Chapter 2. Down the Rabbit Hole

The following morning dawned gray and cloudy. Meg thought Milton looked to little advantage in such weather as its structures and streets appeared leaden and lifeless outside the hotel room window. It was hard to reconcile the beloved town of Gran's childhood with the unlovely reality outside.

Meg was dismayed to find that Gran was ill this morning; she complained of a sore throat and a hacking cough. Meg swiftly dressed and went down to the hotel dining room to order breakfast to be delivered to their room. She was able to cajole a pot of hot water from the maître d'hôtel, with which she made a tisane of herbs and honey to soothe Gran's throat. She mixed in horehound and licorice from the small store of medicinal herbs she always carried with her to help Gran's cough, and stood over her to make sure she drank it rather than dumping the contents into the potted plant on the dressing table. Gran called her a despot, but drank the concoction with little complaint.

After breakfast was delivered and eaten, Meg was alarmed to find that Gran felt feverish and ordered the older woman back to bed. As she tucked the bed covers up about her, Meg muttered, "Lily will have my head if you are ill when we return home. Still, I wonder if we shouldn't return to London today and postpone our trip until some other time."

Gran disagreed so vigorously that she had a coughing spell. When she was able to speak, she protested, "We cannot go home yet-we have only just arrived, besides which I am certain sitting in that drafty train car will do me more harm," she said testily. "Why don't you explore the town this morning while I rest? In all probability, I will feel better this afternoon, and you will have determined if there is anything of interest we should see, beside my old neighborhood."

When Meg protested, Gran insisted, adding, "Perhaps the town apothecary might have something to help me?"

Meg pursed her lips. "Perhaps he might. Oh, very well, I will take a walk, but mind you, you are to remain in bed and rest-and drink the rest of that tisane in an hour or so. I hope to be back by then, and it had best be gone."

Gran mockingly saluted her, and Meg kissed her affectionately on the forehead. She donned her smart new navy coat, her navy hat with the jaunty veil and cherry-colored ribbons, and her kidskin gloves. Blowing Gran a kiss from the doorway, she began her exploration.

As Meg left the hotel and strolled down the quiet streets of Milton, she recalled Gran's stories about this town when it was a bustling, busy hub of industry. In addition to the mills, numerous other manufacturing endeavors had been in full employ in Milton, and the shops had done brisk business when Gran was a girl. Now, the factories were empty and still. Several shops remained open, but most were boarded up, as if the proprietors had slipped away to more prosperous locales, leaving the empty shells of drapers and milliners and dry goods stores behind them. She could find no evidence of an apothecary, and several of the locals informed her that the nearest apothecary was an hour's journey from Milton.

An aura of melancholy lingered over the streets and alleyways, and Meg was sad to think that a town of such former enterprise and energy had been reduced to a shade of itself. The streets were so deserted that Meg's footsteps echoed from the walls and structures, and she felt a sense of eeriness, as if she traveled about a ghost town. She stopped quite often during her walk along the various streets to examine old bills tacked in dusty windows with interest. She read tattered posters pasted to walls that advertised hair tonic, medicine, and other sundry items. She was so deep in thought that she failed to notice that she was being observed.

"Miss!" a sharp voice called out.

Startled, Meg spun about and found herself pinned by the bright gaze of an older woman leaning against a doorway. The woman was swathed in gauzy robes, and a bright shawl fell gracefully from her shoulders. Gold hoops dangled from her ears and her dark curls fell luxuriantly past her shoulders. Bright black eyes gazed curiously at Meg, who wondered if the woman was a gypsy. Gypsies were known to roam about the countryside, not reside in the city.

"Yes?" Meg replied hesitantly.

"Would you like to have your fortune told?" the woman asked, extending her arm to indicate a sign above a shop that read "Spinning and Weaving, Clothilde M." The woman smiled at Meg expectantly.

Meg shook her head quickly. "No, thank you," she responded politely.

"Come, miss, let me read your palm," the woman coaxed. "I will do it for nothing."

