The Lost Codex

by Lyons, Heather

  I sway closer to them, to him, a flower reaching for sunlight.

  I blink, and the scene changes once more. We are at the seashore. I dip my bare toes into the gentle waves lapping the sand, reveling in how the briny breeze curls my hair. I am wearing another outrageously short dress that barely grazes my knees, gauzy and white and beautiful all the same. The sun slowly sinks into the ocean’s embrace.

  I am smiling, no longer an incoherent beast snarling in her cage and chains.

  The handsome gentleman approaches the other me, shells and colored bits of smooth glass filling his gift to me. I take him in, this man, and Bread-and-butter-flies swarm beneath my ribcage just as surely as they do within the other Alice’s.

  A name surfaces, one instantly, infinitely precious and meaningful.

  Finn.

  He has a name now. This man, this one I am certain has haunted my dreams.

  “I like it here,” my doppelgänger tells him.

  Tells Finn.

  A smile curves his full lips, one that weakens the structural integrity of my knees. He deposits the shells and colored glass into her—my—hands. “Are there beaches in Wonderland?”

  The other me hesitates, as if such a question came at the end of a blade. “Not like this.” A quiet piece of laughter wrenches away from her. “There is a legend in Wonderland that attributes one of the lakes near where I lived to my tears.”

  “You must have cried a hell of a lot to make a whole lake.” It’s said teasingly, though. “What’s it called?”

  “The Pool of Tears.”

  “Just not your tears?”

  Her head tilts back as she inhales sharply. Pain slashes across her—my—face.

  Hands stuffed into his pockets, his own toes dig into the sand as he gazes toward the horizon. Gorgeous shafts of orange and purple ripple across the vast cerulean.

  She and I stare at the trinkets he gifted us. “I suppose the Twenty-First Century isn’t so terrible.”

  He chuckles, and it’s so lovely I wish to bottle the sound and uncork it during my darkest times. How I would delight in being drunk on this man.

  They converse for long minutes, Finn and the other Alice, until the moon crawls into the sky and the air chills. And then we are in a fantastical moving vehicle, and I listen to them—us—discuss everything and nothing all at once. A tangible ease wraps around us, one I wish to knit into a blanket to circle my shoulders.

  Sparks, undeniable and sharp as lightning against sand, sizzle between Finn and the other Alice. Between us.

  In a blink of an eye, I am in a lush park, standing before a bronze statue of a young girl perched upon a mushroom. A rabbit in a waistcoat and a gentleman in a tall hat stand next to her. The other me is dressed in the most scandalous garb yet: skintight pants and a sleeveless top. Sweat unattractively drips from her brow as she glares stonily at the monument. Finn jogs up to where she—I—we—wait, his own breath uneven from exertion. He wears a damp, dark shirt and trousers cut off above the knees, and I am inexplicably attracted to the peculiar sight.

  “Oh, shit.” Self-loathing colors his hushed epitaph. “I totally forgot about this.”

  A child nearby shouts, “Mama! Tell me all about Alice in Wonderland again!”

  Alice in Wonderland.

  What had the other Alice said upon the beach? The Twenty-First Century.

  The other me tears her attention from the bronze monstrosity, eyes impassive. “Is there one like this of you?”

  “Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Not here, though.” One of his hands curls around our arm before he leads us away from excited children. At a discreet spot beneath shady trees utterly unlike any found within the tulgey woods, I cannot help but notice how my doppelgänger leans in toward him.

  He is kind when he talks to us. He does not push. There are no expectations. Instead, there is an irrefutable connection between us, an undeniable chemistry I cannot deny. It is an attraction that rivals what is between the White King and myself. It wavers in the air between man and woman, shimmering and tangible. How is this possible?

  I love the White King. I have loved Jace for years. Yet . . . I cannot deny what is before me, what coils low and hot as I observe these events and conversations.

  Another blink brings about another location where the blaze between Finn and myself turns into wildfire. Each additional blink brings with it new scenes, new conversations. They bring about an Alice who gradually softens and succumbs to the gentleman at her side whilst accepting the foreign world around her. There are places and peoples populating these scenes who breed familiarity, ones who take root within my bones and the soft folds of my brain.

