by A. G. Howard
“All the guests have arrived, Master,” Gossamer says, her tiny voice quavering. She and her companions drop the top hat onto Morpheus’s head while the others leave the bag next to our backpack.
“Introduce the appetizers and have the harp play a tune.” Morpheus angles his hat. The dead moths tremble with the adjustment, as if they’re struggling to escape. “We’ll be there shortly.”
Gossamer nods and trails behind the others, glancing over her shoulder once before she flits into the adjoining hall.
Morpheus snatches up the bag. As he strolls toward the glass table, his satiny wings skim my left boot. A vibration hums through my birthmark and up my shin before it stops to settle in my thigh, warm and titillating. Frowning, I slide my leg back and tap my boot to ease the sensation. Jeb watches me with disapproval in his eyes.
Morpheus folds down the bag to expose a tall silver hatbox flocked with white velvet. I’ve never seen anything like it, even in my dreams. Curiosity lures me to the table.
Morpheus gestures to the chair, playing the role of gentleman host again.
“I’ll stand,” I murmur. I’d like to blacken his already black eyes for stirring up things between Jeb and me just to get back at us for the kiss. Although I’m strangely intrigued that he cares enough to be jealous in the first place.
Jeb settles behind me and squeezes my shoulders—still my protector, even when he’s angry. I lean into his body heat, grateful for it.
Morpheus shoots a disgusted glance at us, then drags the box to the center of the table. It’s actually made of pewter. White velvet roses cover the sides, and engravings curl across the top of the hinged lid in some archaic language. The longer I stare at the words, the more legible they become. Is that another manifestaton of the Liddell curse? That this language comes naturally to me?
“Time for introductions,” Morpheus says, opening the lid an instant before I make sense of the first sentence.
Dark, oily fluid sloshes inside the box. A sheet of glass over the top holds the liquid inside. Morpheus gives the contents a jiggle and a whitish object bobs toward the surface.
It reminds me of a Magic 8 Ball I once saw at a garage sale. The black plastic ball had a window inset. Blue fluid filled the core, and a white die would drift up to the window, marked with phrases on every side. All you had to do was ask the ball a question, roll it around in your hands, and then turn it over. Your answer would appear in the window on the die … everything from Most Likely to Ask Again Later.
Only this floating object is almost the size of a honeydew melon and oval shaped. Thick whitish strands swirl around it, attached to it. Morpheus gives the box another shake. The orb spins to reveal a face.
It’s a head!
Yelping, I battle the bile rising in my throat.
Jeb curses and tries to turn me to him, but I can’t look away. The liquid must be some kind of formaldehyde. Why would Morpheus have a pickled head in a pewter hatbox? What kind of psycho is he?
“Wake up, fair one,” Morpheus whispers, a strained tenderness to the request. I watch, mortified, as he taps a finger along the glass, tracing the face’s closed, crystallized lashes. When the eyes flip open, I almost jump out of my skin.
The thing’s alive.
Recognition dawns on me from the chess piece reenactment. It’s the Ivory Queen, even more beautiful than her jade counterpart, as delicate and pale as moonlight. Black tattoolike marks line both temples in a network of veins, as if dragonfly wings were pressed onto a stamp pad, then transferred to the skin. Her eyes are so light blue, they’re almost colorless; long lashes curl upward on each blink. They’re just like her eyebrows, silvery and crystalline as if coated with ice. At the outer corners, two black lines dip down to her cheekbones and end in teardrop shapes; it’s like she’s weeping ink. Pale pink lips—as curved and lovely as a heart—open to an adoring smile as her gaze falls on Morpheus. She tries to talk.
He leans close, sweeping his gloved palm lovingly across her encased cheek. She tries to talk again but can’t be heard through the liquid and glass.
Jeb and I stand there, imprisoned in our own silence.
Morpheus breaks the hush. “This is a jabberlock box. It can hold an entire being within, though only the face appears. You’ve heard the saying, ‘Off with their heads,’ from the book you carry?”
I glance at my gloved palms, thinking about my scars. That’s not the only place I’ve heard the words, and Morpheus knows it. Is this what Alison meant, when she said she didn’t want me to lose my head?