Meg smiled and shook her head again, but the woman persisted. "You look as if you are searching for something," she exclaimed. "Perhaps I may be of help. My shop contains many interesting and useful objects. Come in and look about." She headed back into the store from whence she had emerged, beckoning for Meg to follow.

Meg stared at the woman's retreating back, and against her better judgment crossed the street and entered the shop. As she moved through the doorway into the dim interior, Meg allowed her eyes to adjust to the darkness and studied the contents of the shop.

The walls were lined with shelves containing all lengths of wool and flax. Some skeins were dyed bright colors, while others were their natural hue. Herbs and flowers hung from numerous drying racks, and glass vials and bottles containing colorful liquids lined a counter. Several large looms stood along the walls, each with weavings in progress. In the center of the room stood a small, round table upon which sat a crystal ball, a deck of Tarot cards, and a candle. Ornate chairs were positioned about the table in expectation of customers desiring to have their fortunes told.

"Are you Clothilde?" Meg asked as she strolled about the store. She felt as if she had stepped into some outlandish fairy story.

"I am," the woman responded.

"And you tell fortunes as well as spin and weave?" Meg inquired.

Clothilde smiled. "Spinning is my main employment. You could say it is a life's work for me. However, I also make healing salves and potions, and tell fortunes when the opportunity arises."

At first glance, Meg had believed that Clothilde was quite old. Now that she stood closer, Meg saw that her face was smooth and unlined, like a young girl's. Her hair was dark and lustrous, with no gray or white streaks. Only her eyes appeared old and very knowing.

"What sort of potions do you sell?" Meg asked curiously.

"All sorts; my potions have been known to calm a colicky baby, bring a sweet night's sleep, or take away pain," Clothilde explained. She glanced up at Meg slyly. "If you are interested, I could make you a love potion."

Meg shook her head emphatically, exclaiming, "No, thank you, I have no interest in love."

Clothilde arched one eyebrow and looked at Meg skeptically. "You will," she replied succinctly.

Meg snorted and gazed about the shelves at the herbs and oils. Recalling Gran's illness, she asked, "Do you have eucalyptus oil and horehound?"

"Certainly," Clothilde replied promptly, and moved behind the counter to pull several vials from beneath the counter.

Gazing intently at the objects arranged along the countertop, Meg cried out in delight, "Oh, you have homeopathic remedies!"

Clothilde smiled at her. "Are you a practitioner?"

Meg nodded. "I have used them a time or two." She requested arnica, arsenicum album, belladonna, phosphorus, and several other remedies that she frequently used and carried on her person in case they were needed. Clothilde opened various bottles and filled several smaller dropper bottles. Once filled, she shook the bottles, and then labeled and sealed them. "Will that be all, miss?"

"Yes, thank you," Meg replied politely, and proffered several pound notes. Clothilde handed Meg her change and purchases, which Meg put into the net purse she wore about her wrist.

She turned to go, but Clothilde said coaxingly, "Your fortune, miss. Please let me read your palm." She settled herself in the largest chair around the table, and beckoned Meg to take a seat opposite her own.

Sighing resignedly, Meg settled herself in the chair indicated. The fortune teller held out her hand, and Meg held out her hand. "Give me your left palm, please," Clothilde demanded. "That is the fortune with which you are born."

Meg held out her left palm, and Clothilde grasped it firmly and pulled it toward the candlelight. After a brief glance, she smiled in satisfaction and murmured, "As I suspected, you are not where you belong, but that will soon change." She moved her forefinger over Meg's palm and studied its contours, tracing the lines with a light touch.

When she finished her perusal, Clothilde pinned Meg with her gaze. "You face a journey of danger and importance. You must make right what has gone wrong. It is your destiny to alter the outcome." She looked at Meg's hand once more and pointed to a particular line around the pad of her thumb. Her next words chilled Meg. "It is on your head to prevent his death-you must intervene before the first stone is thrown. Remember that more than one life depends upon your actions."

