If she were starving, she’d shove the food down her throat, and if not, she’d follow a peculiar eating habit—as she’s doing right now. She slowly pinches the top of the bread between thumb and finger, tears it off and squeezes it into a small piece the size of a ping pong ball before putting it in her mouth and nibbling. She then covers her mouth with her right hand as if the world will end if she lets me see her chewing. My word; the way she chews is a mirror image of a chipmunk. It’s not annoying—rather adorable in fact—but surely doesn’t serve any particular purpose. Same as the random bow earlier.

“Why would you do that?”

She answers only after finishing the bread piece. “Do what?” She tears another piece, smaller than the first one.

“Break the bread into pieces like that.”

“I am taught manners.”

“What manners?”

“Dining manner. I am also not supposed to talk, but you kept staring. Besides, bite-sized food is easier to digest, especially in the case of dry food.”

“Were you raised by a yeti?” I snort.

“No. Why do you keep asking that?”

“Well, no offense, but you seem to make all these unnecessary gestures, and you don’t seem to be physically and mentally built for this world.”

She stares back at me—the kind of scrutinizing, vindictive stare that I haven’t seen from her at all. Her gaze is long and intense enough to make me self-conscious of the very visible scar atop my head, wondering if that’s where her eyes are traveling to. She flares her nose as she speaks, “What is wrong with being feminine?”

“What? What is feminine?”

“I apologize if this is crude of me to ask, but what is wrong with wanting to be graceful and elegant? What is wrong with wanting personal space and despising violence? What is wrong with striving to become well-read instead of well-built?”

“Why are you making a fuss about this? I’ve never said there’s anything wrong with what you do. But to survive in this world, you have to be tough.”

“I am not from your world. I am from my world, a world where people value expertise and intelligence. I am perturbed that you consider what I do to be of so little value.”

What’s with all this crap? I’m trying to help her!

“I have nothing but respect for your knowledge, but how does that have anything to do with wanting you to become tougher?”

“I am sorry. I did not mean to antagonize you. I want you to know I do not approve of what you said earlier.”

“It’s cool. I was joking. I didn’t think you would’ve taken it so seriously.”

She sighs. “I hope you have realized my manners are no joking matter for anyone where I came from.”

“I get what you mean, but listen. You’re in our world now, which means you act like a soldier when your life depends on it.”

“I will, as long as you understand that I wish to retain my ways of being, even those that are not tough but tender.”

Bah. Not like I can tell her otherwise. It’s her choice if she wants to become yet another cog in this war-waging machine. She might die being herself, but at least she gets to be herself.

I shrug. “So we cool?”

She makes a weak attempt at a smile. “Let us enjoy dinner.”

“You eat.”

Please eat. I want to see you eat. I don’t mind how unnecessary your ‘manners’ are and how ridiculous you look. Talk to me. Tell me stories of Rushalkas and Cerberus. Do something, and I’ll observe you. Entertain me with anything so I can take my mind off the mumbo-jumbo I’m in right now.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

I can’t say that to her. I’m not her; I can’t imagine being tender. There’s nothing in tenderness but frailty and desperation.

So I sit and stare. I must have been staring at her since she now stares back at me. She has this perplexed look written all over her face.

“Thought you don’t like staring. Why are you staring now?” I raise my eyebrows.

“You know. . . It would have been great to have two cups of tea with us right now. I would feel as though I am Alice in Wonderland.”

“Who in what?”

“Alice in Wonderland. Have you not read it?” She looks at me and blinks needlessly fast. “The Professor told me that every child would have read Alice’s Adventure in Wonderland at least once in their lives.”

“Literally none of us here has even heard of Alexei in Wonderland.”

“Really?” she gasps. “I find it hard to believe! And her name is Alice, not Alexei.”

“I find it hard to believe someone read Alice-in-wherever-it-is too. Now tell me. What is the book about?”

“Well . . . It is about this girl called Alice, who follows a rabbit along the riverbank into a rabbit hole.”

“A girl? I think I’ve read this term in a book. Is a girl a woman but younger than a woman?”

“Mhm,” she nods. “A boy grows into a young man, and a girl grows into a young woman.”

“Okay then. What happens to Alice?”

