Alice and the Winter Wonderland.
Alice had not meant to follow the White Rabbit again.
She had promised herself, after the trial of the Knave of Hearts, after the croquet madness and the endless tea party, that she would stay firmly on the sensible side of looking-glasses and rabbit holes.
She had promised herself, after the trial of the Knave of Hearts, after the croquet madness and the endless tea party, that she would stay firmly on the sensible side of looking-glasses and rabbit holes.
But it was Christmas Eve, and the snow had fallen so thickly that the world outside her window looked like one of Dinah’s half-finished dreams. A single lantern glowed in the garden, and beneath it hopped a small white figure in a scarlet waistcoat, brushing snow from his whiskers and consulting a pocket watch that chimed like tiny bells.
“Oh dear, oh dear, I shall be too late for the Queen’s carol!” he muttered.
Alice sighed, pulled on her blue coat (the one that matched her favorite dress), and stepped into the night.
The rabbit hole was exactly where she remembered it, hidden behind the old oak, but tonight it was lined with frost and strung with colored glass ornaments that swayed like fruit on invisible branches. Down she slid, not tumbling this time, but gliding gently, as though the air itself had turned to soft feathers.
She landed in snow up to her ankles.
The Wonderland she stepped into was not the bright, feverish place of her childhood. It was hushed and silver-blue, every hedge dusted white, every path paved with checkered ice that gleamed like the hallway floor of a grand, frozen palace. Lanterns hung from bare branches, casting pools of golden light, and from somewhere far off came the sound of bells and laughter.
The White Rabbit was already hurrying away, his ears tipped with frost. “This way, Alice! Her Majesty is expecting guests!”
Alice followed, her boots crunching softly. The trees grew taller and stranger: pines decorated not with tinsel but with teacups and playing cards frozen mid-flight. A dormouse snoozed inside a hanging ornament, curled around a thimble of hot cocoa. Snowflakes drifted down, large, perfect, and oddly deliberate, as though someone had cut them from paper with tiny scissors.
They came at last to a clearing where the Queen of Hearts had erected an enormous Christmas tree. It rose higher than any tree Alice had ever seen, its branches heavy with crimson baubles, golden crowns, and hearts made of ruby glass. At its base sat the Queen herself, no longer shouting “Off with their heads!” but humming a carol while directing a troop of playing-card soldiers as they hung the last ornaments.
The Queen spotted Alice and beamed, an expression so unfamiliar that Alice almost didn’t recognize her.
“There you are, child! We’ve been waiting. No croquet today. Only singing, and presents, and far too much plum pudding.”
The Mad Hatter arrived next, wearing a top hat trimmed with holly. The March Hare carried a tray of steaming teacups that smelled of cinnamon and pepper. Even the Cheshire Cat appeared, grinning from a branch, his stripes flickering like candlelight.
They sang, first awkwardly, then with growing joy. The cards formed a choir, their voices thin and papery but sweet. The Dormouse woke long enough to join in a sleepy alto. Snow kept falling, soft and endless, turning the clearing into a shaken snow globe.
Later, when the singing was done and the pudding eaten, the Queen pressed a small gift into Alice’s hands: a single red ornament shaped like a heart, warm to the touch.
“For remembering,” the Queen said quietly. “Even queens grow lonely sometimes.”
Alice looked around at the glowing lanterns, the decorated trees, the strange friends who had once terrified her and now felt like family. Wonderland, for one night, had chosen peace over madness.
When it was time to go, the White Rabbit led her back to the frosted rabbit hole. He bowed, a little shyly.
“Merry Christmas, Alice.”
“And to you,” she said.
She climbed upward through the soft dark, the heart-ornament tucked safely in her pocket. When she emerged into her own garden, the snow had stopped. The lantern still glowed, but the White Rabbit was gone.
Alice hung the red heart on her own small Christmas tree that night. And every year after, when the snow fell thickly and the lanterns shone, she thought she heard faint bells from somewhere below the roots of the old oak, inviting her, gently, to come again.
But she was older now, and Wonderland, she suspected, had learned to celebrate Christmas quite nicely without her.
Still, she always left an extra teacup by the fire.
Just in case.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 