“What does that mean?”
“You’re not yet ready for me to answer that.”
Tired of his manipulations, I shove him off balance and sprint for the opening in the trees where the sprites disappeared, nearly tripping over my heels in my desperation to find Jeb. There’s a harsh flapping overhead; then Morpheus drops into my path. I skid to a stop.
He crouches with wings spread parallel to the ground and stares up at me intently, like a giant bird of prey—dark and dangerous. I’m familiar with this side of him . . . his temperamental black moods. There will be no reasoning with him unless I can get the upper hand.
He stands and catches my shoulders before I can bolt again.
“Enough games,” he says. “It’s time you fulfill your destiny. I did not spend the first third of your life training you in vain. Alice has left ripples in our world that only you can smooth. I’ve waited over seventy-five years for this day to come . . . made too many sacrifices to watch it all fall to rot. You fix what she broke, and it will open the way for you to break the curse and get back home. Until then, I make the rules.”
Alice has left ripples in our world that only you can smooth.
The zombie flowers said something like that, too. That only a descendant of Alice could fix this. And the octobenus insisted that the Wise One—Morpheus—was desperate for my help.
Desperate
.
He’s the one who prompted me to keep the sponge, the one who’s been teaching me about Wonderland for years. Why? He must have some kind of personal stake in this.
“You need me.” I raise my voice, taking a chance on my assumption. “It’s not that my ancestors couldn’t figure out the way here. They didn’t
want
to come. It has to be by choice. You can’t force them; otherwise, you would’ve abducted one and already fixed this mess. I’m the first who’s ever been willing to come this far, and I don’t have to do anything you ask. So what if I’m stuck here? I’ve always been an outcast. I’ve already learned to live with it. Alison . . . she’ll survive, like she always has.”
Morpheus doesn’t have to know the truth: that Alison’s quality of life teeters on my success. I’m seeing this bluff through to the end.
“This is your one chance.” I rest my hands on my waist. “Screw with me, and you could end up waiting another seventy-five years.”
A strange expression drifts over my childhood companion’s face. If not for the mask, I might get a better read, but it seems like there might be a glint of pride.
His fingers grow light on my shoulders.“What are your demands?”
“Jeb and I will be reunited, today. You’ll call off your sprites and leave his memories intact. He’ll be treated as your equal, not your pawn. And I want
clarity
. . . how you can claim to be Alison’s friend, if you and I grew up together; how you knew my ancestors if you’re my age. And what your stake in this is.”
He releases me from his grasp. “That’s all you ask?”
Recounting what the octobenus said about vows among the netherlings—a fact verified by the promise Morpheus kept to Alison not to contact me—I add one thing more. “I want your word . . . an oath.”
“Well, drat.” Sighing, he holds a palm over his chest as if pledging allegiance. “I vow on my life-magic not to send away or harm your precious boyfriend as long as he’s loyal to you and your worthy cause. Although I reserve the right to antagonize him at every given opportunity. Oh, and I will happily explain all your questions.” He bows then—every bit the gentleman.
Leather suit and crumpled mask, that morbidly sexy hat. He thinks he’s a rock star. Maybe he is one in this place. But he’s given his word and he has to uphold it, or his wings will shrivel up and he’ll lose all his mojo.
Straightening, he takes a full step forward so his boot tips touch mine. “There. Since that unpleasantness is out of the way, shall we proceed? Seeing as we’re both grown up now, we have some reacquainting to do.”
I scan the trees. All of the sprites have left. Nerves jump beneath my skin. “Where is everyone?”
“Preparing a celebratory banquet for us at the manor. We have no chaperones. Might as well take advantage.”
Panicked, I take a step back, but his wings curl around me and hold me in place, blotting out everything but him. It’s like we’re sharing a cave.
His skin is almost translucent in the dimmed light. “Time to let me inside, lovely Alyssa.”
Before I can respond, he peels off his mask and drops it to the grass underfoot. What I thought was makeup around his eyes are actually permanent markings—like tattoos, but inborn. They’re black like overblown eyelashes, with teardrop-shaped sapphires blunting the pointed ends. The effect is beautiful, in a macabre, circus-folk sort of way. I can’t resist the urge to reach up and touch the glistening tears. The jewels flash through a spectrum of color until they’re no longer blue sapphires but fiery topazes—orange and warm. His lashes close as if in bliss for all of two seconds. Then his inky gaze opens and swallows me whole.
“I am ageless.”
His voice echoes inside my head, though his lips don’t move.
