The king narrows his eyes beneath his crown’s shadow. “You have the same dark strain as all of the Red royal lineage. Your mother was the first to learn to balance madness with wisdom. Do not forsake that legacy. Make her proud.” He holds out his hand.
Tears singe Red’s eyes as she drops the whispering ribbon into his palm, an unspoken promise to honor her mother’s memory, to never forget her example.
My bones jitter and my head hurts as again I’m thrown into the chaise lounge, only to be jerked back on-screen for the final memory:
Red kneels beside a rosebush, breathing in the sweet scent. The blooms are such a deep red, they look like puddles of fresh blood against the unnaturally bright teal leaves. She planted the bush in the courtyard as a tribute to her father after his death. She yearns for his spirit. She wishes he were here in the ground instead of locked inside the garden of souls, though she’s comforted to know he’s been reunited with her mother at last.
“I should be with you both in the cemetery,” she mumbles to the roses. “Now that my life is over.” She rotates a bottle in her hand to reveal the label: Forgetting Potion.
Her shoulders hunch, as in the distance her stepsister’s giggle rings out, accompanied by the chortle of Red’s husband. Red met him one week after her father died. He had a kind heart like her father’s, and proved to be the only man who could reason with her anger, temper her bitterness. His strength was his compassion, and he adored Red. But the queen became obsessed with her pursuit to bring dreams to Wonderland and neglected her marriage, never even taking the time to give her king the children he yearned for. In her absence, her husband was often left alone with Grenadine.
Gradually, Red watched her husband try to befriend her sister, although Grenadine always pushed him away. When Red’s king would return to her side like a wounded puppy, his sadness stoked her jealousy. She did the only thing she could: She stole her sister’s ribbons to show her husband what a forgetful buffoon Grenadine was.
Every day for months, each time her sister tied bows to her fingers or toes, Red would magically coax them away and send them fluttering into the sky. Soon, they eclipsed the sun like a cloud of glimmering crimson butterflies. Darkness fell upon the kingdom, but Red didn’t care. She had no desire to call the ribbons back or to listen to Grenadine’s mundane and irrelevant reminders.
Red’s ribbon stealing became a game of malice and great satisfaction, until at last Grenadine stopped wearing them altogether. And soon thereafter, she stopped fighting the Red King’s advances.
The two fell in love each day, anew, and Red witnessed it over and over again. Furious, she called the ribbons from the sky. They scattered across the castle courtyard in a sweep of crimson rain. Red stood in their midst as hundreds of whispers spun around her, repeating the same words: Keep Red’s husband from your heart. She is your sister, a love that’s precious. Always be faithful to Red.
Grenadine had been reminding herself daily to do the right thing, and Red had made it impossible for her to remember. The responsibility for her broken marriage was upon her own shoulders. The only way Red could survive was to become like Grenadine and forget her role in everything. Red determined to remember only the betrayals of others, so their wrongs could harden her heart.
Stroking a rose petal, Red whispers one last time: “Mother, Father, I hope you both can forgive me, because unless I forget, I’ll never forgive myself.” Then she lifts the bottle to her lips.
The image flicks off, the curtains drop, and the lamp snaps on.
Slumped in the chaise lounge, I hold my temples until the drumming inside my skull subsides. I almost choke on the bittersweet tang of roses firmly pressed on my senses. At last I can acknowledge what I’ve never let myself admit: I’m a descendant of Queen Red. She’s an eternal part of me. I can accept it because she did have a heart once. A heart that felt similar losses to mine: the absence of a mother she adored; the fear of losing her father’s admiration; the regret of a mistake so monumental, it cost her the love of her life.
Red locked away her most vulnerable moments so she wouldn’t hesitate in her quest for vengeance. So she could make the descent into ruthless abandon without remorse.
Empathy pricks my conscience, but I push it away. Mercy has no place on any battlefield . . . magical or otherwise.
If I can contain her scorned memories long enough to reunite them with her mind, they’ll rail against her, fill her with regret. Then, while she’s vulnerable, I’ll swoop in and Wonderland will never have to fear her rage again.
