suddenly absorbed the full gravity of the situation ... or else maybe she just has a secret crush on Griffin and is eager to do whatever he says, without question. In either case, she yanks the mantle-cloth right off of the mantle, sending knickknacks crashing left and right, and then throws it over the mirror. "There! Is that better?" She smiles brightly.
The journalist sizes up the situation strategically. "Murderous mirror malefactors make mayhem," he declares and one can practically hear the newspaper headline in his voice. "Our reflections are using objects found in this room to assail us. To what end, I have no idea, but I assure you, they will rue the day!"
The poker suddenly drops to the floor. The cigar-store Indian drops on Madden's foot.
"Ow!" Madden cries, tears coming to his eyes. "It is not my day!"
And Harrison rubs his forehead. "I think I want a drink now," he mutters.
Mr. Johnson takes up the poker warily. "Is everything all right outside, Miss Sullivan?" he asks. "Those malicious mirror murderers may seek out other... apertures for their violence."
"Very good, Ginny," Griffin says, standing back up, but still looking concerned. He looks the serving girl over and asks, "Are you feeling all right yourself? And.. what room are the Gardner sisters staying in?"
"Oh yes!" Ginny says brightly. "Those beautiful Gardner twins! They're staying on the floral floor, of course -- the fourth. They're staying in the ..." Then she giggles. "Oh, now WHY would you be asking me that, Mr. Paisley?"
Achilles expertly flips the poker in one hand so he's holding it near the pointy end, then holds the handle out to Griffin. "In a pinch, one must improvise, sir."
The photographer takes the poker by the handle, and tests the weight for a moment. "I think their dressing mirror.. they do have a dressing mirror, don't they? I think their mirror may need adjusting."
"I feel like I am in the western part of the new world," Harrison remarks as he goes to prod the cigar Indian with his foot. He's even carrying a six-shooter; imagine that.
"Of course they have a dressing mirror," Ginny says. "Oh! Do you need a cloth thrown over it? I can take care of that right away for you, Mr. Paisley."
Still puzzled by Miss Sullivan's bubbly attitude being out of sorts with her actual body language, Griffin says, "That would be ideal, Miss Sullivan.. you can leave the bottle of course, if you don't mind." He even holds his hand out for it and smiles.
Achilles nods toward the billiards room, oblivious to Ginny's behavior. "Stairs are on the far side. Leave the mirror covered, if you would be so kind, Miss. We've no time to waste, those sorcerous 'sassins may be at work even now!"
"Oh, are they?" Ginny asks, blinking innocently ... and then she suddenly grabs the bottle of bourbon and swings it like a bludgeon at Griffin -- but for whatever reason, he's apparently expecting this, and effortlessly evades it. At the same time, however, the mantelpiece clock that had been knocked off is suddenly lifted up by ghostly hands and chucked through the air in Achilles' direction -- but by chance he happened to glance that way at just the right time. Madden is not so lucky, however, as the cigar-store Indian is suddenly possessed again, just as he was stooping over to take a closer look.
"By dose!" Madden wails, clutching at his face. "Bwhy bme?"
"Zounds! They're still besieging us here," Achilles blurts. He searches the room for another mirror or reflective surface the assassins might be using to spy on them.
There's the glass topper of the sphinx table, the shiny chandelier, numerous knickknacks -- there's no counting of just how many shiny surfaces might be used, in a pinch, to reflect upon the world in this room, and through much of the building.
Since he can't just leave Ginny armed while his niece is so close, Griffin naturally tries to grab away the woman's weapon: the heavy bottle.
Coming to the conclusion that's something of a dead end, or rather, a labyrinth of dead ends, Mr. Johnson seizes on the one obvious end: Miss Sullivan herself. He darts around the chair and attempts to grab her to protect Mr. Paisley from further harm. "What in God's name are you doing, woman?" he asks.
"Ooo!" Ginny says, as she's grabbed from behind. Cracks suddenly form on her from the stress. "Breaking, it looks like!" She laughs madly, and then does just as she said -- she shatters into countless, tinkling pieces that fall to the ground, then melt away. The bottle is left in Griffin's hand. Something feels odd about the heft of it. It seems solid enough yet ... indescribably fragile.
"What... How..." Mr. Johnson looks at his hands, covered in flakes of glass that evanesce.
Integra lets out a shriek, throwing her hands up to shield herself ... but the exploding shards do no more harm than glitter.
"It's mirror matter of some sort," Griffin exclaims, and sets the bottle carefully aside. "But how did a mirror-Ginny.." he starts to say, then recalls the bar mirror. "They can come through!"