“I can use magic to mimic any age I wish. Using this power affects netherlings mentally, physically, emotionally. We
become
the age in every way. So, in essence, the only childhood I ever had was with you in your dreams. Open your memories, and you will see.”
The song comes to life once more—Morpheus’s lullaby.
This time, I don’t fight it. I wrap my mind around the fluid notes, letting them permeate my every thought until . . .
Slivers of my past play out like movies across the black screen of his wings. I’m a newborn, lying in my crib. A soft satin blanket swaddles me—red with white-ribbon trim. My window is open, and a summer breeze whispers under eyelet curtains, swaying the mobile over my head. Rocking horses and ballerinas dance above me.
It’s the song that woke me. Not the mobile’s music but his. The moon shines, and he’s there, a moth silhouette hanging on the outside of my screen. His deep voice drifts in, cooing and gentle:
“Little blossom in white and red, resting now your tiny head; grow and thrive, be strong and keen, for you will one day—”
Before I can summon the verse’s end, I’m thrust into another memory. This one’s hazy, as if I’m looking through smudged glass. I realize it’s because I’m dreaming. I’m a toddler, not more than three, walking with a six-year-old Morpheus along a black, shining beach. His small wings curl over us for shade. I hold his hand, awed by the glistening spectacle in front of us: a tree made of jewels. Morpheus crouches to point out the maze on the tree’s base, then rolls up his lacy sleeve cuff to reveal a matching mark on his forearm. I turn my ankle, making the connection. He helps me press my birthmark against the trunk. As the doorway opens, he jumps to his feet and dances around. “We have the keys! We have the keys!” his small voice exclaims in childlike glee. I giggle, bouncing along behind him.
Then I’m back in my house two years later. It’s Saturday morning, and I’m drawn to the screen door by Morpheus’s lullaby—now as familiar as the pink-rose linens upon my daybed. The scent of a spring storm breathes through the mesh. He waits in moth form on the other side. It’s our routine: I play with him, my childhood friend, throughout my dreams at night—exploring our enchanted world in the glimpses he gives me—then I see him in intervals throughout the day as the insect. Lightning blinks, and I shiver at the door, fearing the storm. But his teachings are already embedded within my head, coming alive in a fluttery sensation of confidence that pushes me to find a way out. Soon I’m dancing with my moth in our garden. Mommy sees. Rushing outside, she carries long, sharp scissors and snips at flower petals while screaming,
“Off with your head!”
When I realize what she’s really after, a strange discomfort stirs inside. I’ve seen how the petals tatter beneath the blades. I don’t want her to ruin my moth’s pretty wings. I throw my hands over the scissors to stop her. The moth escapes unscathed. But I’m not so lucky . . .
Coming out of the trance, I drop to the ground and clutch aching palms to my chest. The scars throb as if freshly cut. Morpheus bows over me, smoothing my hair. “I told you that you were special, Alyssa,” he murmurs, the weight of his palm strangely comforting on the top of my head. “No one else has ever bled for me. The loyalty of one child for another is immeasurable. You believed in me, shared new experiences with me, grew with me. That has earned you my sincerest devotion.”
At last, I understand. The other memory, the one I assumed was real all these years, was tinged by what my dad thought had happened. By what he witnessed when he glanced out from the kitchen window where he was making pancakes. He thought I was dancing behind Alison, when all the while I was trying to protect my friend.
Someone I
thought
was my friend. Does a friend fly away and leave you bleeding and heartbroken?
I’m wrung out. All the revelations jumble in my mind, too much to absorb. The trauma my body’s faced over the past several hours takes its toll. My bruises throb, and my limbs feel as heavy as stone.
Still on my knees, I droop against Morpheus’s thighs—a solid support. The cool leather of his pants cushions my cheek. I close my eyes. Yes . . . I’ve been here before, held safely against him.
At first, I think I’m imagining it when he bends over to scoop me into his arms. But when the scent of licorice and warm skin surrounds me, I know it’s real.
“You left,” I accuse him, fighting to stay awake. “I was hurt . . . and you left me.”
“A mistake I vow on my life-magic to never make again.” Even though he’s cradling me close, his response sounds far away. But distance doesn’t matter; he gave his word. I’ll be holding him to it.
My eyes squint open to see shadows fold over us. Or is it wings?
For an instant, concern for Jeb resurfaces in my mind; then I drift into a dark and dreamless sleep.
