The Lost Codex
Page 19
I am torn between wishing to know why, how she managed to tinker with his memory, and wanting to drive a sword through her blackened, evil heart.
“You have a call.”
What timing. I must take a deep breath before turning to face Jack. Van Brunt’s assistant loiters in my doorway.
“Don’t kill the messenger.” As he titters, slashing a finger across his throat, a rosy flush steals up his neck. It is then I realize my fingers are tightly curled into hard balls. Frabjous. “Normally, I wouldn’t bother you, considering, but. . .” He glances at Finn meaningfully, and the urge to slap him increases. “I think you’ll want to take it.”
My jaw aches, my teeth push so strongly against one another. “My phone did not ring.” Never mind that I do not have it with me. I haven’t the slightest where it is.
Finn rises from the couch and drifts into the kitchen. Jack and I follow. “He means there’s a transmission from another Timeline.” Finn uncorks Mary’s bottle of absinthe; green liquid sloshes into a glass. “Yours, I’m guessing. Is this the strongest stuff you have in here?”
I want to knock the crystal out of his hand and simultaneously drink it all myself. As for Jack, the thief hovers at a safe distance, his large feet uncharacteristically shuffling against tile as he twirls short strands of hair around a pair of fingers.
“Mary brought it over.” I indulge in another deep inhalation, cursing the windstorm battering the interior of my body and soul.
This strong, intelligent, brave man has been attacked far too many times over the course of our acquaintance. More than once, these actions came from the hands of my past. He has suffered because of knowing and loving me.
“You should go take the call.” He attempts a smile, but it doesn’t truly grow. “I doubt the White King is reaching out merely to chit-chat.”
When I hesitate, he leans forward and kisses my cheek. “Go. I need to talk to Brom, anyway.”
And yet, I still hesitate. “I will be back shortly.”
His hip props against the counter as he swirls the contents within his glass. His gaze finds mine and holds steady. Tiny shoots sprout within, ones that pray for growth. But then he drinks the entirety of the glass. A kiss on the mouth is offered before he drifts past me, past Jack, and out the door.
A good several inches of air spans between Jack’s boots and the floor. “It was just a few pecks, right?”
“I wonder,” the Caterpillar said, his hookah dangling between his third and fourth feet, “if all Englanders are as brittle as you.”
We were in my study, and it was close to midnight. He had waited until after supper to present me with three-dozen so-called important papers, treatises, and trade offers to go over. The comfort of warm, soft down and even softer blankets beckoned me like a siren perched on rocks, luring lost sailors to a dark home, and yet candles continued to burn brightly and logs within the fireplace crackled merrily.
Lifting my head was enough to elicit a yawn, although I did my best to hide it from him. Not fast enough, for he snapped, “Or as rude.”
For the last two hours, as I poured what precious little energy I possessed into those documents after a day spent walking through a handful of villages, ensuring food and supplies were given to those in need, my Grand Advisor gossiped steadily about those within our court and beyond. After a particularly salacious recollection about the Hatter and the King of Hearts (which I wholeheartedly believed, knowing the Hatter), I mentioned that perhaps we ought to remain focused on state business.
“They are called English, not Englanders,” I clarified as I scrawled my name across yet another sheet of parchment. “What exactly have I done this evening that has left you to determine I am brittle?”
A burst of smoky question marks blew my way. “You are always so insistent upon protecting others’ privacy.”
I knew better than to laugh, but I was amused enough to set down my quill and offer my undivided attention.
Not that I allowed him to see my amusement, either.
“When you hear details of others’ lives, the bones within you turn to glass.” One of his bare feet lifted a goblet of juice, even though another brought his hookah pipe to his lips. “One need only to tap at you to watch you shatter in a horrified transgression of impropriety.”
His riddles left me as exhausted as my day had. “I fail to see the comparison.”
“You wouldn’t.” He snorted, exhaling a long stream of smoke, its ripples burbling over rocks. “Your head is a bit unnaturally thick.”
When I said nothing, he added, “Your fear of being thought of as impolite. You are a queen, Alice. Holding on to such a fear is ridiculous and dangerous.”
“I hardly see how my refusal to indulge in petty gossip is the same—”
He waved off my protestations, the juice in his cup sloshing onto my desk. “Impropriety is not the same thing as knowing when the sharing of information is beneficial.” A sneer turned his lips up before they curled back around the pipe.
I said slowly, carefully, “You were gossiping.”