  There is a sharp-tongued woman. A doctor. A distinguished gentleman with piercing blue eyes. A petite, sophisticated woman who deftly pricks my nerves.

  I know them. I know the building in which they—we—live and work.

  I know Finn. I know him.

  These are no dreams, no illusions the Caterpillar created. These are my memories.

  Another blink of the eye has me crammed in a cramped armoire. Racks of clothes poke at me as I watch Finn and I kiss. The sparks that fly between our bodies, our mouths, our souls, are brighter than all the stars in the sky.

  I ache for this man. My body burns for him now.

  Another blink has us in a bedroom. We are making love, and it is beautiful and erotic all at once. If I thought I ached in the armoire, now I willingly succumb to the intensity born in these moments.

  I drift down the river of time, each second, each moment more precious than the next as I find my footing and purpose outside of Wonderland. Just as importantly, I fall wonderfully, fully, magically in love with Finn.

  I love him. I love this kind, intelligent man. He understands me. I understand him, too. He is my partner. He is more than that, though. He is my equal, and he does not even wear a crown.

  Another blink. We are in Wonderland, alongside Jace. Jace . . . who somehow no longer weakens my knees or hatches Bread-and-butter-flies like Finn does. More blinks bring more scenes, more colors and memories, more emotions to fill in the gaps. I witness events astounding and terrifying, dangerous and significant all at once: Timelines, catalysts, and the Society. The Piper. The Queen of Hearts providing a villain a boojum in an effort to assassinate me from afar. Finn saving me, only to be stabbed shortly after. I rip apart the worlds until I find him, and then save him as he saved me.

  He and I move heavens and earths to ensure one another’s safety. This gentleman, this non-Wonderlander, is my true love. We are not bound by prophecies, but by choice. How could I have forgotten such a miracle, such a gift, for even a singular moment?

  Another blink illuminates the danger we face in a mountain, of how desperately I cling to him but fail as a dissonant melody that lifts the hairs on my arms fills my ears. A murderous rage blossoms within my chest as I helplessly watch Finn and myself succumb. Children armed with weapons dance around our prone bodies, cheering and chanting as the other Alice’s eyes drift close. Before they seal shut, a beautiful, cold woman approaches the Piper.

  I have seen that face before. This is a woman of dark magic.

  I blink and find myself in a room of pure white light. Before me is the Piper himself, holding a blank-faced bust with my mask on its face. Worse, the Diamonds’ crown rests upon the bust’s head. I instinctively reach for my vorpal blade, but there is nothing but the villain, the crown, the bust, and myself to be found.

  My fists will have to serve as my weapons instead. I rush him, but as with the settee in my house at the beginning of this journey, the Piper blurs in a swirl of smoke.

  “Why would you wish for all of this pain? This misery? You were exiled from your beloved homeland,” he says, as if I did not just attempt to strangle the life out of his body. “Take my hand, Alice. Listen to my music, and I will make it all go away.”

  I lunge again, only to grab handfuls of nothing. He dares to trick me, to hypnotize me with his melodies and
words? This is yet another of the Piper’s insidious games, and I refuse to play. Instead, I will destroy him and his kin, and then salt the earth they inhabited afterward.

  As if the Piper can hear my thoughts, pity fills his infuriatingly handsome face and eyes. “I will take your pain away. Your exile can lead to something better. Help usher in a new day. All you have to do is listen.” He fondles the crown upon the bust. “Destroy this relic of the past and allow the rapture take you.”

  He lies. This villain lies. Even as he oozes sympathy, he lies.

  A pedestal materializes, and the Piper carefully positions the bust upon its gleaming surface. “Do you choose happiness or pain? A new day or exile? Do you have the audacity to reach out and shape the world?”

  I do, actually.

  “You are nothing.” His image wavers before me. “I will never allow myself to become corrupted by your foul music. You will never use me as a puppet for your malevolent deeds.”

  “You cannot fight me forever.” His body is translucent, nothing but faded stained glass in an abandoned church. “The world is changing. You can live in the new order or die in the old.”