I’m warm . . . too warm. A blue haze blinks bright, then fades—like the sun refracting off waves. The flow of water trickles somewhere close, and even closer, there’s the rustle of clothes.
“Jeb?”
“Take it slow, luv.” Morpheus sits beside me—licorice-scented skin, wild blue hair, tattooed eyes with jewel-tipped points. I remember now. He carried me here from the mushroom lair. I woke up midflight before passing out from my fear of heights, then woke again for an instant as he tucked me in his bed.
The blue haze is actually sheets of falling water, drizzling from the elegant canopy attached to the bedframe. Liquidized curtains.
Morpheus’s wings slice through the waterfall, which curls back and leaves him dry. Each time he shifts, the watery curtain moves with him, as if some sort of invisible barrier stands between him and the downpour.
I try to sit up, but the pile of blankets is too heavy. Claustrophobia makes my heart pound.
“Morpheus?” My voice cracks, rough and gritty, as if I’ve been sucking down dry saltines. It must be from all the tears I swallowed in the ocean.
He lies beside me on the mattress, leaning on his elbow. His fingers weave through the strands of platinum hair splayed out on the pillow around my head. “You were crying in your sleep. Are you in pain?”
I nod, working my hand through the blankets to touch my throat. “Jeb,” I murmur.
Morpheus frowns. “Your friend’s safe and resting in the guest chambers. Which means you are mine for now.” He starts to pull the blankets back.
What felt like bindings a minute ago now feels like armor being peeled off. I’m not sure what I’m wearing underneath the covers, so I clamp the last remaining blanket in place at my collarbone.
Morpheus leans close. His hair brushes my exposed shoulder, tickling and soft. “Shy little blossom,” he whispers, his sweet breath cloaking me. “We’re simply going to meld your pain away.”
Meld
. . . that doesn’t sound like something my dad would approve of. Jeb, either, for that matter. I start to push Morpheus back, but the blanket slides down my body in the curl of his pale, elegant fingers. I’m left in a long, strappy nightgown of champagne lace and satin. It covers all the right places, yet I feel exposed. Morpheus had to see me naked to put me into this. I cross my arms over my chest, cheeks hot.
He smiles. “No worries. My pets undressed you. When they took your clothes to be burned.”
“Burned? But . . . I don’t have anything else—”
“Hush now, and be still.”
“You said something about a banquet. There’s no way I’m wearing this.” I tighten my arms around myself.
He shakes his head, then pushes the hem of my gown until it’s just above my ankle, exposing my birthmark. I sit up, about to jerk my leg away, but his deep, dark eyes turn to mine. “Trust me.”
The fluttery sensation in my mind prods me to listen. Here in this place, where I no longer have the white noise of voices distracting me, I can hear my thoughts distinctly for the first time in years. I can understand that beating in my mind. The fluttering feeling—that’s me. I have another side, beyond good girl and obedient daughter, that’s instinctive and wild.
It’s that side that chooses to trust him, despite our bizarre past . . . or maybe because of it.
Rolling his shirt’s cuff to his elbow, Morpheus exposes that matching birthmark at his inner forearm—the one I remember from my dreams. Intrigued by our likenesses, I grasp his wrist with one hand, tracing the lines with my other. The maze glows beneath my touch. His features shift, and a rumble escapes his throat—something between a purr and a growl. His arm tenses, as if it takes his full concentration not to move while I appease my curiosity.
He’s a contradiction: taut magic coiled to strike, gentleness at war with severity, a tongue as sharp as a whip’s edge, yet skin so soft he could be swathed in clouds.
Holding his gaze, I remember what
meld
means. I take the lead and press our birthmarks together. Heat sparks the joining like when Alison healed my ankle and knee, though this is a more volatile reaction. Warmth simmers through my entire body, leaving me flushed from head to toe.
Morpheus coaxes me to lie back and draws down the gown’s hem before spreading a blanket up to my chin. He places his hat on his head at an angle. His wings sweep high as he stands, and the water curtain lifts in an arch around him.
“Don’t budge from that spot until I return with something for your throat.” There’s a raw edge to his voice that makes my body even warmer.
As he backs up, the water curtain drops, blinding me to my surroundings. The minute I hear the door to the room shut, I scoot out from under the covers, press my spine to the headboard, and curl my knees under my chin, shivering as the cool air hits me.
I close my eyes and think of how it felt—the pulse of his magic against my finger, his flesh against mine. Rubbing my birthmark, I shake off the euphoria.