“Well, this is the origin of that phrase,” Morpheus finishes. “Little Alice took it much too literally. It used to be a standard punishment here in Wonderland. Though it’s now considered barbaric. It’s worse than any prison, for its occupant can be seen but not heard. Their jabbers are locked away.”
The box shakes under Morpheus’s hands. The queen’s features change from adoring to desperate. She thrashes back and forth, and bubbles churn the surface. Her hair swirls like albino sea grass. Morpheus wraps his arms around the box to keep it from bouncing off the table. When her mouth stretches in a muted scream, he slams the lid shut. His complexion pales. He rewraps the box in the bag before I can see the inscription again.
Smoothing his cuffs over his gloves with trembling fingers, he sighs. “I didn’t wish to upset her. She’s at peace when she’s left alone. But if she’s not freed soon, all her memories will be lost forever.”
“You care about her,” I say with an unexpected twang of envy. In my long-lost memories of us as children, it was always just the two of us. We “got” each other on every level. Morpheus made me feel adored, special, important. I never considered him doing the same for someone else as a man. “Morpheus, what is she to you?”
He doesn’t answer. Not aloud, anyway. His expression is hazy and troubled, and the jewels around his eyes twinkle from silver to black, like stars peering down on a storm-swept night. Alice’s confession from the trial comes back to me: “Ivory was, in fact, very fond of Mr. Caterpillar.” Judging by how Morpheus looked at the queen just now, by how she looked at him, he returned to her castle after his metamorphosis.
I imagine his elegant fingers tracing her skin, his soft lips on hers. That stab of envy evolves to something much uglier—a covetous twist of emotion I can’t even put a name to. What’s wrong with me? Why should I care about Morpheus’s love life, when I’ve finally kissed Jeb after all these years?
Morpheus’s wings flap wide, then close again. The dreamlike fog draping his features is replaced by suppressed rage. “In this realm, the mirrors are gateways. But the hall in which we stand leads only to other parts of Wonderland. The gateways back to your world are inside the White and Red castles, and they are connected to the queens. Ivory’s portal is frozen due to her state and will remain so until she’s freed by the person who put her into this box. That leaves only the Red castle’s portal. I understand you’ve already met Rabid White.”
I gulp and nod.
“So you know how well received you would be in the Red province. Set foot there, and you could end up in a box just like this.”
An image of me or Jeb locked in dark liquid flashes into my mind. Jeb must feel my shiver, because his grip on my shoulders tightens. “So who put Ivory in there?” he asks.
Morpheus removes his hat and sets it next to the bag, leaving his hair a mass of glowing blue tangles. “After Queen Red was exiled to the wilds, she was never seen again. Her stepsister, Grenadine, married the king and became Queen—a woman so forgetful, she could never handle wearing the crown. And now her king wants to give her two.” Morpheus drags a glittering diamond tiara from the bag. “I’ve a spy stationed in the Red castle. When the White Court came to me with news of Ivory’s fate some weeks ago, I sent word for my contact to steal the jabberlock box. I’m harboring Ivory here, along with her crown, to keep them safe from Grenadine and King Red. If they control both the Red and White portals, good luck ever getting home.” He tucks
the tiara away again. “All this will be ameliorated once Alyssa finds the vorpal sword. It’s the most powerful weapon in Wonderland. I can use it to force them to grant Ivory’s freedom. Her portal will be open to you then.”
Jeb levels his gaze at Morpheus. “Let me get this straight. You lured us down here with promises to save Al’s mother, knowing all along we’d have no way home until we freed your freaking girlfriend.”
Morpheus lifts a finger. “Seeing as we’re laying out the facts, let’s not forget that you weren’t invited to begin with. If this is too much for your delicate constitution, mortal dreg, you’re welcome to stay safely tucked away in my guest room until it all blows over.”
“I go where Al goes, dances-with-bugs. And just so you know, if anything happens to her, I’ll pin you by your wings to a corkboard and use you for dart practice.”
Jeb and Morpheus’s standoff is only background noise. I’m here to break the curse for Alison—that’s all that matters.
