Chapter 4 {Alice}

I stand before the looming metal doors of the prison, four guards standing steady like the trees in my way. My umbrella is hooked on my arm, matching my blue raincoat perfectly. In my hands is the most deceiving, treacherous tool known to man: a tray of my famous gingersnaps. Well, really they're my grandmother's recipe, but I added some cinnamon for an extra kick. She scorns all spices (including sugar), labeling them "vulgar, overpowering, and unfitting to the delicate world we live in." Thus, all of her baked goods are often tasteless and unappetizing, despite what people will tell her to get into her good graces. Not to be presumptuous, but my gingersnaps are some of the finest in all of London. I spot the guards eyeing the stacks of cookies perched on individual doilies; their rich and warm color, cracked surfaces dusted with expensive powdered sugar. I assume that they haven't had a meal break in ages, for I can practically see their mouths watering.

"Good evening, gentlemen. Truly dreadful weather, isn't it?" I say cordially, looking up from under the rim of my large and gaudy hat.

"I'm here to visit an acquaintance of mine. Would you mind escorting me there?"

"And what does a young thing like you want with a felon?" one of the bearded guards chuckles.

"Shouldn't you be getting your beauty sleep at this hour?"

I laugh politely, even though his remark wasn't amusing in the slightest.

"Well, yes, I suppose so, but this really is an urgent matter. I would like to see someone admitted recently, in the last day or so. She's a girl about my age who wears a red scarf. Have you seen her?"

The guards, as thick as they are, all nod eerily simultaneously.

"Yup, she's a real feisty one," one of the beefier guards tells me, chuckling. "In cell number 206."

"Brilliant," I say, smiling politely. "Would one of you care to take me there?"

"Can't do that, missy," another guard says, shrugging.

"This establishment closed half an hour ago. You're too late!"

I smile to cover my irritation, arranging my face so it appears naive.

"Surely you could make an exception for Lady Poppington," I say convincingly.

All of their faces simultaneously transform to that of utter horror as I wield my family title like a weapon.

"After all, I do believe that my grandmother gave a sizeable donation to all government officials just last week, including yourselves. "

"We're dreadfully sorry, Lady Poppington!" The bearded one apologizes hurriedly, head dropping to a slight bow. The others follow suit.

"We weren't sure of who you were. Please forgive us, m'lady, and be sure to send your lovely grandmother our regards!"

I smile warmly.

"But of course!" I lie. "Now here," I add, thrusting the cookies at them. "Enjoy!"

They each grab a pile of gingersnaps and stuff them into their mouths, crumbs flying everywhere. They all grimace as they swallow, then force smiles.

��Delicious!" one remarks, pain in his eyes, and as I turn away I hear him whisper, "I think I broke a tooth!"

Sigh. They don't appreciate my baking skills.

"Well, who's escorting me?" I say impatiently, tapping my heeled foot impatiently exactly as I've seen my grandmother does.

One guard steps forward and guiltily leads me down a dark hallway. The silver tray trembles slightly in my hands as I realize this is my first time in a prison. After all, why would a high-society girl such as myself ever be seen in such a place? After what seems like ages we reach a fork in the hall which branches off into several barred cells.

"I can find my way from here," I say, voice smaller than it should be.

"Are you sure you'll be alright here on your own, miss?" he says, looking me in the eye. "These culprits can get a little rough." As he says this, I spot a glimmer from a ring of keys that are peeping out from his pocket.

"I'll be alright," I say confidently, raising my voice.

Thinking quickly, I move my leg back and effortlessly sweep into a gracious curtsey.

"Thank you for all you've done for me, kind sir," I say politely.

Oh, how proud grandmother would have been!

"It's no trouble at all, miss," he replies customarily and, just as I expected, dips his head in acknowledgement.

In that split second where his head is bent, I quickly loop my gloved pinky finger around the silver key ring in his pocket and pull it back to the folds of my dress, muffling their jingle with a ladylike cough.

"Alright, then. Have a nice night, sir! This will only be a moment," I say, slightly out of breath and smiling uncontrollably from my first miniscule devious plight.

I wave off his retreating back, can't believing my own luck. Now, I realize, comes the hard part. I can't bake awful cookies to swindle my way out of this, the way girls my class have been raised to. I walk down the dismal, dank stone hall, three orange, ominous lamps on the walls the only source of light. I look straight forward, blocking my senses and trying to ignore the ghastly grunts and soft banter emanating from the cells. All I center in on is the sloppily painted white numbers on the thick cell doors; I pass 170, 190, 195, 200, and finally my destination. The keys tremble slightly in my gloved hands, now lightly dusted with dust and grime, as I raise them up to the door and turn them in the keyhole, delicately at first but then rather aggressively as I find the metal door is jammed. As I hear the telltale sound of the door opening (I've listened at enough doors in my youth to be an expert), I realize that it probably would have been far more polite to knock first, just to announce my entrance. Then I realize that now is not the time to be wondering about etiquette, especially not with a criminal. I slide open the rusted door and am greeted by dark, the only light coming from the right hand corner of the room.

"And who could that be, at this hour?" I hear, a full, raspy from thirst voice echoing from the corner of light. "Surely not Sir William Rogerson, back for another round of fighting?"

My depth perception thrown off, I take slow steps so as not to walk into a wall.

"Actually," I say, my voice sounding small yet again, "it's the girl you tipped over in a carriage."

I'm close enough that the light shines directly into my face, and I lift up my arm to shield my eyes. When I put it back down, I see the same girl from before staring at me with unblinking, fiery eyes.

"What are you doing here?" she whispers, not necessarily angry but more intrigued at my daring.

To be fair, this is rather out of character for me. Can she tell this about me, just from seeing me once in my life?

"I'm breaking you out," I say, smiling nervously.