Adrift in a dark swirl of emotions, I stand and smooth the wrinkles from my hospital gown. I’m only a few steps from the door when it flings open to reveal Dad—his brown eyes lit with a fiery light.
“Allie, I remember . . . everything.”
Dad tells me his real name is David Skeffington.
“Interesting,” I say as we stride down the aisle. “And here I thought we’d end up related to Martin Gardner.”
Dad frowns. “Who’s that?”
“The guy behind The Annotated Alice. Some math wizard.” I shrug. “Just shows how preoccupied Mom’s thoughts were with Wonderland. When she couldn’t find your real name, she gave you one that fit into the Lewis Carroll legacy.”
“Little knowing I already did fit,” Dad says.
“Why? Who are the Skeffingtons?” I ask.
Noticing the conductor hanging on the wall, Dad doesn’t answer.
I help him free the wriggling beetle. “Mr. Bug-in-a-rug wasn’t cooperating,” I explain, working my captive’s tangled fur from the wires and hardware.
“There are other ways to be persuasive.” Dad’s expression is stern as he lowers the disheveled insect to the floor. “Less violent ways.”
I bite my tongue out of respect, though I want to tell him he’s oblivious about dealing with netherlings.
After an apology that wins a cautious albeit reverential bow from the conductor and two complimentary bags of peanuts, Dad takes my hand and we step together onto the toy train’s platform. The car door shuts behind us with a loud scrape.
I yawn, inhaling the scent of dust and powdery stones in the coolness of the dimly lit tunnel. The whispers of a hundred bugs blend together—a soothing distraction. Red’s memories keep nudging me, blurring my mind with disconcerting crimson stains: her flushed face as she tried to hold on to her mother’s spirit, the ruby shimmer of her stepsister’s hair during a painful croquet lesson as her father slipped away, and the deep bloody hue of whispering ribbons heralding Red’s most devastating mistake.
I can’t sympathize. I have to be strong.
I grip my abdomen, nauseated and unbalanced. I had no idea the earworm effect would be this powerful. I’ve got to find a way to control it.
Dad notices me rubbing my stomach and holds out a bag of peanuts. “You need to eat.”
I pop a few peanuts into my mouth. The salty crunchiness appeases my hunger, but it doesn’t quell the splashes of red drizzling in my mind.
“Tell me where your mom is,” Dad says abruptly.
I almost strangle.
“Tell me she’s not in the looking-glass world.”
After swallowing, I answer, “She’s in Wonderland.”
He lets out a relieved sigh. “Good. There are creatures in AnyElsewhere that no human—” He cuts himself short, as if remembering Mom’s the furthest thing from human. “She’s one of them. Like that winged boy who carried me through the portal. She’s a netherling.”
“Partly,” I whisper. The so am I sits on my tongue, unsaid.
“She’s stronger than I ever could’ve imagined,” he mumbles. “She can protect Jeb. They have each other to lean on.”
He’s halfway right. Mom is strong, and I have to believe she’s surviving in Wonderland. If only Jeb was with her, he’d be safer, too. I won’t tell Dad they’re not together yet. First, he needs to digest all he’s learned. “They’re okay. They all—both are.”
Dad’s struggling
enough with the memory of the winged fae helping Mom break him out of Wonderland’s garden of souls. He doesn’t need to know Morpheus is part of our rescue mission just now. But later, I’ll have to explain the huge role Morpheus has played in my life since childhood. Although I can never confess the part he’s slated to play in my future, because I made a life-magic vow not to say a word. I can’t even tell Morpheus that I’ve seen what’s coming, even though he’s seen it himself.
“The problem is,” I continue, “the rabbit hole has been filled in. All the portals are tied together. So if the entrance isn’t working, neither are the ways out.”
“That’s why you brought me here for my memories.” Dad picks up the dangling threads of my explanation. “To find another way into Wonderland.”
I dread telling him the state Wonderland is in. Worst of all, that I’m to blame for it. That my ineptitude in using undernourished and neglected powers caused this entire tragedy. And that to fix it, I’ll have to face my biggest fear.