"What have I done?" the journalist demands of Griffin, looking at him. "Did I just kill Miss Sullivan?! But... That's impossible. I'm fairly certain the real girl is a bit more substantial than a mirage."
"Well, since this is crazy, I may as well do something crazy," Harrison concludes. He aims at the cigar Chief and shoots at it! Maybe it will shatter too.
Hefting the poker, Griffin turns on the covered mirror over the fire.. and hesitates. "Breaking the mirror might just make it worse. We need to get to the stairs, and check on the twins!"
The bullet slams into solid wood. Alas, no instant shattering. Out of the corner of his eye, Harrison can catch a reflection of the room in various shiny surfaces. He can see Mirror-Madden and Mirror-Harrison scrambling about, as if picking over something to grab from the shelves.
"I think a strategic retreat is in order, yes," Harrison agrees, "This is futile!"
Madden whimpers, clutching at his nose, and scurries back to one of the stools.
"They're going after people who knew Alice," the journalist theorizes wildly as he brushes off his sleeves, grabs up his hat, and sets it on. "Mr. White was just their first victim. We could be leading these murderers to the Gardners... But they might be beset by their own reflections." He barks to Madden, "'Tis but a flesh wound! Buck up and come along, man, you'll be defenseless by yourself here."
The hatter reaches up and wiggles his nose. "Oh! It's not broken after all. Well then!" He sniffles, and daubs away some blood with a kerchief. "It could be worse!"
"Go on ahead, I'll cover the rear," Mr. Johnson says as he eyes the various reflective surfaces, trying to guess where the next attack will come from.
Taking Integra's hand, Griffin heads for the billiards room. "Third floor, gentlemen," he notes.
Achilles no longer sees Mirror-Achilles in the room, but Mirror-Griffin, Mirror-Harrison and Mirror-Madden all seem to be posed by various knickknacks on the shelves, silently counting off as if to make a coordinated attack....
The journalist braces himself for the onslaught of knicknacks, one hand on the lever to pop open his umbrella as a shield.
Harrison, perhaps re-enacting some old role, runs for the stairs! His gun is in one hand, and his other holds his cane as well as tries to keep his hat on his head.
Integra dashes off, hand-in-hand with her uncle, as they take a turn into the back room area (despite the "Staff Only" sign) where the drinks and such are kept for the bar. As the door swings open, it's evident that there's a second (staff-only) staircase in there as well, providing a much closer access to the next floor up than heading all the way back to the apartments access.
At once, there erupts a flurry of knickknacks, empty bottles and glasses, some of them smashing against hard surfaces, so that sharp glassy shards are exposed, but somehow Madden evades every last one of them. As glimpsed in the occasional reflective shard, Mirror-Madden, Mirror-Harrison and Mirror-Griffin are having a jolly time of it.
Achilles roars at Madden, "Up the stairs! I'll cover you from these cursed hooligans." He pops the umbrella open as an impromptu shield against the thrown objects.
"Don't drop that bumbershoot or I might shoot!" Harrison blurts as he goes for safety!
The journalist covers their retreat, mourning only that they're rather at a lack of credible eyewitnesses and photographic evidence, without which this story will be rather dubious.
The guests from the snug room make a hasty retreat through the store-room behind the bar, ignoring the increasingly off-kilter and maniacal cackling coming from the main hall, as they charge up the narrow wooden stairs.
"I don't like the sound of that," Achilles says to the others as he keeps a watch out back for signs of pursuit.
"I'm in the Lemon Suite on third," Griffin notes to everyone. "I want to get Integra secured, and I know my way around the space in the dark."
"All right, this is ridiculous and has to be a dream," Harrison remarks as he skids to a halt at the top of the stairs. He then takes a moment to open up his revolver and replace the two spent shells with fresh ones. It closes back up with a satisfying 'click'. "I bet the pot pie was off and this is some food-induced nightmare."
The second time around the stairs, and they're on the second floor. It's dimly-lit back here, since this is a staff-only area and only sporadically-used, but they can see brighter light peeking around the door leading to the main corridor.
"Shall we make a dash for the proper stairs?" Griffin asks Harrison, who is up in front.
"Perhaps, perhaps not," Mr. Johnson says as he backs up the stairs. "I wasn't sure of it at first but now that I think on it, I'm certain that Mr. White was seeing a different reality than the very real hole in front of him, when he had his fateful fall."
"Remind me why we are going up a building?" Harrison has to ask. "Wouldn't it have been better to run out the front door? I know I don't have spring-loaded legs to survive a jump from this height..."