The more I remember of Morpheus and this place, the more I forget myself . . . or the self I thought I was.
Why didn’t Alison tell me? If she’d just been honest, I wouldn’t be confused out of my mind while Jeb’s locked up in another room.
Guilt stabs my heart. No. She was trying to protect me. She’s going to suffer unnecessary shock treatments if I don’t break the curse and get back soon.
Instinctively, I reach a hand toward the liquid curtain and will the water to react to me as it did to Morpheus. It lifts back like a living thing and leaves me dry. I grab a blanket, tie it around my shoulders in a makeshift cape, and leap through, landing on a plush rug. An echo of soreness remains in my muscles. Other than that, I’m pain-free.
I turn on my heel. The room’s decor feels vaguely familiar—wild and stunning, just like its owner. There are no windows or mirrors. Soft amber light falls from the giant crystal chandelier that takes up most of the domed ceiling. Gold and purple velvet hangings drape the walls, intertwined with strands of ivy, seashells, and peacock feathers.
A set of multitiered crystal shelves occupies the wall to my left. Half of them hold hats of all shapes and sizes embellished with dead moths; the other half holds what first appears to be clear glass dollhouses. Then I realize they’re terrariums.
Within the terrariums, moths fly from side to side and perch on leaves and twigs. Thick webs coat the glass panels in places, similar to the webbing in my Alice nightmare. They’re cocoons—caterpillars transforming into moths. Listening to the waterfall, I think of how Morpheus’s wing cut through the liquid earlier, and compare it to my dream in the rowboat, when a black blade was about to slice through the web.
It wasn’t a blade at all.
The door creaks open and I spin around, heart pounding.
Morpheus steps across the threshold and shuts us in. “Up and about, aye? And not a drop of water on you.” He carries a tray with a teapot and matching china cups. “Well done.”
“You.” I point a shaky finger toward the cocoons. “The nightmare I’ve been having for years. You put it into my mind, didn’t you?”
His jaw tightens as he sets the tray on a glass table. “What nightmare would that be? I’ve not been mentally connected to you since your mother was committed . . . not until yesterday.” He pours tea into a cup. Wisps of steam fill the room, carrying notes of honey and citrus.
“I’m Alice,” I say, “searching for the Caterpillar. They’re going to take my head. He’s my only ally.” I rub my neck. “Wait, no. There’s the Cheshire Cat, too. But neither one can help me. The Cat’s lost his body, and the Caterpillar . . .” I look at the glass cases. “It’s you, stuck inside the cocoon.”
Morpheus fumbles with the teapot’s lid with a loud clatter. When he turns to me, his eyes are wide. “You remember. After all these years, you retained the details.”
“The details about what?” My legs waver, and I clutch the blanket tighter around my neck.
Morpheus motions to the chair beside him. “Sit.”
When I don’t move, he takes my hand and leads me. He’s wearing black gloves now, reminiscent of the ones I dreamed of in the rowboat. I’m about to point that out when he hands me a cup.
“Have some tea, and we’ll revisit the story.”
Revisit?
While he pours a cup for himself, I sip mine. The hot, sweet liquid soothes my throat. I slide a finger against the table beneath my saucer. The surface is a chessboard, black and silver. A glass sheet covers it to protect from spills and scrapes. Jade chess pieces—pawns, rooks, knights, and more—are arranged in an unusual pattern. Sentences hover over three of the silver squares as if by magic, in tiny glowing script. I lean in to read them, catching the words
ocean
and
palm
before Morpheus sweeps his glove across the glass and smears them.
“What was that?” I ask.
“It’s how I keep track of your accomplishments.”
“‘Accomplishments.’ Mind explaining?” I take another sip of tea.
His wings hang wide on either side of his chair as he sits opposite me, placing his hat on the table. “I would prefer to show you.”
He retrieves a small brass box from a drawer on his side of the table. Its hinged lid pops open, and Morpheus tilts it. The contents scatter onto the chessboard, a whole other set of tiny game pieces. These are also carved of pale green jade: a caterpillar smoking a hookah, a cat with a bold smile etched into place, a little girl in a dress and pinafore. There are other characters, too, all familiar. Morpheus and I played with them when I visited in my dreams.
I reach for the Alice figurine and hold her up, trailing a finger along the lines of her pinafore. With her marbled, green-tinged exterior, she looks different than in the pictures—more fragile. Precious and rare, like the stone she’s carved of.
Morpheus lifts his cup and regards me over the edge while drinking, then sets it on his saucer with a clink. “She always was your favorite.”