We have a lot to discuss before I toss Red into the mix.
“So what happened between you and the conductor?” Dad changes the subject, much to my relief. “Why did you bully him like that?”
I drop a peanut into my mouth. “He called me a half-blood snippet,” I say between crunches. “I thought my solution was pretty creative.” My voice is muffled by the sounds of motors and chatty people drifting from the bridge through the vents overhead.
Dad brushes crumbs off his Tom’s Sporting Goods polo. “Just like the lies you and your mother came up with were creative.”
Ouch. I shove another handful of peanuts in my mouth, wishing things were like they used to be between us. How strange that somehow the lies became the foundation to our relationship. Without them, our bond is shaky . . . precarious.
I ache to reach out and hug him, but the void between us is too vast.
“If we’re going to help her and Jeb,” Dad continues, “I need honest answers from you. The whole truth. No more sugarcoating.”
I study my bare toes, wincing as we step down onto pebbles and broken rock. My soles aren’t the only things feeling exposed and tender. “I have no idea where to start, Dad.”
He frowns. “I don’t expect answers right this minute. We have to find Humphrey’s Inn first.”
“Humphrey’s Inn?” I bite my inner cheek. The only Humphrey I’ve ever met is the egg-man creature in Wonderland, the one called Humpty Dumpty in the Lewis Carroll novel. “What’s that?”
“It’s the one clue I have to my family’s whereabouts. It was my home here.”
“Here, as in London?”
“As in this world. Humphrey’s Inn is some kind of halfway house between the magi-kind and mortal realms. It’s hidden underground.”
His outright acknowledgment of a magical otherworld leaves me reeling. Maybe I was wrong about him being oblivious in dealing with netherlings. Maybe I even suspected as much, but it’s still hard to grasp how deeply Wonderland runs through my blood—on both sides of my family.
That thought triggers another splash of Red’s memories. I waver in place.
Dad steadies me. “You okay?”
“Just a headache,” I answer as the sensation subsides. I’ll have to make a concerted effort not to think of my great-great-great-grandmother until I can figure out a way to suppress these episodes. “You were telling me about the inn.”
“Yeah. It’s somewhere in Oxford.”
“Seriously? That’s where Alice Liddell grew up. Where she met Lewis Carroll.”
Dad rubs the stubble on his chin. “Somehow, way down the line, the Skeffingtons were related to the Dodgsons, which was Carroll’s surname before he took on a pseudonym. I hope to get more details once we find the inn.”
I don’t press any further. I can’t imagine the information overload he’s experiencing.
Off in the distance, the monarchs that provided our rides are hanging on the tunnel walls, wings flapping slow and relaxed. The firefly chandeliers reflect off their orange and black markings. It reminds me of tigers gliding through the silhouettes of jungle trees during a nature show.
The butterflies whisper: We know the way to Humphrey’s Inn. Would you like an escort, little flower queen?
Goose bumps coat my arms when I think of jostling through another bout of wind and rain. It’s not fear. It’s electrified anticipation—like standing in line for a favorite roller coaster. My wing buds nudge. The right one isn’t fully healed yet. Maybe I can let it out while riding, exercise my wings without the danger of falling.
Yes, please take us. I send the silent answer back to the butterflies.
“Are they talking to you now?” Dad asks when he catches me staring at them.
I swallow. It’s hard to get used to not pretending with someone I’ve been fooling my whole life. “Uh-huh.”
He studies me, his complexion almost green in the dim light. I wonder if it’s hit him yet, that we allowed Mom to be locked in an asylum for something that was really happening and not a delusion.
“The butterflies know where the inn is,” I say.
Dad makes a disgruntled sound. “After we get there, can we please return to our normal size?”
“Sure. I’ve got just what we’ll need.” I pat my pocket where the mushrooms wait, surprised to feel the conductor’s pen alongside them. I’d forgotten I still have it.
