did in the nursery surrounded by females. That the two—men and women—were different, of course, I was aware. Never did I feel, however, that one was more or less dangerous than the other.
“Miss Alice!” Mr. Dodgson was standing in front of me; I hadn’t noticed his approach. He raised his black silk hat. “How is your mother?”
“Having a tea party, I suppose,” I replied. “She and the ladies Dr. Acland brought with him. The baby should be here directly.”
“Oh.” Mr. Dodgson looked at me, a peculiar expression on his face, as if he was deciding whether or not to laugh. After a minute he simply nodded.
“Pricks and Ina are busy in the nursery, so they told me to go without them,” I lied; once more, I wondered why I did so. My thoughts simply would not behave this afternoon!
“I supposed they might be busy today,” Mr. Dodgson said. Surprised, I glanced up at him; was that why this was the Perfect Day—because he knew Pricks and Ina couldn’t accompany us? (Edith I had left in the nursery, playing happily with her dolls.)
“What is it? What’s the surprise?” I couldn’t stop myself from jumping up and down; I’d waited so long—months, even! Months during which Mr. Dodgson had gone on holiday, although we hadn’t, not this year; usually we summered in Wales, where Papa was going to build us a house. This year, Mamma was too tired to travel; she said the train was too bouncy. So I’d passed the summer at home in Oxford; such a quiet, lazy place during the holidays. Unlike during the school terms, when there was always a constant, catching buzz in the very air.
Even as I was prancing about, I was dismayed to see that in one hand Mr. Dodgson was carrying his camera, folded neatly in its wooden box; with the other, he held his tripod over his shoulder.
“That’s the surprise?” My heart sank as I stopped in my tracks. Another photograph? That was what the Perfect Day had meant?
“Y-yes and no. Yes, I’d like to take your photograph, please. But this is going to be different. How would you like to walk on the grass in your bare feet?”
“Without my shoes?” I looked up at him, unable to believe what I’d heard. Walking—perhaps even running—on grass, simply feeling it against my bare skin, no fussy, confining layers of clothing or stiff shoes between me and the earth? It was one of my fondest desires, and I’d never, ever told Mr. Dodgson. Somehow he’d known anyway; his blue eyes, one slightly higher than the other, gazing down at me intently as if I were the answer to a question he could not bring himself to ask, told me so. He’d known, he knew , so very much about me.
“Without your shoes, just like a wild gypsy. Would you like to be a gypsy today, Alice?”
“That’s what you meant in your note, about being someone else?”
“Of course.”
“Oh, it sounds tremendous! Shall I take my shoes off now?” I desired so very much to please him; he looked at me wistfully, as if he was already imagining the gypsy me. Smiling, he set the camera down, bent slightly, in that stiff way of his, and stroked my cheek. His gloved hand was soft as the blanket I had placed, just this morning, in the new baby’s bed.
“Not now.” He jerked his hand away from me and looked over his shoulder, as if he feared someone was watching. “Let’s go to the far corner of the garden. I’ve already brought my tent and case there—the light’s perfect.” I was no longer in his thoughts; now he was concerned with the photograph—would the light be favorable, the wind too strong, the chemicals spoiled, and the glass plates cracked? So many things could go wrong, I knew. I grew very anxious, thinking of them all.
“Do you think it will turn out right?” I proceeded to follow him through the arch that led round to the back of the house, to our private garden. Tripping on an uneven stone in the walk, I scuffed the toe of my shoe; my heart sank—already, I was dirty.
“Most likely.
“Miss Alice!” Mr. Dodgson was standing in front of me; I hadn’t noticed his approach. He raised his black silk hat. “How is your mother?”
“Having a tea party, I suppose,” I replied. “She and the ladies Dr. Acland brought with him. The baby should be here directly.”
“Oh.” Mr. Dodgson looked at me, a peculiar expression on his face, as if he was deciding whether or not to laugh. After a minute he simply nodded.
“Pricks and Ina are busy in the nursery, so they told me to go without them,” I lied; once more, I wondered why I did so. My thoughts simply would not behave this afternoon!
“I supposed they might be busy today,” Mr. Dodgson said. Surprised, I glanced up at him; was that why this was the Perfect Day—because he knew Pricks and Ina couldn’t accompany us? (Edith I had left in the nursery, playing happily with her dolls.)
“What is it? What’s the surprise?” I couldn’t stop myself from jumping up and down; I’d waited so long—months, even! Months during which Mr. Dodgson had gone on holiday, although we hadn’t, not this year; usually we summered in Wales, where Papa was going to build us a house. This year, Mamma was too tired to travel; she said the train was too bouncy. So I’d passed the summer at home in Oxford; such a quiet, lazy place during the holidays. Unlike during the school terms, when there was always a constant, catching buzz in the very air.
Even as I was prancing about, I was dismayed to see that in one hand Mr. Dodgson was carrying his camera, folded neatly in its wooden box; with the other, he held his tripod over his shoulder.
“That’s the surprise?” My heart sank as I stopped in my tracks. Another photograph? That was what the Perfect Day had meant?
“Y-yes and no. Yes, I’d like to take your photograph, please. But this is going to be different. How would you like to walk on the grass in your bare feet?”
“Without my shoes?” I looked up at him, unable to believe what I’d heard. Walking—perhaps even running—on grass, simply feeling it against my bare skin, no fussy, confining layers of clothing or stiff shoes between me and the earth? It was one of my fondest desires, and I’d never, ever told Mr. Dodgson. Somehow he’d known anyway; his blue eyes, one slightly higher than the other, gazing down at me intently as if I were the answer to a question he could not bring himself to ask, told me so. He’d known, he knew , so very much about me.
“Without your shoes, just like a wild gypsy. Would you like to be a gypsy today, Alice?”
“That’s what you meant in your note, about being someone else?”
“Of course.”
“Oh, it sounds tremendous! Shall I take my shoes off now?” I desired so very much to please him; he looked at me wistfully, as if he was already imagining the gypsy me. Smiling, he set the camera down, bent slightly, in that stiff way of his, and stroked my cheek. His gloved hand was soft as the blanket I had placed, just this morning, in the new baby’s bed.
“Not now.” He jerked his hand away from me and looked over his shoulder, as if he feared someone was watching. “Let’s go to the far corner of the garden. I’ve already brought my tent and case there—the light’s perfect.” I was no longer in his thoughts; now he was concerned with the photograph—would the light be favorable, the wind too strong, the chemicals spoiled, and the glass plates cracked? So many things could go wrong, I knew. I grew very anxious, thinking of them all.
“Do you think it will turn out right?” I proceeded to follow him through the arch that led round to the back of the house, to our private garden. Tripping on an uneven stone in the walk, I scuffed the toe of my shoe; my heart sank—already, I was dirty.
“Most likely.
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