A smoky top hat hit me right in the face. As I waved the sweet smoke away, coughing, he snapped, “I was informing you that the Queen of Hearts marked the Hatter for death. Annoying and idiotic as he may be, his death ought to be from his juice, not her battle-axe. Does privacy trump death?”
I once more fail the Caterpillar, for my upbringing could not be erased, at least not entirely. But in this moment, even when death is not suspected, I allow the glass within my bones to soften, to melt into a much more durable, mobile sand.
This is twice I have failed Finn in the span of too little time.
Instead of knocking Jack to the ground, I instead smooth back the golden strands that have fallen from my neglected bun. “Lead the way.”
My gait is brisk as I make my way to the control room. Jack apologizes and detours to answer yet another call that sounds upon his cell. Inside, I find Marianne within the control room, clacking upon her laptop. When she notices me, she digs within a nearby tote and extracts a pair of headphones. “I must apologize over how I cannot leave yet,” she tells me, “but these miraculous contraptions are noise canceling, so your privacy is assured.”
I wonder what the Caterpillar would think of such an invention.
As Marianne adjusts the fuchsia-colored metal and plastic muffs over her ears, I settle into a partially burnt rolling chair before the large monitor. All around us are blackened, scorched reminders of the Piper’s fury—and of the injustice Wendy has suffered at his hands.
I claim the tablet nearby and tap upon the hold button. Within a split second, an all-too-familiar face graces the screen, contrary to time and space.
The White King of Wonderland’s face is no longer clean-shaven. A careless, adolescent beard darkens his jaw and above his lip; a fresh, pink scar streaks across a gaunt cheek. Dirt and blood cake pale skin.
Time, distance, and acceptance do nothing to quell the ache that tenderizes my heart. My past and Wonderland reach out to touch me for the second time in a single day.
“I was worried that perhaps you would not come.”
In my mind, crystal clear, is a floral wreath of white roses. A large, beautiful diamond ring. A ride across the Dark Meadows, where strong arms and easy banter brought a smile to my face and joy to my heart. A promise of safety, of dreams fulfilled.
Dreams are not reality, though.
I say, “The Institute was attacked, and there is much confusion abound.”
His nearly white eyes soften and yet narrow as they trace me through pixels and impossibilities. “Are you injured?”
He asks me this, when it is he who has seen better days of health.
“I am fine.”
“And the others?” He pauses, voice lowering. “The Prince of Adámas? Van Brunt? The doctor? How do they fare?”
A surprising sting surges forward in both eyes and throat. “Our company is together once more, and that is what matters.”
“And you?” My voice is steady, far steadier than the pulse beneath my skin or the muscle within my ribcage.
His head tilts back to reveal a mud-splattered throat. “War is not a kind mistress, my lady. It demands much.” Somewhere behind him, in my beloved Wonderland, a boom rings so strongly that a pencil upon the desk before me rattles to the floor. “The price always feels too high.”
No matter what, no matter reason or acceptance, part of me still will forever yearn to be there, defending and fighting alongside my people, and his.
“But, let us not talk about that,” Jace says. “I have reached out this way for I have news you must hear.”
What would a week, nay, a singular span of light and darkness, be like nowadays that did not possess the darkest of news?
“As you know, since I was last in your acquaintance,” he says as another boom thunders in the distance, “I have been hunting the Queen of Hearts. I had begun to worry, perhaps, that she had fled to another land, but word arrived just yesterday of a most alarming nature. The citizens of Nobbytown have become unlike themselves—and the few witnesses who escaped such a fate claim that such stark changes have come at the hands of mysterious pipers roaming the streets and pubs.”
My inclination to reveal Hearts’ recent whereabouts stills on my tongue, as I have surely fallen off a cliff, or the ground beneath me has turned to quicksand.
“These . . . strangers, if you will, are garbed entirely in Hearts regalia specially belonging to the Queen.” When Jace rubs a hand across his face, new streaks of dirt and blood form weary pictures. “It cannot be a coincidence, Alice. Wonderland has magic, but I have never seen or heard of this kind.”
The Queen of Hearts was in New York several hours ago, molesting Finn. And now . . . “The Chosen are in Wonderland.”
“We have been thus far unsuccessful in our attempts to capture and interrogate one of these pipers,” Jace continues. “I am determined, though.”
Tiny bumps riddle my arms, eliciting a shiver. “Has there been any indication of the Piper himself?”
“I wish I could answer definitively one way or another, my lady. While most of the reports speak of children, there are some of dark-haired gentlemen. If it is the Piper that you seek, I know not.”