Meg opened her mouth, but the fortune teller silenced her with a glance, and peered once again at Meg's hand. "You cannot escape your destiny, much as you might wish. You will recognize your heart's desire only when you embrace that destiny," she said carefully. "Lead with your heart, not with your head. The dark man will show you the way." She released Meg's hand and stood up abruptly.

Meg stared open mouthed at the woman. "What do you mean it is on my head to prevent his death? Of whose death do you speak?"

Clothilde left her seat and, urging Meg from her chair, firmly escorted the sputtering girl out of the shop door and into the street. Clothilde refused to respond to her questions, but gestured toward the older industrial area of town. "If you seek answers, you had best begin at Marlborough Mills." With these brief words, she closed and locked the door in Meg's face and melted into the shadows of the shop.

Meg stared at the door in disbelief. Marlborough Mills was where the master had been killed in that tragic story Gran had told her. Was that the death of which the fortune teller spoke?

Meg shook her head as if to dispel the woman's words, and resisted the urge to visit the mill. She stubbornly determined that she would ignore Clothilde's advice, and instead would return to the hotel to see how Gran fared.

An hour later, after making numerous wrong turns and backtracking several times, Meg realized that she was lost. Stopping to get her bearings, she set off in the direction from which she believed that she had come. The cobblestones of the street were ill-kempt, and many were loose so that walking was difficult, especially in the fashionable high-heeled half boots that Meg wore. She nearly turned her ankle twice by the time she reached the end of the street. Stopping to rest for a moment, Meg spotted the dilapidated gates of what appeared to be a factory across from her.

Meg moved closer to the gates until she could decipher the lettering on a tarnished sign, which read Marlborough Mills. A chill of discovery raced through her as she gazed at the gates of the mill where that long-ago riot had occurred, and where the fortune teller had told her to go to find answers. Meg thought fleetingly that it was getting late and she should return to the hotel and check on Gran's condition, but her curiosity overcame her caution and she moved toward the gates.

As she attempted to peer into the courtyard, she leaned heavily on one of the gates that hung askew from its rusted hinges. It tottered and crashed to the ground. Meg cautiously stepped around the fallen gate and entered the mill yard. She walked along the uneven cobblestones until she stood at the center of the empty yard, which was choked with weeds and filled with rubbish. What had once been a thriving, prosperous mill was now an eerie wasteland. The only sounds to be heard were Meg's echoing footsteps and the wind that whistled about the corners of the buildings.

A large, gloomy house loomed in front of her, and off to the side, several factory buildings sat, dark and silent. Meg walked slowly toward the factory, and pushed a large door open. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she spied what appeared to be an office tucked away at the end of a corridor. Frosted glass panes were grimed with dirt, but some line shone through from the interior windows. She moved toward the office and pushed the door open.

A large desk scattered with papers and covered in dust stood in the center of the room. A smaller scribe's desk was pushed against a wall, and an empty coat rack stood in the corner. The walls were lined with book shelves full of ledgers and large, musty books. Meg moved about the desk and examined a stack of yellowing papers that appeared to consist of letters and notes containing columns of numbers. Several receipts were stacked neatly, and a pen lay across a sheet of paper, as if the writer had been suddenly called away. The ink pot was crusted dry.

Meg leafed through several stacks of paper, hoping to find some clue to help her determine why the fortuneteller had sent her here. Idly opening the drawers of the desk, she discovered a pair of men's leather gloves. She picked them up and examined them. The gloves were supple, as if they had recently been purchased. They were of good quality, though not the best she had seen. Meg wondered how they had come to be in the deserted office. Because the office was cold, she slipped the gloves upon her hands. They were much too big for her, but warmed her skin against the chill of the November morning.

This mill was a sad and lonely place, Meg thought, a place touched by tragedy from which it had never recovered. Moving uneasily away from the desk, Meg spotted a large and ornate looking glass hanging on the wall. Stepping up to the mirror, she peered at her reflection. What she saw gave her pause.

