The Looking Glass House by Vanessa Tait Page B

an illustration of a sleepwalker. They were stained, or dirty, Mary saw straight away. Had he been digging with them? They were not uniformly black, but darker on the palms. Splotched. Like Alice’s copybook.
    How had she not noticed before? But – perhaps he always wore gloves. Yes, perhaps he did, though she hadn’t thought it strange at the time.
    Mary saw Mr Dodgson take in the nobleman, the teacups half empty, Alice and Ina in their best dresses pressed in on him on either side.
    The colour in his cheeks spread up to his forehead and down towards his neck. He passed a hand over his face. He looked back at Mrs Liddell, his mouth a disbelieving smile.
    Lord Newry took a final bite of fruit cake. Not for him the possibility of crumbs, of too much or too little saliva, or gum-sticking mulch. Just one small bite, masticated neatly beneath a quivering moustache.
    ‘Oh look, it is Mr Dodgson. Hullo, Mr Dodgson!’ said Alice.
    Mr Dodgson’s face changed again. He bowed and then turned his palms up in a gesture of surrender. ‘I am afa-afa-afraid .  .  . I didn’t think to meet anyone today. I left off my gloves.’
    ‘Oh, Mr Dodgson! Are you in the broom cupboard again?’ said Mrs Liddell, drawing out the word broom into two rising syllables. ‘You must be more in the Deanery than in your own rooms.’
    ‘I have been atta-atta-attempting a view out of the garden,’ he said, dropping his hands back down to his sides and pressing his palms on to the outside of his legs.
    ‘That’s why they call it the dark art,’ said Lord Newry. ‘I never put it together before now.’
    ‘Why do they call it what?’ said Alice.
    ‘Photography. Because of the chemicals. They stain.’
    An undergraduate shouted somewhere in the quadrangle, his voice neutralized through the sandstone walls.
    ‘You know Lord Newry,’ said Mrs Liddell.
    ‘Yes, Lord Newry. Good afternoon.’ Mr Dodgson stood unevenly, one shoulder higher than the other. ‘I think you were up for a lecture of mine once.’
    ‘Possibly.’ Lord Newry hadn’t moved; his hands were still behind his head, though Mary saw his lips twitch. ‘Did I go?’
    ‘No.’
    Mrs Liddell smiled.
    Mr Dodgson pressed his lips together; he looked fussy. Mary wondered if he meant to or if it was something he could not help. She had noticed this primness about him before. He was fastidious in matters of dress – his own and even the children’s. It was not unknown for him to kneel down by Alice and rub off a piece of dirt on her collar with his thumb.
    ‘Before I go .  .  . I did mean to ask. This may not be the best time, only I did promise.’
    ‘Promise what?’ Mrs Liddell rattled her teacup into its saucer.
    ‘I met the Acland children on the way here. I wondered, if you were agreeable, if I may take their photograph along with your own children at the Deanery. Would you allow it?’
    Mrs Liddell’s smile reminded Mary of the head of the tiger-skin rug in the drawing room, its teeth bared. ‘Oh, Mr Dodgson, I am flattered that you wish to spend so much of your time in photographing my children when you are so busy, not to mention the considerable expense of meeting the cost of chemi­cals and so on.’
    Mr Dodgson bowed and turned to go. He had taken her answer as a yes, Mary saw. But Mrs Liddell glanced at Lord Newry and added: ‘I think I saw you out of doors last night. It must have been around nine o’clock.’
    Mr Dodgson turned round again. ‘I like to walk; the evening air refreshes me.’
    ‘Yes, the evening air refreshes me too. I always think the occasional late night does wonders for one’s health. Do you agree, Lord Newry?’
    Lord Newry smirked. ‘Quite, Mrs Liddell.’
    ‘What do you think, Mr Dodgson?’
    Mr Dodgson’s eyes were fixed on the flagstones. ‘It might depend on what it, on what it en-en-en-en, on what it en-tailed.’ He brought out the word with a stamp of his tongue on the T.
    ‘Precisely. It would depend on what it