Only, I should never have dragged Jeb into this. If I could just have an instant replay.
Something the flower zombies said nudges my memory. Something about time moving backward in Wonderland. What had they meant by that? It’s obviously not a literal truth. Time has been moving forward since Alice’s visit, or things wouldn’t be in such a state.
A sense of urgency rolls over me. Alison goes for electroshock on Monday. “I need to get to that tea party and wake up the guests.”
Jeb looks at me. “And how are you supposed to do that? Give a magical kiss to the half-baked hatmaker?”
Morpheus secures his hat on his head and tilts it. “‘Half-baked’? Herman Hattington’s skills happen to be exceptional. No one can custom-fit a hat like he can. And as for a kiss waking him? Wrong fairy tale, Prince Charming. Although I assure you”—Morpheus grazes my temple with his thumb—“our little luv is going to bring us all a happily ever after.”
Jeb catches Morpheus’s wrist in midair. Their gazes meet.
“No touching,” Jeb snarls.
Morpheus jerks his hand free. “Our dinner guests know why Alyssa’s here. Since they’ve been missing their excursions to the human realm, they’re willing to welcome her in hopes they’ll get the white portal back. But should they realize you are an outsider who dropped in without an invite, they’ll not be so accepting. For your own preservation, you must be convincing as an elfin escort. Elfin knights are even-tempered and dispassionate. Time to pretend you have such virtues.”
I sense the tension in the air as Jeb struggles to contain his temper. The two face off, staring each other into the ground.
I shove an arm between them. “Shouldn’t we get to the banquet?”
Frowning, Morpheus fishes Alice’s white gloves from his lapel. The grass stains and dirt have been washed off. “We’ll need the lace fan.” He directs the command to Jeb, who pauses as if he might deck him. I tug on his elbow—a muted plea.
Jeb stalks down the corridor to retrieve the backpack.
Morpheus and I study each other in electrified silence. I can’t decide what upsets me most: my evolving netherling traits … the ticking clock on Alison’s treatments … the jabberlock box … why Morpheus seems to care that I kissed Jeb when he’s involved with someone else … or, worst of all, why it upsets me to know about his love for Ivory.
The thoughts scatter around me like broken glass when Jeb returns.
Morpheus tucks the fan inside his lapel along with the gloves. “Leave your baggage here. If anything goes awry during dinner, come immediately to this hall. It is isolated … nigh impossible to find unless you know the secret entrance. Gossamer will see that you’re sent to the tea party should we have any unexpected guests.”
“Unexpected guests?” I ask.
“Guests of murderous or malicious intent. You are, after all, a fugitive from the Red Court.” Morpheus rubs his hands together as if relishing the thought of trouble. “I’m famished. Let us feast.”
Black-and-white stripes cover the walls of the windowless dining hall. I can’t tell where the walls end and the floor and ceiling begin.
It’s almost as disorienting as the moving moth spirits earlier. Even the long dining table and chairs at the far end of the room are painted to match, creating a camouflage effect. The guests look like they’re hovering in place on a striped background. I feel lost yet strangely at home, like a flea who has taken up residence on a zebra.
A giant chandelier mounted on the cathedral ceiling illuminates our surroundings with swathes of swinging light. I step across the threshold with Morpheus on my right side, my hand curved atop the back of his. Jeb stays two steps behind on my left. In elfin code, it’s unseemly for a knight to have any interaction with his charge, other than to protect her life should the moment arise. We can’t touch, we can’t exchange glances, we can’t even speak to each other, or we’ll blow his cover.
“Your attention, please,” Morpheus says to the guests. Gossamer peers out from under his hair again, and the self-playing harp falls silent along with the dinner chatter and clatter. “Miss Alyssa of the Other Realm.” He turns to me and holds out my arm. “These are the solitary of our kind, born neither of the Red Court nor White. We, the wild and woolly of Wonderland, welcome you to the Feast of Beasts.”
My hand tightens on his as the guests gawk at me, food dripping from their snouts.