Dad slips out his wallet and sifts through receipts, money, and pictures. He pauses at the family portrait we had made a few months ago and traces Mom’s outline with a shaky fingertip. “I can’t believe what she did for me,” he murmurs, and I wonder if I was supposed to hear, or if it’s a private moment. I’ve never doubted how strong Dad’s love is for her, but only recently did I learn how strong hers is for him.
I’m curious how much he’s remembered, if he understands that she was going to be queen before she found him.
Dad’s jaw clenches as he slides the picture back into its sleeve. “We don’t have the right currency. We’ll have to use my credit cards. It should be around dinnertime when we arrive. While we eat, we’ll discuss things.” He looks tired, yet more alert than I’ve seen him in years. “We’ll plan our next move. But it’s important we lay low and try not to draw attention to ourselves. Considering my family’s profession, they could’ve made some very dangerous enemies.”
An uneasy knot forms in my throat. “What profession?”
He tucks his wallet into his pocket. “Gatekeepers. They’re the guardians of AnyElsewhere.”
My knees wobble. “What?”
“That’s enough discussion for now. I’m still processing.”
His curtness stings. But what right do I have to feel wounded? I made him wait seventeen years to learn the truth about me.
“Okay.” I stifle an apology and study my ragged gown. “It won’t be easy to stay under the radar while wearing asylum clothes. You’ll need to change, too.”
“Any ideas?” Dad asks, then holds up a hand. “And before you say it, we’re not stealing something off a clothesline.”
It’s like he read my mind. “Why not? Motivation always justifies the crime.” I clamp down on my tongue. That’s Morpheus’s reasoning, not mine. It’s both frightening and liberating that his illogic is starting to make perfect sense.
Dad narrows his eyes. “Tell me you did not just say that.”
I push away the desire to argue my point. Justifying crimes may be the law of the land in the nether-realm, but that doesn’t make it lawful to my dad at this moment. “I just meant it would be borrowing, if we bought new clothes later and returned the others.”
“Too many steps. We need a quick fix. Makeshift clothes.”
Makeshift clothes. If only Jenara were here with her designer talents. I miss her more than ever. Over the past month in the asylum, I wasn’t allowed any visitors other than Dad. But Jen sent notes, and Dad always saw that I got them. Jen didn’t blame me for her missing brother, in spite of the rumors that
I was in a cult that victimized him and Mom. She refused to believe I’d be involved in anything that would hurt either of them.
If only I deserved her faith.
I wish she was here. She’d know what to do about the clothes. Jenara can make outfits out of anything. One time, for a mythology project, she transformed a Barbie into Medusa by spray-painting the doll silver and crafting a “stone” gown out of a strip of aluminum foil and white chalk.
Dolls . . .
“Hey!” I shout up at the closest Ferris-wheel-firefly chandelier. “Could you guys give us some light, please?”
They roll across the ceiling and stop overhead, illuminating our surroundings. This place was once an elevator passageway where train passengers would wait for rides up to the village after arriving on the train. Distracted parents and careless children left behind toys which are comparable to our size: wooden blocks that could double as garden sheds, a pinwheel that could pass for a windmill, and a few rubber jacks bigger than the tumbleweeds I’ve seen bounce alongside the roads in Pleasance, Texas.
A sign hangs over the toys. The words LOST AND FOUND have been marked out and replaced by TRAIN OF THOUGHT.
Past a pile of mildewed picture books, there’s a child’s round suitcase propped up so the front is visible. The style is retro—pink, cushiony vinyl with a ponytailed girl standing in front of an airplane. Her faded dress was blue at one time. Under the zipper, scribbled in black marker, is a child’s handwriting: Emily’s Dress Shoppe. Sprawled on the ground beside the case is a half-naked vintage Barbie.
“Doll clothes,” I whisper.
Dad squints. “We need things that’ll fit when we’re normal-size, Allie.”
“They grow and shrink with you. It’s part of the magic.”
He glances down at his muddy, torn work uniform. “Oh. Right . . .”
“C’mon.” I catch his hand and weave toward the case, suppressing yelps as the rocky terrain jabs my feet. Dad stops long enough to take off his shoes and help me step into them.