setting the stage
"Oof," came the short burst of sound as Mirren set the box down in the middle of his living room. He looked at it for a long minute, then sighed and flopped down on the couch, leaning back as he stared up at the ceiling. He'd known that his uncle was dead through the family grapevine, but hadn't expected to have to go through the motions of recieving any sort of inheritance from the man. He sighed, rolling his head against the thick rope of hair braided at his neck, and then slowly sat up again, to look through the box. It wasn't a large box, really. On the whole, he suspected that it had been purchased by the attorney at some point to be used as a file box. But it served its purpose now as a container for his inheritance, and he was glad it wasn't any larger. Dark hands reached down into the box, hauling away three velvet drawstring bags to drop them on the couch. They were heavy, rolling down the cushion to nestle against the corner, and they thudded when they landed together, rather like balls of heavy glass. Mirren ignored them, digging deeper, past a photo album which featured not a single picture of anyone he recognized, and paused at a large wooden box with many individual compartments. The wood wasn't cheap, and patterns were inlaid over the front in lighter and darker woods, leaving swirls and circles that tricked the eyes away from the fact that it held anything at all. "Hmm," he said softly, fingers tracing one of the whorls. "This could prove useful." Lifting it revealed an old book, hard-bound and timeworn, but otherwise pristine.
Mirren set the ingredients box aside, then reached into the cardboard container to lift free the book, staring in surprise at it. "Alice in Wonderland, hmm?" he whispered, fingers reaching up to trace the stamped words and feel the way they inset into the stiff cover. The pages, he saw, were edged in gold leaf, and he traced them with his finger, dragging it through the dust on them. As he turned the book to better examine it, a small charm, unnoticed until now, slipped off the cover. Mirren glanced down at it, but as it hit cardboard, he could feel the magic fizzle out of it. Whatever it had been, it was broken now, the magic so old with time that it had become fragile without his noticing. Mirren shrugged, ignoring it for now as he turned his attention back to the book. He lifted the cover slowly, enjoying the weighty feel of it. This... this was a well-made book, crafted by some of the best bookbinders of their day.
One page lifted, then another, to reveal a black and white picture and the title. "Didn't know you went in for kid stories," he muttered to himself, as he continued turning the pages. Words leapt out to him, long since forgotten in the shadows of his childhood but now remembered. Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, 'and what is the use of a book,' thought Alice 'without pictures or conversation?' He leaned back against the couch, reading a bit longer. There was something about the book, something that invited the owner to read it, to enjoy it. But he didn't get farther than half a page before his attention was caught by the phone.
Sighing, he closed the book, setting it down on the cushion next to him on its spine as he reached for the phone. The covers fell open, the pages wavering before they fluttered down as well, leaving the book open in the middle. But Mirren's attention had been pulled away, and he got up, pacing to the small bedroom he'd claimed as his office in the apartment. He took no more notice of the text right then, though the first line on the next page might've told him that somehow, it had unerringly opened to his favorite chapter of all.
There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it, and the talking over its head.
