"It would be quite hard to believe," the shopkeeper says solemnly.
"I thought you'd say that."
The shopkeeper's lips twitch. "You do not trust me, and while I understand why, I must remind you that you were not forced to come here, mademoiselle."
He's right, dammit.
"I believe you were curious, oui? You saw the line, and you - how do you say this, mm...you wanted to know what the fuss is about, oui?"
"Oh-hee," I feel the need to speak French back, just to be polite, but maybe I was wrong, since the shopkeeper's clearly struggling not to smile again. It's just oui, for shit's sake, and so I wrinkle my nose, asking, "Don't tell me I got that wrong, too?"
"Please do not mind me, mademoiselle." The shopkeeper lets out a polite fake cough. "I was just having a little trouble with my breathing."
I'm not sure how smiling has anything to do with his lungs, but whatever. "It's fine," I tell him easily, and the shopkeeper inclines his head with a murmur of thanks.
"Now, where were we?"
"The fuss," I'm happy to remind him.
"Ah, oui, oui...the fuss, as you say, is because of this." I see him pull a drawer open, and a moment later he's placed a blank playing card on the counter. "This is the key to what an Alice most desires..."
Knew it.
The shopkeeper's still speaking, but I can already feel it in my guts. Curiosity has finally paid off, and I've found my ticket back to safety.
"You only need to solve a puzzle—-"
I've already started to imagine what it would feel like, to be with Rayé and Haine again, when the shopkeeper's words sink in, and I'm torn between resignation and chagrin.
Should've seen this coming, but oh well.
I'm done signing my registration form and waiver in a couple of minutes, and Wunderland being Wunderland, rather than putting pen to paper, I'm asked to blow a kiss at each page. Curious as shit, but oh well.
"And now..." The shopkeeper hands me the blank playing card, and as soon as my fingers graze its glossy surface...
Whoa.
I sway on my feet, dizzy, queasy, and half-convinced that teleporting is simply not for me. Since my stupid costume doesn't even come with any pockets and I can't afford to lose my playing card, I'm forced to tuck it behind the tight neckline of my blouse. It's bloody embarrassing, but oh well.
Like earlier, my only source of light is a candelabra, which this time floats around slowly in small circles above a round table. It's empty at first, but as I start walking towards it, something begins to materialize. By the time I take my seat, a wooden box is waiting for me, with three words etched on its lid.
Guess the crime?
Huh.
I was half-expecting something a lot crazier, and I'm not sure whether to feel relieved or worried that the puzzle I'm supposed to solve is this simple.
Or is it?
Inside the box is a jar, and inside of it are—-
Eww.
Bile rises to my throat, and I have to take several deep gulps of breath before I can reach for the jar and turn it over.
Double eww.
Two round objects immediately fall onto the table, and they're exactly what I fear: a pair of perfectly preserved eyeballs. I use the bottom of the jar to nudge one around; I'm hoping I'll find something that will tell me I'm wrong, and they're actually fake.
But nope.
Repressing a shudder of disgust, I quickly move on to the last clue: a crumpled piece of paper made brown by age...
Mm.
Once I've smoothed the creases out, I realize it's a page torn out of Shakespeare's Macbeth. The preface, to be specific, and my brows slowly meet together in a frown.
Guess the crime...
That's the objective of this puzzle, and my clues are a pair of eyeballs, a torn-out page from a Shakespeare book...and maybe...
"Is the jar even a—-oh." I didn't mean to think out loud, but the moment I do, the floating candelabra suddenly start shooting up flames, and out came letters made of smoke that spell...
J A R
Does that mean...I got one clue right?
My gaze swings back to the other clues, and I say slowly, "Eyeballs?"
But nothing happens.
"Eyes?"
And just like that, the candelabra coughs out another set of letters, which then spells out...
E Y E S
I bite back a gasp. That's already two out of three, so now I only need to figure out the right term for the torn-out page from Macbeth.
"Shakespeare? Macbeth? Page? Book? Paper? Boring?"
But nothing happens.
"Shit. I mean, sorry, that's not actually my—-" I stop speaking when I realize I'm practically explaining myself to no one.
C'mon now, Addie. Think! It's time to prove you're not just a pretty face!
This almost makes me snicker out loud, but I quickly purse my lips and tell myself I need to be more serious. And honestly, for all I know there might be hidden cameras somewhere in this room, and just like that, I'll be known as Crazy Laughing Alice.