"We need to check on the Gardner twins and make sure they're all right," Achilles says authoritatively. "I believe Mr. Paisley wanted to drop his niece off at his room with strict..." He leans over the bannister toward Integra. "And I do mean strict orders to stay put and cover all reflective surfaces and be a good girl."
"It's just around the corner," Griffin notes as he fishes the key from his vest pocket.
Hurrying down the hall, Griffin stops at the door (which has his name on it, since he lodges at the pub anyway) and unlocks it. "Inside!" he calls to the others.
Achilles scoots Madden along, bringing up the rear. "What-- you surely can't be thinking of hiding in your room as if it were a fort!"
"I will hide under the bed!" Integra volunteers.
"I suggest we find find a way to get out and contact the authorities," Harrison suggests.
The front room of the little apartment is a small "living room" for receiving guests, with a couch facing a small fireplace, and an end-table in the corner. Another door opens up into the bedroom, revealing a doorway off to a private bath to one side (a cramped one, but still a very nice amenity), and a door the other way leading to a store-room that is marked, "Darkroom: Do not enter!" "Oh, look!" Integra says. "They've put a gift basket on the table!" Indeed, there is a little wicker basket with a tag on it that says in large cursive letters, "Complements!" It has several lemons in it.
"Harrison, with me, Madden, stay here with Griffin," Achilles says. "I'm going to go up and make sure the Gardner sisters are all right."
"Not hardly," Griffin notes, and collects his camera from where he left it near the door. "But I can't just drag my niece around while we are being attacked. You get the Gardners!"
Integra freezes stock-still. "Uncle ... why are the lemons ... moving?"
"When did you get voted in charge?" Harrison asks? Nevermind he goes to follow Achilles anyway.
Some quiet, grumbling noises come from the basket on the bedstand.
"Mice?" Griffin suggests, and uses the iron poker.. to poke at the lemons.
About to charge off for the stairs, Achilles pauses when he hears Integra's voice. "Don't touch them!" he yells inside the room. "They could be rigged with some kind of bomb!"
"Bombs don't grumble," Griffin points out.
The journalist moves into the room, reaching out to Integra's shoulder. "Back behind me, little lady," he suggests. "Whatever your uncle's poking at could be dangerous."
"I hope this isn't juicy," Harrison remarks as he follows Achilles.
The lemons wobble about a bit, grumbling mildly, and sounding very ... sour. Then, one rotates around and has some slits in its surface that seems to suggest a face with closed eyes and mouth. The "mouth" suddenly puckers, and shoots a squirt of lemon-juice directed at Griffin's face, but he is deft enough to dodge to the side, avoiding the spray.
"I say!" Griffin protests. "The fruit is rudely ripe!"
"Lemons?!" Madden cries out, wild-eyed, as he heads into the room. "When life gives you lemons..." He bounds through the doors, hops right onto the bed (boing!), grabs the basket and SMASHES it against the wall. "MAKE LEMONADE!"
***SPLAT***
"Did someone rig a lemon up with some sort of acid spray? It seems wildly outlandish for an assassination scheme--" Achilles yelps as Madden rushes right past him. "What has gotten into that fellow's head?"
"Maybe his hat is just too tight," Harrison suggests.
Mr. Johnson comments, "A grievous failing in a haberdasher."
"Really Madden," Griffin complains. "Integra is impressionable. Do behave yourself!"
"Oh dearie me! Look, there's even a juicer!" Madden points out, as he opens up the little cabinet under the night-stand, and pulls out some glasses. The lemons, for their part, seem to have lost any animated qualities they had but a moment before. That was ... underwhelming, perhaps. Also, rather messy.
"He made an impression on the wall as well," Harrison points out.
"I'm going to check the darkroom, you fellows secure the room please," Griffin notes, and heads into the adjacent room with his poker held ready.
Achilles obligingly checks around the room, looking for any reflective surfaces that might give their mirror-adversaries a sighting point into the room, and turning them over or covering them with whatever bits of cloth or paper he can find.
As Griffin checks out his dark room, he finds that it is unmolested. Yes, there are shiny surfaces here and there, and dim shadows lurking about, but it looks as if he is back in his normal surroundings ... until, that is, he realizes that there's one thing wrong with all of the reflections: He is not in them. Furthermore, it occurs to him that all the labels he has written are somehow written backwards, yet he can read them perfectly fine. It's as if the whole world has flipped, but his own mind has agilely adapted so quickly that he hardly noticed.
Harrison also takes a moment to look over the room. "This makes no sense whatsoever. Since when have lemons been so violent?" he asks.