I’m both flattered and frightened over the expression of adoration that crosses his face. A nostalgic fuzziness swells inside my chest. “You used to tell me a story with these.”
“I did indeed. Or, rather, we used to watch it.”
“Watch it?”
The jewels under his eyes sparkle, flashing to a calming blue. “How are you feeling, Alyssa?”
Puzzled by the question, I frown. “Fine. Why do you ask—” No sooner do I speak, than the room starts to spin, the chess pieces along with it. My teacup topples, half of its contents spilling upward. I clasp both hands to my throat. “You put something in my drink . . .”
“Simply cleansing the palate of your mind. You must be relaxed and as light as a feather to channel your magic in the beginning stages. Otherwise, it will come in bursts and fits and be unruly, like it was at the asylum.” Morpheus’s disembodied voice floats around me as the chandelier blinks—dark to light, dark to light.
“Are you saying . . . ?”
No, it’s not possible
. “I was in control of that magic?” To think I had anything to do with Alison’s near choking makes my insides quake.
“Out of control is more like it,” Morpheus scolds. “You were too distraught for it to work properly.”
I struggle to find him amid the chaos, needing to see his face so I’ll know if he’s serious. “But how?”
“The moment your mind accepted the possibility of Wonderland being real, it released the vacuum of doubt that once held you trapped,” he says from somewhere above me. “Now, stop thinking like a human. Netherling logic resides in the hazy border between sense and nonsense. Tap into that logic, visualize the chess pieces coming alive; see it, and it will be.”
Skeptical, I twirl in a circle of weightlessness alongside everything else: the glass shelves, the hats, the table, and the chessboard. The bed’s watery curtain forms a funnel around us, swaying and swirling in an effort not to touch anything. The Alice carving slides from my grip as I try to keep my balance in the swimming room. Halfheartedly, I pretend she can reach for me, take my hand, but she falls out of my sight.
“There once was a child named Alice,” Morpheus says with a voice of soothing liquid. I still can’t see him. “She was innocence and sweetness, happiness and light. Perhaps her only flaw was that she was very—”
“Curious,” I finish for him, and in that instant, the chess pieces grow to human size. I try harder to imagine them alive: visualize blood pumping through their carved bodies like clear mountain streams, envision their lungs expanding and sending oxygen to beating hearts of stone.
I’m concentrating so hard that I’m startled when the caterpillar, his hookah smoking in one hand, snags my wrist. “You look like a girl I once knew. Her name started with an
A
. Perhaps yours does, too?” The greenish smoke stretches into a thick, fragrant sheet around me, matching his jade sheen.
The cat floats up beside us. He holds out the sheet of smoke and, using his claws like scissors, cuts eight vaporous letters to spell the word:
Allegory.
He spreads the letters out like a strand of paper snowflakes
.
The smile on his green-tinged face widens.
“Ah,” the caterpillar says, his tobacco puffs making clouds around us, “she’s a figurative figure. She shall play on my side, then, as I’m the academician.”
The cat shakes his head, his smile vanishing. They start a tug-ofwar, jerking me back and forth. I yelp, my arm sockets stretched to the limit. “Let go!”
“Tut-tut. The only things figurative here are you two idjits.” Morpheus breaks their hold on me, then folds one hand around my waist while snatching the caterpillar’s hookah with the other. “Now, take your places.”
At that, the animated chess pieces descend with the others through the funnel of water. Morpheus floats us up, up, up toward the huge chandelier in the domed ceiling—the one part of the room that’s still stable. The lightbulbs are as big as we are, and the dizzying height makes me nauseated. I wrap my hands around his neck and tuck my face against his smooth chest as he settles us on the brass fixture. “This isn’t happening,” I say. But it is, because I can remember it happening before, years ago.
“Find your courage. Look down. Your show is about to begin.”
I shake my head, eyes clamped tightly. “We’re too high . . . it makes my stomach kick.”
He laughs and inhales a puff off the hookah then blows the smoke over me, saturating me in the comforting scent. “That’s how you know you’re alive, Alyssa. The kicks.”
Before I can respond, a loud rapping makes me brave a peek.
The funnel of water forms a curtain, which parts to reveal a stage. Morpheus’s bedroom has transformed. The living chess pieces dominate the scene, their milky-green bodies vivid atop a glossy black and silver chessboard that stretches the length of the floor. Everything is arranged in a large circle that reminds me of a circus’s center ring.