A/N: Thank you all for the follows and favourites, and thanks to Sarah for reviewing ;)

Here's chapter one, it's a short one, but don't worry, no. 2 is proving to be quite a bit longer! Still after a beta, so if you want the job, PM me!

As always, feedback is much appreciated!

Chapter Song: Dollhouses - Jason Tai


The first night Charlotte falls into Wonderland, she does so unconsciously. She enters and exits without ever realising.

The night is much like those that have passed before. It begins with a sunset that Charlotte watches from her wall of windows, the oranges and pinks settling on her pale hair and skin, and reflecting fiercely in her eyes.

As the colour fades, so does Charlotte.

She draws the blinds and closes the curtains as directed, before retiring to her room. It's only early, but there are only so many hours Charlotte can spend in the company of other people before she feels like she's paling in the comparison that probably isn't being made, but she can't help thinking of anyway.

The door to her room closes with a comforting click. Her room is meticulously organised, and decorated in varying shades of black, white, grey or even silver. This is Charlotte's safe place, her home.

Time passes quickly here, and soon Charlotte is in bed, eyes half focused on the glow in the dark starts that covers her roof. They're a pale imitation of the real thing, and cynically, Charlotte think that is only fitting. The clock on her wall ticks slowly, and Charlotte drifts off. Out of the corner of her eye, Charlotte thinks she sees a rabbit, but then she is asleep, and she is falling.

She never hits the ground.

She is simply falling, and then she is not. There is no in between, there is no stopping. Charlotte finds herself alone, standing in the middle of a sea of gently rippling grass.

It is just a field, and if the grass is a little greener or softer than usual, the sky lavender and mint instead of blue, Charlotte doesn't notice. She is too enamoured with the wind whispering its way over her body. Or at least she is until the ticking starts. At first it's barely there, almost inaudible, but it soon begins to grow in intensity until it is almost overpowering. Charlotte thinks that maybe she should be alarmed, but this is just a dream. Harmless and ephemeral.

Still, if there's anything notable about Charlotte, it is that she is curious, and her attention has been caught like a rabbit in a snare.

The sound is rhythmical. It could be peaceful, but it's not. It's a countdown, and the time ticks by. She turns. The clock stands in the field behind her - the field that had been empty only moments before. It is a handsome grandfather clock, made of mahogany, with gilt decoration. The numbers seem slightly off, but Charlotte can't quite put her finger on why that is.

The clock face is open, the gears clearly working away, smoothly and efficiently. They twist and wind, and wrap their way around each other, and Charlotte can't take her eyes off it. She follows the movement, and it leads her to a swirl of writing at the base of the clock.

The desire to read it means that Charlotte steps closer to the clock.

'Alice,' it says.

Charlotte doesn't have much time to ponder the meaning of that, as the clock strikes thirteen, and she wakes up home, the dream drifting away as effortlessly as it drifted in.