“That doesn’t sound like something the Hatter wants us to inspect.” I rub my chin, disappointed.

An imaginary bomb is ticking in the back of my head. The sight of a blown-out rabbit drives me crazy. Who would do such a thing?

“Wait,” the Pillar says. “The statue is erected upon a fountain, which is called Shaftesbury Memorial Fountain. It commemorates the philanthropic works of Lord Shaftesbury, a famous Victorian politician.”

“Victorian?” I say. “You mean he lived in Lewis Carroll’s time?”

“True.” The Pillar’s eyes glitter. “Lord Shaftesbury was also very interested in children, like Lewis. He was one of the first people who argued with Parliament that children shouldn’t be working so many hours like they did back then.”

“And?” I am excited we might be closing in on the next clue.

“And nothing.” The Pillar pouts again. “All similarities stop here. I told you, this statue can’t be the clue.” He glances at his pocket watch. “It’s 9:10. That’s so Jub Jub.”

“Why send us to such a crowded place?” I look down at the circus, wishing I could see a man with a huge hat and teacups. I remember seeing such a man in the Fat Duck restaurant, where Sir Elton John was playing. “Could the Cheshire be involved in this again?”

“Nah,” the Pillar says. “This is... I don't know... different.”

“How are we supposed to find more clues here?” I mumble. “This all seems too out there.” Then it strikes me. I hope I’m not too late. “Unless...!”

“Unless what?” He looks defeated, angry he can’t solve the puzzle.

“Unless the Hatter has no intentions of letting us stop the bomb,” I say. “What if he is like the Muffin Man? Maybe we’re here to witness something.”

The Pillar cuts me off. “Are you saying we’ve been led here to die in the bombing?”

Chapter 7

Queen's Garden, Buckingham Palace, London,

9:08 a.m.

“Off with its head!” The Queen of England moaned at her flamingo, the one that was choking in the chubby grip of her hands.

This was the third time she’d ordered a flamingo’s head chopped off today, and she was starting to lose her patience.

The Queen was fond of using her flamingos instead of mallets in her favorite game, croquet. She’d flip the flamingo upside down and swing it against the ball with a flat grin on her face.

But in this new world, nothing worked the Queen’s way—the Wonderland way.

“What seems to be upsetting you, My Queen?” Margaret Kent, the Duchess, asked, hands politely behind her back while admiring her queen kicking balls.

“Those flamingos are of no use to me.” The Queen huffed. “Whenever I swing and am about to hit the ball, the stupid bird flips its head up to avoid the hit. This is nonsense!” She stamped her feet, which made her whole body boing, since she was noticeably short.

Margaret Kent took a moment before saying anything. In truth, this wasn’t nonsense. Being able to hit a ball with a flamingo’s head, like in Wonderland, that was nonsense. But how could she persuade someone used to nonsense that what actually made sense was only nonsense to them? Margaret Kent winced at the last thought. It was mind-boggling.

“The flamingos in this world are just animals,” Margaret explained. “They will instinctually pull their head back when it’s about to hit the ball. It’s the normal thing to do.”

“Is it normal to disobey the Queen in the this world?” The Queen pouted like a spoiled six-year-old.

“Of course not, My Queen,” Margaret said. “It’s just that we’re not in Wonderland anymore.”

“You make it sound like we’re aliens who landed on earth.”

Margaret didn’t comment, but it was a plausible metaphor. Wonderlanders suffered in this world. The real world’s nonsense was certainly different from Wonderland’s nonsense. Not all nonsense was actually nonsense. “Would you like me to order you real mallets instead, My Queen?”

“What’s the fun in that?” the Queen said, holding her poor and scared flamingo upside down. “I want you to find a way to convince the flamingo to not flip its head so I can hit the ball with its head.”

“Hmm...” Margaret sighed. “I don’t know how to do that, My Queen.”

“Find a way!” The Queen stamped her feet again. “Bribe it!”

“How?” Margaret was sincere about it. How do you bribe a flamingo? Give it money? What would it do with it? No sane flamingo would agree to its own death, even in an insane world.

“Then bring all the toilet paper you can find; wrap it around its neck so it can’t flip its head,” the Queen shouted.

“Okay?” Margaret squinted hesitantly.

“Or even better, I have another idea.”

“Which is?”

“Off with its head!” She waved the flamingo at her guard to take care of the bird.

But the Queen’s guards, wearing their bearskin caps and scarlet tunics with the dark blue collars, failed to execute the bird. Whenever they were about to chop its head, the sneaky flamingo pulled it back again, and the guard only sliced thin air.

“What’s wrong with this flamingo?” the Queen said. “It doesn’t want to hit the ball with its head, and it doesn’t want to die.”

“It’s—” Margaret bowed, wanting to comfort her.

“Shhh.” The Queen raised a forefinger in the air. “I’m thinking, Margaret. Don’t interrupt my genius thinking.”

“But of course, My Queen.” In truth, Margaret worried whenever the Queen started thinking.

“I finally know what’s wrong with this flamingo.” The Queen snapped her fingers.

“Enlighten me, please, My Queen.”

“It needs a psychiatrist,” the Queen whispered, eyes bulging with the revelation.

“A psychiatrist?”

“Yes. Yes.” The Queen shook her head, snickering along. “The flamingo is insane. It needs therapy—like every disobeying citizen. Then it will just follow my orders the way I want. Guards!” She turned and clapped the fatty hands. “Send this flamingo to the Radcliffe Lunatic Asylum!”

The Queen’s guards did. Immediately.

They took the poor bird, wrapped it in a straitjacket—the Queen had a lot of those scattered all over the palace, but no one really knew why—and then caged the flamingo in the back of an ambulance.

“I hope you’re satisfied now.” Margaret watched the guards leave the croquet field.

“I’m a queen, Margaret. I’m never satisfied. But I feel better.” She inhaled the foggy air with closed eyes.

“Can I talk to you about the Event, now?” Margaret said, as she had wanted to bring it up all day.

“Ah.” The Queen waved a hand in the air. “That event! I bet it’s going to be marvelous. Have you invited everyone on my list?”

“Yes.” Margaret nodded obediently.

“Each and every one of them?”

“From all lands in the world, all ethnicities and tribes,” Margaret said. “The creme de la creme of the world’s most important people are hours away from arriving.”

The Queen smirked, looking at her reflection in the mirror. At first, she was shocked by her image, then she pretended it was the most beautiful in the world. “It’s time for the greatest event in the twentieth century to take place.”

“It’s the twenty-first century, My Queen,” Margaret corrected her.

“Who said that?” the Queen said in anger.

Margaret didn’t know how to answer that. How could she reason that a fact was, in fact, a fact?

“Doesn’t matter.” The Queen relaxed again. “Once the Event takes place, and I convince the world with my plan, I can pretty much do what I want with the world, even if I want to change history and time itself—and, of course, every damn flamingo will obey me without a question.”

Chapter 8

Top of a building, Piccadilly Circus, London,

9:21 a.m.