Letter - 4
From Torg Adventure
The years between my last visit with Meg melted like vernal ice during our tea time discourse. I could discern from her smiling countenance that she felt the same way. We talked of the wild escapades of our youth, exploring the grounds and playing make-believe, as if they happened just a short season or two ago. When she told of the plans for the funeral, the mental lightness from the previous subjects lingered, making the conversation easier.
One bit of news darkened the room -- my cousin Phineas, Meg's brother, had died in January upon some exploration of old Persian ruins. This unfortunate event made Meg Ebenezer's heir. I had missed the news, because of that holiday you and I took to Fiorenza. (Ah, those days in the piazzas and ristorantes and those nights of delicious fare l'amore on the balcony overlooking that gorgeous city!)
Meg swiftly moved to different topics, and the buoyancy returned. We had another day before the ceremony, but she had a secret she had to show me on the morrow. I could see that she struggled to not simply show me that instant, she was so thrilled. The rest of the guests were expected tomorrow after noon, and so we had until then to ourselves.
After tea, Meg had to go into town to finish arrangements with the undertaker, so her driver took her in the steam carriage -- smaller than the commercial one in which I arrived. I was left to my own entertainments until dinner.
I went to the library, which had always been one of my favorite places in the house, the other being the kitchen where the cooks took pity on a starving teenaged boy. When I opened the door, I was transported to my youth, sitting in there on rainy days, reading of Oliver Twist and the Arabian Nights. The smell of the books hit me first, and the sheer volume of the room. It had tall ceilings and bookcases to the top. Rolling ladders allowed access to the top shelves. I even saw my favorite chair in the corner under the gas lamp.
The room seemed smaller than my memory made it, but still enormous. When I was young, it stretched to infinity, in much the same way as my mind was stretched by the stories I read. I was drawn the section of the adventures I'd perused as a youngster. The spines of the volumes presented a wall of intrigue, and I gazed at each title. But where I expected my favorite tome, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, I found none. So I settled on Verne's Journey to the Center of the Earth. As I walked to my preferred chair, I noticed a book on the doily. My heart quickened as I closed with it, for I recognized its well-worn cover -- the missing Alice. I grasped it, poor Mr. Verne left forgotten beside my treasure. I opened the cover and found a note written on the flyleaf: "Dearest M, Please accept this meagre gift. I know you loved this book more than any other in my library. It may yet prove your fortune, if you know the right question to ask. -- Ebbie"
I was puzzled by the last line, but dismissed it to proceed with the task at hand. I draped myself across the overstuffed wing-back chair that faced the fireplace in exactly the same pose that I had preferred as a boy -- legs hooked over the arm with head nestled into the wing. I smelled the aged leather, opened the book to the first page, breathed in the delicious musty aroma, and promptly dove down the rabbit hole. Before long, I was chuckling to the antics of the bizarre characters. The DRINK ME drink and the EAT ME cake brought giggles. I simply couldn't control myself during the tea party scene, laughing out loud when the Hatter asks, "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?"
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- Alphabet Cipher (1868);The key to the alphabet cipher is a phrase from Alice. Perhaps, 'Charles Lutwidge Dodgson', the author's real name. Or 'Why is a raven like a writing-desk?', 'Off with his head!',
