Free Alice I Have Been: A Novel by Melanie Benjamin

digging up a handful of dirt and crumbling it between my fingers.
    “Quite. Almost too wild—we’ll have to get those leaves out of your hair.”
    “Oh!” I jumped up again, and started shaking my head. I was grateful, for once, that it was short and simple. I could scarcely imagine how difficult it would be to comb leaves and twigs out of Edith’s mass of hair; it would take days, even using one of the stableboy’s hay forks as a comb.
    “You missed one.” Mr. Dodgson pulled me close, bending down, brushing at my wispy hair. His hand—his dry, bare hand—lingered at my temple, and I closed my eyes and leaned into it. I was out of breath and content to rest in the palm of his hand. I believe he was content, too, for when I opened my eyes he was smiling, and while it was dreamy, it wasn’t sad. His eyes, deep blue, brighter than usual, turned up at the edges for once. We stayed that way; somehow our breaths started to match until a bird flew overhead, throwing a shadow across us.
    “The light will be going soon,” Mr. Dodgson said then, looking up at the sky. “Are you ready, gypsy girl?”
    “Yes, kind gentleman. The gypsy girl will pose for you now.”
    “Excellent. Why don’t you stand in the corner, then—up on that ledge, see? Can you balance on it?”
    “Yes.” I did so, although the ledge was cold and a bit slippery, and I had to curl my toes around it.
    “Now. Why don’t you hold your hands out, in front of you—both of them?”
    “Like this?” I turned my palms up and out, just like the poor urchins I’d seen in the streets, the last time we’d been up to London. There had been so many of them, so pale and thin and dirty, but Mamma had said we weren’t to feel sorry for them. They knew their place.
    I could not understand her meaning. Perhaps they knew their place, but they obviously weren’t very content with it. Why else did some of them beg to be taken home with us?
    “Yes, that’s good. Can you hold that?”
    I nodded.
    “I’ll just prepare the plate.” He disappeared inside the tent once more; I stifled a yawn. Rolling on the ground was awfully tiring; so, too, was posing.
    Mr. Dodgson returned, forcing the plate holder into the camera. Instead of hurrying to expose it, however, he walked over to me, moving my hands up, pulling one side of the dress down. He smoothed my hair, plucked another leaf out of it, then walked backward—very slowly—toward the camera. He did not take his eyes off me.
    “Lower your head a trifle, Alice, then look up. Look up at me.”
    I did so.
    “No, only your eyes—look at me with your eyes, Alice. Look only at me.”
    His voice sounded strange, thick and unsure. I looked up, keeping my head lowered, using only my eyes, waiting for him to remove the lens cover and count.
    Only he did not.
    “I dr-dreamed of you, Alice,” he said, standing next to the camera, his arms hanging stiffly by his sides, his white shirt rumpled, his face flushed with strange emotion. “I dreamed of you this way. Do you dream, Alice?”
    I looked at him, unsure what to do. Did he desire me to move or answer? If I did, I’d spoil the photograph. Yet he looked so strange, so lost, as if he had forgotten the camera was even there.
    “Y-yes, I do,” I answered slowly, trying to keep my head from moving.
    “What do you dream?”
    “I don’t remember, not usually. Sometimes I dream of animals, or birthdays. I don’t really remember.”
    “I dream when I’m awake sometimes,” he continued, still not moving toward the camera; holding me upright through the power of his gaze. “I rarely dream at night. But during the day, sometimes—I get headaches, Alice. I d-don’t tell people that. But I do.”
    “I’m terribly sorry.”
    “Don’t be. I’m not, because of the dreams I get, beforehand. Do you know what I dream of?”
    “No,” I whispered. I was afraid to move; I was afraid not to.
    “I dream of you,” Mr. Dodgson whispered back. “Of Alice. Wild and