"It could have been some sort of thuggee-trap, concealing a spritzer connected to a switch that would release when he jostled the lemons," Achilles suggests. "Just the sort of devious, underhanded devices they go in for."
"Oh dear," Griffin mutters, and heads back out to the bedroom. "Chaps, I think we have a problem. And.. ah.. we should avoid eating or drinking anything too for the time being.."
Achilles heads on to the bathroom, to make sure nothing's lurking in there. He pokes his umbrella into the room first.
"Given as I am not particularly hungry or thirsty, I don't see a problem with that," Harrison notes. "And what problem have you found, sir?"
Integra looks up in surprise, as she was just about to sip at a glass of freshly-squeezed lemonade. Instead, she politely declines and hands the glass back to the haberdasher.
"Are you slamming Mrs. Sullivan's cooking again?" the journalist questions. "First Harrison's implication that it was her pot pie at fault, and now you?"
"All of the labels in my darkroom are right-to-left, and.. I don't cast a reflection," Griffin notes. "It may be that we are on the other side of the looking glass, as Alice might have put it."
Fortunately, the bathroom is devoid of any suspicious gift-baskets. There is, of course, a large mirror, and Achilles is still struck by the oddity of NOT seeing himself in it. Also, the mirror seems a bit hazy, as if the reflected reality is a bit darker and foggier than this one.
"Are you sure you just weren't overcome by the fumes in there?," Harrison jokes as he takes his hat off. This elicits the prompt response of making sure his hair hasn't gotten too mussed up.
Achilles considers the mirror, then goes back to the main room to pull the sheet off the bed to cover it. "I don't mean to dismiss your supposition, old fellow, but have you considered the possibility we have all mysteriously become vampires, and thus do not cast reflections? You haven't acquired a sudden thirst for blood, have you?"
"Not for blood," Madden reports, "but thirsty all the same." So the haberdasher, despite Griffin's warning, sips at the lemonade, seems to observe that he has not grown to immense proportions or shrunk down in size or exploded, so he guzzles the rest. "Ooo. So SOUUUURRRRRR!" He scrunches up his face, making a very sour expression.
"I'm not surprised, you're supposed to add sugar most generously to lemonade," Achilles points out.
"I prefer my own hypothesis to yours, Achilles.. Madden! I told you not to drink anything!"
"Oh, NOWWWWW you tell me!" The hatter's expression seems to be permanently stuck in this expression, and his disposition as well. He seems markedly less charismatic than before, and perhaps a little more willful than usual. Or perhaps that's just reading too much into it, since he is an oddball sort.
"Maybe someone should get him a glass of water," Harrison suggests. So, he grabs a glass and heads to the bathroom to see if there is a water pitcher in there.
Integra takes a couple of steps back from Madden. "I don't think I should like that very much, after all."
The journalist nudges Madden off the bed and takes the top sheet off it, to cover the mirror. "A simple matter of common sense, my good sir. I say... Has your face actually frozen that way? Me mum always said if we made facaes, they'd..." He gestures at Madden.
Griffin notes, "If you remember Alice's plays, food can have bizarre effects. Keep an eye on Madden, in case he begins to turn yellow or pucker up or such." He then moves across the room to the desk, which he rummages through.
Madden turns to look at Achilles, and he does seem to be holding that pucker-faced look for a bit longer than one might think it possible even if he were just hamming it up. At least his complexion isn't changing ... yet?
Harrison returns quickly with a glass of water and offers it to Madden. "Friend, I can't leave you looking like that. Aside from the fact that face might break mirrors ... It's very distracting," he explains as he offers the glass of water to him.
"Well, I will note, Griffin... If we are in fact on the other side of the looking glass, you might not wish to leave your niece here." Achilles nevertheless covers the mirror and comes back out. "I think we've done all we can here."
Madden chugs the water, then shakes his face. "Burble-gurble-burble-gurble!" His eyes go wide and he gasps. "Well! That was quite the experience!" His face appears to be back to normal. "I say! I had the strangest sensation while I was stuck like that, as if ... well, as if I were just so sour I could resist anything!"
"On the contrary," Achilles says, slapping Madden on the shoulder. "With a face like that, women would have had an easy time resisting you, eh?" He winks, then sets off for the front door of the room.
"But how do we get back?" Griffin notes. He finds the print of 'The Last Tea Party' that his father made so long ago. "What an interesting observation, Mr. Madden. Let us go collect the Gardners then." For whatever reason, he also grabs the tin soldier off the desk. He uses it as a focus for children when he takes their portrait, normally. "With any luck they'll be fast asleep and not have been pulled into this at all."