  My fist shatters the glass.

  As blood drips down my arm, down upon colored shards, my vorpal blade appears propped against the pedestal. I wander closer to the bust, pressure building within my chest.

  The mask no longer is blank. It is Finn’s face—gray and lifeless, eyes hollow.

  No.

  I crumple the paper. This isn’t Finn. This isn’t his fate. I won’t allow it.

  I take my crown and place it on my head. I am the Queen of Diamonds. And I will never forget that again.

  I WAKE AT DAWN. Jace sleeps next to me, a heavy arm across my chest. The mask is nowhere to be found. Temptation beckons, as a beloved, warm body presses against mine, to close my eyes and revel in blissful oblivion.

  I don’t, though. I cannot. Instead, I quietly slip from beneath the covers to search for something sharp.

  Sitting at my vanity, I scratch four letters onto my arms as I desperately cling to retreating visions. I chant the name in my mind. I fervently whisper the single syllable.

  Jace appears in the mirror. I watch as he kisses my forehead, and savor the ones that linger against my neck’s pulse. The scent of forest and man curls around me. Warmth from his hands seeps into my shoulders.

  I tug my sleeve over my physical reminder.

  “Today is the best of mornings.” Another kiss finds its way to the corner of the mouth, and I shiver at the streak of bittersweet pleasure that infuses me. “For today, all of our dreams come true.”

  I hunger to hold him tight, to cry or rage at the unfairness of it all. Better yet, to confirm his assertions, to hold them just as dear as he. Instead, I kiss his hand curved around my shoulder, fumbling for meaning or reason.

  Once my silence stretches too long, he claims my hairbrush from the vanity. “Did the poison work?”

  I gaze at myself in the mirror as he drags the bristles through my hair. There is so much heartache written all over the face of the lady who stares back. Who is this person that sorrow has claimed on a day promised to joy?

  My answer is soft. “Yes.”

  “The Caterpillar assured me it would,” he says evenly, “but poisonings are tricky at best.”

  A shiver of pleasure takes hold as the brush slides through my hair and down my back. The cuts grow deeper. I ask, “What is reality?”

  He’s thoughtful. “I assume it is the same answer as the riddle the Hatter constantly taunts us with. The one about the raven and the writing desk.”

  I cannot help the smile that itches my lips. “Helpful.”

  “Honest.”

  Honest. The White King and I, we have only ever been as such to one another. Even now, as wounds reopen and weep, I battle to stay the course. “I must talk to you about last night.”

  A sharp knock rattles the door. “Your Majesty?” It is one of Jace’s squires. “The Cheshire-Cat bade me to fetch you. The White Queen’s standards have been spotted.”

  My soon-to-be counterpart groans. “Allow me a few minutes.” He returns my brush to the vanity. “Why am I surprised she shows with so little time left before the ceremony?” I watch the reflection of Jace, rather than the man. It is easier this way. “I suppose it ought to be me who welcomes her. Or at least warn her that any public or private tantrums will be swiftly dealt with. Let us hope she has no dolls with her.”

  Snatches of a vision of the two of us in one another’s arms while tears streak our cheeks knock the breath clean out of me.

  “I swear to you, she is only here as a witness, nothing more.” His kiss is tender, familiar. I refuse to watch it. “I will take my leave so you may finish getting ready.” Another kiss lingers against the inside of a wrist. “I cannot wait until all our dreams come true today, my lady.”

  Dreams.

  “Jace. Wait.”

  Another series of raps nearly knocks the door off its hinges. “Sire? The Cheshire-Cat is most insistent you come down immediately.”

  “We will talk more on the morrow. On this day, let us usher peace, joy, and love into Wonderland.” He winks. “Despite the White Queen’s insistences over how lovely we will look as dolls that will undoubtedly come from the front row.”

  Jace departs, either uncaring of my requests or oblivious. Was I a coward for not pushing the discussion? In his place, several ladies in waiting join me, ready to style my hair and help me into the most beautiful of wedding gowns.

  I clamor for courage, for strength. I ask myself, over and over: What is reality? More importantly: What does my heart say?

