The Looking Glass House by Vanessa Tait Page A

bring it up.’
    Mary took the plate and balanced it on the cushion next to her. The cake tipped on to its side, the leading edge hanging over the plate. He had not provided a fork and it was too big to pick up whole. She broke off a bottom section, the sticky yellow icing clinging to her fingers. The clods of it stuck in her throat. He was watching her eat. Mary smiled, unconvincingly. She hated to be watched while she was masticating. She had caught a glimpse once of herself at the dinner table. The bones in her jaw could be clearly seen as they hinged and slid. ‘Very nice, thank you,’ she said.
    At last, he went. Ina was fondling a clockwork bear.
    No choice but to lick her fingertips clean; she could not see a napkin. Though even after she had used her tongue, a residue of sugar remained. She stuck her hand flat under her dress. He would not notice a smear on his sofa, what with everything else in the room.
    The shelf nearest her held a microscope housed in a mahogany travelling case marked cld glass with care, a telescope, a pair of field glasses, what looked like a human skull, a modified typewriter, a number of musical boxes and a collec­tion of watches. On the lowest shelf was something that looked like a silver pen, only it had no nib, and both ends were splayed.
    Mr Dodgson had returned. ‘I see you are looking at my Ammoniaphone, Miss Prickett. The air inside it is supposed to resemble the soft, balmy atmosphere of the Italian peninsula. I believe its inventor analysed the air there and found a quantity of ammonia and peroxide of hydrogen unique to the area. It is supposed to produce a melodious and rich voice, much like the Italian voice, I suppose. Would you like to try it?’
    ‘Oh no, I have never been to Italy!’
    ‘You will not need to, if the claims for this are to be believed.’ He came towards her. ‘Press the end valves and place your lips tightly over the entrance.’
    He could not be coming to put it between her lips. Mary smiled to try to signify that it was normal, this coming towards her, this insertion of an Ammoniaphone in her mouth, but at the last moment Mr Dodgson allowed her to reach for the thing herself and guide it between her teeth, only the sides of their smallest fingers brushing each other.
    Mary felt, but did not admit to herself until later, a small shrink of disappointment.
    ‘Breathe in, slowly but deeply.’
    Mary breathed in as she was told, fastening her eyes on the ruched black buttons that punctuated his sofa. Mr Wilton would like the material: practical, without being cheap. The Ammoniaphone tasted of peppermint and something else sharper – ammonia, she supposed. As she inhaled, a popular song drifted into her mind:
    I’ve found a friend, oh, such a friend!
    He loved me ere I knew Him;
    He drew me with the cords of love,
    And thus He bound me to Him.
    ‘There now – speak to me, let me hear if you are improved.’
    ‘What shall I say?’ asked Mary.
    ‘Ah, you see, it has done not a whit of good; you sound just the same as you did before. I knew it! I shall send it back to its maker at once.’
    She must think of something clever to say. But nothing came. ‘What should I sound like?’
    ‘You should sound just exactly as you do, Miss Prickett.’
    Mary blushed. She still felt his eyes on her. She turned her head away.
    ‘I had hoped it would help me in the speaking of my sermon next Sunday, but now I do not hold out much hope.’
    She turned to look at him again. His face was so smooth, so different from Mr Wilton’s. So untroubled by hair.
    ‘I should hate to have an attack,’ he said.
    ‘An attack?’
    ‘Of my affliction. My hesitation.’ He sat down beside her, quite close. He was still smiling, but now it seemed to Mary that she saw behind to the sadness that lay there.
    She said impulsively: ‘Perhaps the Holy Spirit could help you.’
    ‘I pray to the Holy Spirit every night. Alas, my hesitation is still with me.’
    ‘I mean tongues.