It looks as if, despite the intervention of lemony imps and whoever placed the gift basket there, Griffin's photography gear is all right where he left it, when he returned to drop it off right after the funeral, before retiring to the smoking room to meet with the others.
"I still think it's all some sort of mass hallucination," Harrison comments as he goes to follow Achilles again. "And if not, why us? It's not like we were remotely important to Alice. Just bit actors and all that; she made me wear those stupid ears often enough at all."
"That remains to be seen! Onward, gentlemen." Achilles peers out into the hallway to make sure they haven't suddenly become filled with fiendish Arabish assassins or the like.
He wouldn't be much of a photographer if he left his equipment behind, despite the weight of the case - so Griffin picks that up as well. "That may be it, Harrison," he notes. "What if Alice's and Mr. White's deaths were somehow orchestrated from.." He lets the rest remain unsaid, at least in front of Integra. "Put on your apron, Integra." He holds the print out to Harrison. "Notice that girl off by herself. I'm sure it's one of the Gardner twins. I can't recall which though.. she moved during the exposure I think."
The journalist jogs through the hallway to the stairs going up to the fourth floor.
"I see twins," Harrison tells Griffin after stealing a look at the photo. "It's a bit blurry, but it's two girls."
"What?" Griffin asks, looking at the photo again. "I don't remember ever seeing them together though.."
Achilles pauses at the door to the stairwell. "Are you coming?" he calls.
"I'm just pointing out Griffin isn't seeing things right," Harrison calls after Achilles. "We'll be there in a second."
The photo has two blurry forms, two girls. Griffin is certain there was only one girl there before, and these two ... it's like a double image -- some sort of doctoring of the image. They are TOO alike in pose and appearance.
In fact, it seems as if the picture is slowly shifting, the more Griffin looks at it.
"This isn't.." Griffin starts to say, then has to pause and think. "Did we really know those girls back then? I didn't recognize them at the funeral. And I know they weren't in this photograph before. They knew Alice separately.. so are they appearing because of that?"
"Oh, look!" Integra squeals. "I'm in the picture, too! How'd you do that, Uncle Paisley?"
"If we wait too long, they'll be pushing up lilies upstairs, and then we'll just have the photograph to remember them by," exhorts Mr. Johnson.
Harrison rubs the side of his head, causing his hat to tilt. "I don't remember," he admits. "Lets just get going. I don't think staring at old pictures will get us anywhere." Of course Integra's squeal causes him to pause.
Griffin goes ashen when Integra starts to appear in it. "Everyone in this picture is a target, somehow," he whispers. "We need to get to the bottom of this, March. We'd better get after Achilles.."
"Right," Harrison agrees and heads after Achilles now. "We're coming!"
The journalist starts up the stairs. Hopefully they won't dally too long, leaving him alone to face whatever abominations of nature might be assaulting the Gardners.
Although Integra looks a bit blurry, and so do the twins, Alice looks the most clear of all. And right beside her, where Randolf White should have been, there is a most amazing costume or stuffed animal -- that's the only reasonable explanation, surely -- of a larger-than-life White Rabbit in a waistcoat with a pocket watch.
The group heads up the stairs to the fourth floor -- the highest of those with the regular rooms available for rent by the night or by the week. At the landing, just as on the other floors, there are assorted paraphernalia associated with the building's namesake -- an obligatory portrait of the beloved (but dearly departed) Princess Alice, a ferry-in-a-bottle of the doomed ship that sank on the River Thames, river charts, and etc. However, what's a bit unusual is that the floral theme of the rooms on this floor seems to have gotten a little out of hand. Creeping vines run along the edges of the hallway, with little rose blossoms and buds on them, seeming to spring right out of the wallpaper at times.
As Achilles steps out into the fourth floor of the Princess Alice, he stops, taken aback by the evidence of vegetation all around. "What in the-- Gardners... Gardeners? They must have very green thumbs indeed, to grow flowers out of the floor and walls," the journalist says. He glances back at Griffin and Harrison. "We might be going to rescue them... But what if we're the ones who'll need rescuing?"
Chirping songbirds echo eerily in the distance, and it sounds as if there is a running brook somewhere ... above? Floral scents are heavily in the air.
"Great Saints, a florist has run rampant up here. And one with bad taste," Harrison observes as he soon appears at the top of the stairs. "Rescue? Dear Chap, we already need to be rescued if you haven't noticed..."
Despite his worries, Achilles peers around the corner.