“So Alice finds herself in a strange and unfamiliar world! I figured that Alice and I share many resemblances in that regard!”

“In what regard?”

“That I have to acquaint myself with this peculiar world.”

“This world is strange?” I frown. “It’s the only world anyone has ever known!”

She shakes her head. “You are mistaken. I knew not about the snowy land above the surface.”

“The . . . what?”

Is ‘the snowy land above the surface’ her name for Russia? Then might she have lived underground somewhere?

Ignoring my question, she exclaims, “And you are very much like the Mad Hatter!” Her eyes light up in excitement.

“Who’s the Mad Hatter?”

“A very mean person. He—”

“Then that’s not me.” I interrupt.

“—likes to interrupt Alice in the middle of her sentence. Like you just did!”

“Still not me.”

“But, oh, he has the most amusing of riddles!” she clasps her hands before her chest, glancing to the ceiling. Her lips break into a small smile. “They tend to go . . .” suddenly, she stops speaking and turns to me with a serious expression, “. . . Why are you not eating?”

“What?” I furrow my brows. This whole conversation might have gotten me saying ‘what’ more than all the times before in my life combined.

“I apologize if I take up your time. Please have a piece of bread.” She puts her piece on her lap and tries to reach for another. That catches me by surprise. I pull my hand out.

“Stop. Who said I’m waiting? I’ve eaten a bunch today already. Got sick of it. Just have your share; we’ll leave the rest for the following days.”

“Are you sure? You seem tired.”

I’m exhausted, as a matter of fact. I feel like a seasick person, stuck on a ship that’s been rocked by the waves to no end. My organs are flipping themselves over, and my mind is all over the place.

“I always seem tired. Maybe you should focus less on speculating and more on filling your stomach.”

“Are you annoyed?”

“No.”

She stays silent for a long while, averting her eyes. Great, she thinks I’m annoyed.

After a couple minutes, she peers at me again, but makes no attempt to strike up a conversation. It keeps on for a while. I find it funny. If she wants to talk, talk. Why peer at me until I catch her gaze and initiate the conversation?

“What is it?” I ask. She replies, her voice is low and inquisitive.

“Would you like to talk about the tale of Alice?”

“Yes, but not now. Some other time.”

“Ah. Then you must want to get some sleep. But you must hurry and finish your food. I wish not to murder your time any longer.” She giggles at herself. I don’t have a clue why she was giggling; maybe she made some sort of joke that just flew over my head.

“‘Murder’ my time? That’s an odd way to put it.”

“Oh! I forgot that you did not read Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland! Well then . . .” Her eyes glance around, “Oh. Look at that!” She points to the corner of the room, where all the junk is lumped together into a heap.

“There’s a shit ton of crap there. You have to specify.”

“That cuckoo clock over there has stopped working. It reminds me of the clock in the tea party.”

“What about it?” I don’t even know it’s called a cuckoo clock, much less why it’s in here. Probably one of Smolov’s broken souvenirs. That old man is the most well-traveled man here, after all.

“The Mad Hatter once ‘murdered’ Time and was sentenced to death! This is why the clock there always stops at six o’clock. Time is precious, so I shall not intrude on your time.”

“How can you link a broken clock to the death of time? That’s so silly!”

“If you really think so, why are you smiling?”

“Am I?” I put a hand on the corner of my lip and realize I was actually smiling. Why didn’t I notice it this whole time?

“You wish to learn more of this silly tale of mine, don’t you?” She peers at my face, her expression is a rather satisfied one, as if she’s won something over me.

“What if I do? Will you tell me then?”

“Only if you stop wasting time, finish up eating, and have some rest.”

“All right, all right.”

As I turn to the other side to sleep, I can hear her soft mumbles, “You will keep searching for the ring, will you not?”

“I will.”

“Thank you, Alexei.”

That was the last of our conversation. As I try to lull myself to sleep, my thoughts keep running back to her tale of how time was ‘murdered’. It sounded ridiculous to me, and it still sounds ridiculous right now. However, I can’t help but question if they have a tea party at exactly six o’clock every day in Alice’s world. Funnily enough, that’d make Wonderland much more similar to this ‘snowy land above the surface’.

When the clock strikes at a particular time next morning, we’ll pick up our rifles. And the next morning we’ll do the same. And on the one after that.