Her face peered back at her, but the context was totally different. The Meg in the mirror was dressed in a drab brown coat and a patterned scarf. She wore an unfashionable and astonishingly ugly broad-brimmed hat upon her head, and delicate gold hoops in her ears. Her hair was twisted and pinned up, and her face held an expression of irritation and discontent, as if she had been thwarted.

Meg lifted a gloved hand to her face and saw with disquiet that her reflection was gloveless. Moving closer, she noticed a small crack running horizontally across the bottom of the glass, as though the mirror had been dropped or sustained a blow that marred but did not shatter it.

Meg felt compelled to touch the crack; the impulse was too strong. She gingerly placed her finger along the crack and was shocked to feel her finger move through the mirror's surface as if it were shallow water. She tried to snatch her finger back, but it was held in a viselike grip. She heard a rushing noise like a ferocious wind, and closed her eyes against the blinding light that shone through the widening crack in the looking glass. To her amazement, she felt herself being pulled toward and then through the mirror. She felt squeezed and compacted as she struggled through the crack in the glass, and felt the rough edges of the glass rip her skin and clothing. The pain was exquisite.

After what seemed an eternity, she stood in the mill office once more, dizzy and disoriented. Fighting the blackness that threatened to overcome her, she staggered toward the desk. Her legs felt like water, and her head was on fire. Before she slumped to the floor, she saw an open ledger on the desk. It was dated November 15, 1855.

**********

Meg blinked and opened her eyes, gazing up at the rough timbers of a ceiling. It took a moment before the memory of what had happened rushed back to her. She had no idea how much time had passed. Sitting up gingerly, she felt the room normalize and her equilibrium return. As she sat quietly and took several deep breaths, it dawned upon her that the office was no longer dusty or forsaken. Remembering the pain she felt as she came through the mirror, she examined her person and was surprised to find she had sustained no visible cuts or scratches. She stood up slowly and examined the office carefully.

While it was still messy, the desk showed signs of organization. Piles of ledgers and paperwork were stacked on the desk's surface, and the cobwebs and debris were gone. The last thing she remembered was-the date!

She pulled the open ledger toward her, and saw with cold disbelief that it was indeed dated November 15, 1855. Was she dreaming?

She shook her head to clear her befuddlement-it had to be a ledger from years before. However, if that were the case, why did the writing look so recent and why were the pages so crisp?

She turned to glance out the window, and saw with astonishment that the previously deserted courtyard teemed with activity. It was filled with carts that were piled with large, unwieldy bundles. Men rushed back and forth, helter-skelter, jostling each other as they tugged at horses' bridles, or pushed wheelbarrows. Meg noted that everyone wore a style of clothing long out of date, and the men looked rough and hard bitten. The formerly quiet smokestacks sent up great clouds of smoke and soot, and where silence had previously reigned, she could hear the clatter of machinery.

She looked down dazedly, and noticed that she no longer wore her fashionable navy coat and walking suit. She raised a hand to her head and found her pert hat with the veil was gone, as were her smart kidskin gloves. Instead, she wore a drab brown serge gown with hoop skirts and stacks of petticoats that frothed about her ankles.

Meg approached the mirror, fearful of what she might see. She gazed into the looking glass...and saw herself in the old-fashioned garments she had seen reflected earlier. Her features were the same, but her hair appeared much longer, and was pinned up on the back of her head. She wore the hat, the coat, the scarf, all of the garments that she had studied in her reflection. Her face was pinched and white with fear.

An unnatural calm fell over her, and the sense that she must be dreaming steadied her. I have not gone back in time, she thought over and over in a protective mantra.

With sudden resolve, she left the confines of the office and walked along a long, wide corridor where the noise of machinery became louder.

Following the din, Meg walked slowly down the hall, trying not to trip over her long skirts. Workers pushed past her, paying little attention to the stranger in their midst. She approached a large door and pressed her ear to it. The sound within was deafening, a combination of gears and pulleys that created a mechanical concerto. Grasping the handle of a large door, she swung it aside and gaped in amazement.