"According to the picture.. they should still be alive, at least," Griffin explains, and pauses before the portrait of Alice.
Immediately to one side of the corridor, a door leads to what is identified as the Hyacinth Suite. Across the hall is the Violet Suite. Right next to that is a door to the Lily Suite. Definitely a theme going on here.
As Achilles bravely makes his way around the corner, he can see that the vines become even more choked, the further down the hall one goes. To his left is a door to the Hydrangea Suite -- the room exactly one floor above Griffin's room -- while on the right is a vine-choked door that would lead to the other stairs, marked "Staff Only." At the very direct end of the hall, choked in vines and flowers, barely can be made out a sign that reads, "Rose Garden Suite." The vines appear to be pushing their way through the gaps around the door, and even through the keyhole.
"My journalist's nose is telling me they'll be at the heart of all this overgrowth," Achilles says to the others. "That is, if they aren't snoozing comfortably in one of these other rooms."
"If they're lucky, they're asleep," Harrison comments. "Lead on, fearless one."
The medium-height dark-haired man moves forward slowly through the hallway, keeping his ears and eyes open for any sign of ambush... Or cries for help.
"I really hope they're still normal when we get to them," Griffin notes. "Stay close Integra," he tells his niece.
Achilles leans up against the door, listening.
As Achilles makes his way down the hall, he can see that though some of the tiniest of vines have pressed their way through the keyhole, there's still something else blocking it. He hears nothing in the room save for an occasional rustling of leaves. When he checks the keyhole, he can see quite clearly that the room key has been left in the lock, but on the interior side of the keyhole -- a common practice amongst some for the sake of convenience, or to thwart anyone who might spy in through the keyhole.
"I can't see inside, they've blocked up the keyhole," Achilles hisses to the others. "Looks like they left their key in the lock. I don't hear any sounds of distress though."
Slowly, Griffin leads Integra around the first corner, keeping up with Madden and hoping the man doesn't do something crazy again.
"You know, a piece or paper or a mat, and a knife ... and we could get that key easily enough. Paper under the door, stick something in the keyhole, pull out paper, and there is your key," Harrison explains from behind Achilles. "We've had to use that trick before when doing an estate sale and someone left a door locked."
"It would be an invasion of privacy," the journalist says a bit shocked. "On the other hand, what if they are being held prisoner?" He fishes out a notepad and hands Harrison a sheet of paper.
The journalist also offers a lead pencil, the better with which to poke the key through the hole.
"What are they doing up there?" Griffin whispers to Madden, then suggests, "Go tell them to try knocking, chap."
"Right! Watch my back ... and don't muss up my jacket," Harrison says as he kneels down in front of the door. The paper is slid under the door, just around where the lock is. He takes the pencil, twirls it, then gingerly inserts it into the lock. "Don't want to push too hard you you might shoot the key across the room..."
"That would be a terrible shame," Achilles agrees. He keeps a lookout for Harrison. It's almost as if they've done this before.
"Excellent idea!" Madden agrees with Griffin, and he strolls on down the hallway.
Poke Plink Click Slide It works like a charm, even despite the tangling vines. Behold: one key to the Rose Garden Suite, on a piece of note-pad paper.
"There. The key. Why don't you unlock it in case there is a monster on the other side waiting to eat someone's head," Harrison suggests as he offers the key to the reporter.
"No need to disturb them, we'll just check if they're enjoying their rose bower slumber," Mr. Johnson says quietly, trying to justify their intrusion, putting the key into the lock. "If nothing's wrong, we can just ease ourselves out and leave the key on the table."
Griffin brings Integra a little further along, in case the girl will be needed to defuse any misunderstandings with the Gardners.
The door eases open, and several hair-thin strands of creeping rambling-rose vines snap as it parts from the frame, sliding inward and scraping clinging roots from where they've been digging into the rose-patterned carpet. Inside, the room is quite taken over by greens and reds. There is an area near the fireplace (still burning) where the vines haven't fully overgrown, but the couch and seat and coffee table are mostly claimed, and the door to the bedroom is heavily choked.
"How .... floral," Harrison observes. "But please do not stop and smell the roses."
The bowler-hatted journalist peers into the room. "Even if they are asleep, I am a trifle bit worried that the roses might grow over them," he whispers to the others. "Well, they do say beauty is oft protected by thorns."
"After you," Harrison says and magnanimously bows to Achilles.
"Rosemary? Maryrose?" says Achilles in a low tone of voice as he creeps into the room, looking around. If there's anywhere on this floor they should be, this should be it. The Rose Garden Suite, after all.