  As I am fussed over, my fingers brush across the red lines upon my arm. I continue to trace the word as my hair is carefully arranged. As my corset is laced and tightened. As my gown is smoothed. As comments are made about the strange markings on my back.

  Reality is what I choose it to be. I know what I want, even if my heart breaks and bleeds and no one is able to see it happen.

  The Flowers are signing, the trees swaying. Tiny, perfumed Dandelion wishes float upon soft breezes. Revelers form a semi-circle around Jace and me. It is beautiful, this wedding. I could not ask for a more lovely setting. We are in our garden, a beloved location. Everything has been perfect, down to the readings and songs. The White Queen has held her tongue. Jace is the epitome of a handsome king in his white suit. The way he looks at me, with such blatant adoration, has guests swooning. And yet, a question now hangs in the air between us, one I’ve fantasized answering in the affirmative for years.

  “Do you take the White King of Wonderland for your husband?”

  I cannot speak the words, though. I do not allow myself this daydream, even here, even now. Instead, I cut the thread between self and question. Between reality and dreams. My bouquet tumbles to the ground, petals spilling like the abandoned hopes and desires they are. Shock dims the garden’s joy.

  Nearby, the Caterpillar lounges on an ornately tufted pillow. The hookah slips from his lips, and for the first time in a long time, all that pours from his nostrils and mouth is simply smoke. No sly pictures, no meaningful depictions. His beady eyes are fastened on me, though, as if he knew this would happen all along.

  When Jace utters my name, bewilderment coloring those pale eyes of his, there are a hundred questions stashed within two syllables. I fear I might collapse in on myself, the pain is so visceral.

  Not once, not twice, but now three times I must lose this man.

  I gaze down upon my arm, at the letters I’d scratched upon my skin: F-i-n-n. Four letters that, even now as they solidify and ring within head and heart, accelerate the very beat of my heart.

  Slivers of golden-brown hair and blue-gray eyes haunt me. He is here, this man from my dreams, hovering on the edge of my consciousness. I refuse to lose him again. I concentrate harder, sharpening the edges of Finn’s face. The feelings infusing every pore, every nerve in my body, are real. They must be. I cannot
accept the depths of my emotions for him are figments of an overactive imagination.

  What I saw last night were memories. The truth.

  I love him.

  The blueish veins lining my hands sparkle and glow beneath pale skin. I shove the beautiful lace sleeve of my wedding gown up and flip my arm over. There, from wrist to elbow, I marvel at the same phenomena, sure that the same decorates my lower back.

  His love is so visceral, it marks my skin.

  Behind me, the subject of years of dreams, hopes, and immense, intense love whispers my name again. When I suffocate in agony, it is all too familiar.

  Highs and lows, so closely woven together.

  I close my eyes and inhale deeply to steady myself. I must trust my instincts. They have yet to fail me. Slowly, carefully, deliberately, and yet loudly all at once, I give life to the contents of my heart and mind.

  I say, “This is not real. None of this is real.”

  When I open my eyes, the wedding guests have vanished. So have the Reverend and the Cheshire-Cat. All that remain are the Caterpillar, still puffing away on his hookah, and Jace.

  “None of this is real,” I say once more. “I am not really in Wonderland. This is the dream, and it is far past time for me to wake up.”

  A tidal wave sucks me under, drowning me in what was previously hidden: the prophecy; the Pleasance Asylum; Van Brunt; the Institute; catalysts; Timelines; the Piper. Most importantly, my choices—and Finn.

  I remember. I remember them all.

  The Caterpillar abandons his pipe. “I wondered how long it would take for you to come to.”

  And yet, here I am still, at my home in the tulgey woods. I wear a wedding dress. The White King of Wonderland stands beside me. My Grand Advisor speaks to me.

  Grief, strong and swift and cutting, tears another piece from me. The Caterpillar is deceased. The Queen of Hearts struck his head from his body. His beautiful, iridescent skin was callously fashioned into a clutch for her amusement.

  “How can this be?” I gesture around us. “I’ve felt things. I cut myself. I bled. I hurt. I—” I turn to Jace. His pale eyes watch me carefully. “I’ve loved.”