Gathered around the long table is a mishmash of creatures, some clothed, others naked. Though they vary in size and gender, they’re all more bestial than humanoid. One looks like a hedgehog, prickles and all, except she has the face of a sparrow. She must be shy, because she rolls into a ball upon our entrance, then bounces under the table. A pink woman with a neck as long as a flamingo’s ducks down and gives the hedgehog a thump with her head, sending the ball out from under the table to the other side of the room.
There are more creatures: some with wings; some that are part-frog/part-plant, with wriggling vines growing out of their skin; others as bald as seals with the bodies of primates and the woolly heads of lambs.
The one thing they all have in common is their interest in me. I’m the focal point of fifty-some sets of eyes.
A few muttered whispers break the hush.
“It’s her …”
“Spitting image, she is.”
“I hear she drained the ocean with a sponge. A sponge. Cunning and imaginative, that.”
They all know about my relationship to Alice and what I’m here to do. Talk about epic fail potential.
My nerves combine with the stenches of food, animal dander, and musk. Dizziness spins the room. Jeb’s behind me. I know he’ll catch me if I faint. I also know that if I do, it will ruin everything. I have to stay strong for Alison. So I pull it together and glance from one strange face to the next, curious which creature came to collect the fan and gloves on behalf of the duchess.
Morpheus leads me to the table and slides out a chair at the right-hand side of his seat at the head. There’s a huge mallet propped beside the table’s leg, and one underneath every chair down our row. He settles me next to a small wiry creature that looks like an albino ferret wearing a black baseball helmet on his head, though his serpentine eyes and forked tongue detract from any cuteness factor.
Jeb takes his place behind me, just out of reach. Morpheus stands at his chair and tips his hat to the guests, black wings arched high. “I apologize for my lateness. But on the bright side, our avenging angel has come at last. So, let the celebration begin!”
After a smattering of applause from our guests, Morpheus hands his hat off to Gossamer and several other sprites. They hang it on the chair’s arm as Morpheus sits, folding his wings over the back like a cloak. Gossamer perches on his shoulder and everyone else resituates with a creak of wood and a rustle of fur and fabrics. Chatter resumes, along with smacks, gulps, and slurps.
“Have a taste, luv.” Morpheus motions to my plate. Then he turns to have a hushed conversation with a green piggish beast who sits
at his left across the table from me. The pig wears a gray pinstriped suit complete with fur cuffs. His sleeves stretch down, barely covering lobster claws. He smiles, and I cringe at his teeth—black and round like peppercorns.
On my plate, a handful of goldfish flap around the center, gasping.
“Twinkle?” the ferret next to me says in a flute-like voice. He points a clawed finger at the fish.
“Are we supposed to eat these raw?” I ask him. “I’ve never been a fan of sushi.”
“Sue-she?” he asks.
“Never mind.” I turn from the goldfish to him, grateful for the distraction. “So, your name is Twinkle?”
He tilts his head, his shiny helmet glinting as he gestures to the fish skeletons on his plate. “Twinkle.”
Nauseated, I stare again at my own thrashing dinner.
Their fish eyes sag in their sockets, looking right at me. Pity and revulsion twist in my stomach. I can’t even imagine my pet eels out of water and unable to breathe. Do the moths and bugs I use in my mosaics suffer like this when they die? Why have I never cared enough to ask?
“Twinkle,” the creature next to me repeats. He lifts a silver spoon almost as big as himself, stands in his chair, and proceeds to thwack several of my fish on their heads, knocking them dead. “Twinkle them, see?” His forked tongue flits past his lips.
“Oh, no! Please …” On impulse, I reach for my goblet to pour liquid over the remaining live fish so they can breathe again. The mixture oozes out slowly, coating the fish in a gritty glob that smells of cinnamon and apple juice. Desperate, I dig the smothered fish out of the mess, getting the goop under my fingernails and into the weave of my gloves.
Everyone’s looking at me again, but I’m too disgusted to care.
“What is this?” I snap at Morpheus.
His eyes gleam. “Do you not put sand in the cider where you’re from?” He smirks. I remember seeing that same teasing smile in dreams as a child, how it used to mean we were about to do something daring and fun. But now there’s an edge of malice behind it. What could’ve happened to change him from the playful boy to the troubled man he is today?