"How's it look, Harrison?" Griffin whispers.
"Floral," Harrison answers.
There's a soft rustle of leaves, and for a moment Achilles thinks he hears the sounds of whispering ... but then realizes that must just be the breeze blowing through the garden. But, no, wait, this isn't a garden. The door to the bedroom slowly creaks open, accompanied by more rustling. The warm glow from the fireplace sends a sliver of light into the bedroom that slowly widens. The curtains must have been drawn in the bedroom for it is almost completely dark -- not even the street lights get through the windows -- and the bed-side lamp is out. Still, he can make out a feminine silhouette limned by the fire-light. She beckons to Achilles to enter.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Gardner, it wouldn't be proper to intrude," Mr. Johnson says, straightening as he sees he's been noticed. "I just wanted to check up on you, what with all the strange going-ons. Are you all right?"
Nervously, Griffin checks the photograph once more to see if there have been additional changes.
"Oh, are they in there?" Harrison asks. He now moves up to see if he can see what Achilles sees.
"I believe so. No signs of any intruders," the reporter says to his friend.
The blurry forms are gone in the photograph. Instead, Griffin sees, quite clearly, two identical girls, rather rotund, reminiscent of Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum rather than the only slightly-plump-but-charming forms they had before, and dressed up in gardeners' galoshes, aprons, sun bonnets and gloves. They don't look like two real children posed for photo anymore; they seem ageless, and inhuman.
Harrison doffs his hat to the figure. "Ma'am," he says politely.
"Oh!" Madden says. "Well, it must be all right to head on in, then." And so he strolls right on in to join the party.
"Oh dear," Griffin says, and calls into the room, "Achilles, Harrison.. there's been a change in the picture! The Gardners aren't.. themselves.. anymore!"
Achilles shakes his head, giving Madden a warning look. "I'm sorry, our friend here's a little... Under the weather and confused," he says. "Please forgive the intrusion, if everything's all right here, we'll just leave you be."
Harrison's hand tightens around his gun at Griffin's warning. "Right. We're terribly sorry to disturb you. We'll be on our way," he apologizes to the figure as he looks around warily. "Madden, back outside. We're leaving..."
Harrison catches just a glimpse of the woman in the room, but immediately he can tell that something is not at all right. She's stunningly beautiful ... but inhumanly so, as if crafted out of vines and rose-petals. There is a resemblance to Rosemary's brilliant red dress that she changed into, to socialize in the smoking room (from the mourning black she had worn at the funeral), but it is superficial at this point.
The journalist is not a great student of the female condition but even he can tell something's a bit amiss here. "Good God," he exclaims. "We're too late, the roses already got to them!" He stows his notepad and lead pencil, tightening his grip on his umbrella instead.
"Perhaps we can discuss this over dinner another day, Ma'am. But for now, fare well," Harrison says as he slowly backs up; gun ready to cover Madden and Achilles. Boy does he hope they leave too!
Before Achilles' startled eyes, vines and rose-petals rise from the floor and form together, flanking the Rose-Maiden, to form two identical humanoid shapes. They smile, and blow kisses to the reporter. The air is full of a heady, rosy perfume.
For a moment, the world seems to get just a little hazy for Achilles, as the flower-maidens look a little more attractive than he originally gave them credit for ... but suddenly he snaps out of it. His will is too strong for that! He realizes that even as he was enamored with their inhumanly good looks, the vines about his feet had sprung to life, and were slowly entwining his limbs. Fortunately, they have not gotten far, so he is able to effortlessly snap free from the hair-thin vines that have started their trek.
Achilles backs away slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on the rose and its humanoid puppets. It seems like he's fighting against some force drawing him closer to the floral creation. "How long have you been a rose?" he blurts out, seizing on that indomitable curiosity of his to fight their perfume. "Do you remember not being a rose? Are Rosemary and Maryrose your creations, your children perhaps, or have you somehow absorbed them into your botanical commune?!"
Griffin! Do you still have the bourbon?" Harrison calls out.
"I don't know what it is anymore," Griffin notes, as he retrieves the bottle from his coat pocket. "It feels solid.." He pulls the cork and sniffs it (the cork, that is) to try and get an idea of what it really is, since the label on the bottle keeps shifting like a dream.
"Think it will burn?" Harrison calls back. "There's a bit of a plant problem in here!"
Reflexively, Griffin corks the bottle again, as a little wisp of flame erupts from the neck. Yes, yes it WILL burn, he is reasonably certain. The label is readable to him now. It's Tartarus Tipple.
"Burn them? But-- but we came here to make sure they were okay! We've established that and now we can go, our Christian duty done," Achilles protests.
"Oh yes, very flammable," Griffin notes, and tells Integra to stay put as he hurries to the door.
"Only if you two get out of there intact!" Harrison points out.
Achilles attempts to grab hold of Madden's hand to pull him out. In his current state, there's no telling what the hatter would try to do, were he not saved from his own... madcap antics.
"What are they doing?" Griffin says once he can see the bedroom door, bottle ready to throw. "Are they attacking?"
"Lets get out of there before they do attack!" Harrison says as he heads out the door and tries to pull Griffin along with him.
Even as Harrison moves, the little creeping vines weakly move about, as if trying their very hardest to curl around feet and snare them down while no one's looking.
Hauling Madden out into the hallway, Achilles leans in to pull the door shut behind Harrison and Griffin once they're clear.
"That was decidedly unexpected," Achilles asserts as he drops his grip on Madden to fish the key out and lock the door.
"Pretty, though," Harrison adds.
With a slam, only weakly resisted by a few strands of creeping vines, the door is closed shut, and the key ensures that it won't be opening quickly (unless these vines are skillful enough to master the art of lockpicking, that is). Some rosy perfumes puff out from around the door frame, but not in sufficient quantity to do more than just fill the air pleasantly.
"I don't think those flirtatious flora where Rosemary or Maryrose, despite the thematic elegance of such a thing," Griffin notes, carefully storing the bottle back in his coat and pulling out the photograph. "They look decidedly more Tweedle-ish here.."
The journalist smiles wryly. "Oh, very pretty. Assuming those were Rosemary and Maryrose, I'll guess that was their mother with them." He tosses the key, then pockets it again with a flourish. "Show me that picture of yours, would you, Griffin?"
"So ... since it seems like we're the only normal people left, how about we leave the building?" Harrison suggests as he scoots away from the door. "You know, before we start growing weird body parts and acting crazy. The last bit involves a glance to Madden. "Ah, no offense meant," he apologises.
*** Note to GW: Swap Achilles' line one up, please?
"None taken!" Madden says amiably, with a tip of the hat and a slight bow.
"A capital idea," agrees Achilles. "I'd suggest we start by heading back to the first floor and investigating that mirror over the fireplace."
Showing the photo, Griffin notes, "Notice how Mr. White Rabbit and Alice are in sharpest focus, and now the twins."
"How do we look?" Harrison asks as he comes in to get a look.
Mr. Johnson leads the way back away from the door to the stairs as they chat. "Careful, we want to be well away from the door before they discover a way around it... Or through it," he says. "Say, did you do some photographic magic to put your niece into this picture, Griffin? Amazing!"
"No, the photograph is doing it by itself," Griffin notes. "I think.. ah.. that we need to find Alice. I suspect she's at the heart of this, and may be the cause as well."
"Alice? But... Isn't she dead?" asks Achilles.
In the photograph, most of the people look fairly blurry, save for a few characters that stand out from the rest. There is what looks like a fairy-tale White Rabbit -- dressed for the part -- next to Alice (and she's dressed up as if from the second book of her adventures, as QUEEN Alice, complete with crown and scepter). The twins are indeed sharply in focus, looking like Tweedlish parodies of their former selves (or would that be self?). There is also a fairy-tale-looking sheep-man, or perhaps a lamb. And then there is Integra, who looks almost as solid as the rest but not quite, almost looking like an understudy for the role of playing Alice. Griffin Paisley's childhood appearance seems to be overlaid with a blurry image of something with wings. Shadowy bunny ears seem to be visible behind the head of young Harrison March. And Mr. Achilles Johnson somehow looks a bit pale, with more sharply denoted features, as if he had put on a bit of mascara, with a bit of a curious patterning overlaid o
(GW edit): ... with a bit of a curious patterning overlaid on his clothes.
"I look dreadful," Achilles adds. "What, have I got bags under my eyes? I mustn't have been getting enough sleep."
"The Queen is dead... long live the Queen," Griffin mutters. "She's calling her court to her. Us."
So naturally Harrison feels his ears. "Surely we are not going to end up like the others," he says. "We find the door, we go home, and when we wake up tomorrow this will all be over."
"Oh, it will be over, one way or another," says a voice from ... the wallpaper? A couple of stains look suspiciously like cat eyes, and another stain very much like a big, broad grin. "You're quite correct. Queen Alice sits on her throne, and calls for her court. We are neither here nor there, but as much as it is possible in this life ... welcome to Wonderland!"