“Do everything that you can to protect yourself and your troops, Jace. Do not allow yourself to listen to their music, no matter how determined you are to capture one of these fiends. Promise me this.”
His displeasure creases his forehead. “Alice. . .”
“Please.” The word is broken, unsteady as the reality I now find myself within. “I cannot do what must be done if he was to get his hands upon you, too.”
My emotions rule me. My bones turn to glass, no matter how much I wish or pretend differently, and they shatter all too easily.
What would the Caterpillar say?
Jace’s nearly white eyes widen; his lips flatten as they press between his teeth. For many seconds, I scramble to reclaim the glassy shards I just spewed across the control room, to wipe away the feelings coursing down my cheeks.
He asks me, “Where is your prince?”
The dam has been breached. I seal my eyes closed, so I cannot accept compassion I do not deserve.
And yet, a woman cannot maintain the might of a pillar forever. Here, now, faced with the man who has been my confidant for the entirety of my adulthood, I allow myself to momentarily lean against his strength.
I lay bare my shame. “I failed him.”
“I find that impossible.”
Jace’s belief in me, in my convictions and abilities, cannot be tolerated in this instance. “He is physically fine. They have miraculous medicines here, ones that were able to replace skin peeled away in small strips, repair countless lash marks, and soothe a multitude of other injuries that only the truly evil could inflict.” A quick glance over my shoulder promises Marianne’s focus remains upon her computer. Even still, the words I need to say are herculean to enunciate, to even accept a release into reality, so I merely gasp, adrift. “As Finn was continually tortured, I lay asleep, unmolested. Just today, the Queen of Hearts. . .”
The name of my nemesis commands oily, strong tendrils down and around my throat, it is so bitter upon my tongue.
Jace, however, bears no impediment, as he seizes on the assumption with alacrity. “What of the Queen of Hearts?”
“She was here, in New York City, within the Piper’s Manhattan apartment.” There are no daggers to be found, so the twisted chair arms will have to do to still my hands. “I do not know all of what occurred when Finn . . . encountered her,” I cannot, will not mention the lip rogue, “but a Society agent was discovered bearing a bloody heart carved into his chest, and Finn lost bits of his memory.”
There is no doubt that Hearts manipulated Finn and Lidenbrock for one reason, and one reason only. She wished to send me a message. She wished me pain.
I desire to offer her the same in return.
“Hearts is in your New York?”
“Gone now.”
“Alice.”
I close my eyes to his compassion and shared outrage, and command the tide I called forth when I began my confessional to recede.
Jace is undeterred.
“I am sorry, deeply sorry, to hear of this, my lady. And as I was not present, although I wish I had been, I may only surmise at all that truly happened during the time since we last spoke. You and Finn share Wonderlandian blood magic. You cannot harbor guilt for sleeping, for his love protected you, just as it has before. And yours. . .” Unbidden grief, scarred yet raw, still has no place to hide when the White King discusses such matters. “Many people do not survive torture, let alone encounters with Hearts. You know this. How often did we witness such devastation inflicted upon innocents?”
Too often.
“Your prince survived, though. And that is what you must hold on to. He survives when so many do not. That cannot be sheer happenstance.” Quietly, assuredly, “Not when it comes to those with a bond such as yours.”
How difficult must it be for the White King to say such things to me? It is nearly unbearable to hear them, even if he is my confidant. Shame stains the logic he provides. “I apologize for turning the conversation toward more delicate matters. We were discussing—”
“These roads that we traverse upon are not easy by any means, for any soul,” he continues, and rather than indulge in annoyance for the interruption, I am taken back to so many nights in which we lay in bed, expounding philosophy. “There are times in the dark of night in which I wallow in the belief that ours, in particular, are even more rocky than most. You and I are rulers, my lady. The paths before us are never straight or meant for an easy day’s journey. But perhaps it is not even that we are kings and queens—perhaps each person’s road travelled is filled with potholes and stones, and we stumble, fall, and right ourselves all the same. We must be considerate of those we love, and even those we do not. We must find our way with others who may share the road with us, for as little as a small slice of time or even years or further. There are periods when we must clear obstacles that block our journey, be them overturned carriages or people. And there are times when those we share our path with branch off and wander away, or even tread parallel to us upon another road.”
Stupid, mimsish emotions, refusing to obey my orders, tumble down my cheeks.
“I am well acquainted with your heart, Alice. I often have wondered if I know it better than my own. And thusly, as your . . . friend, your confidant . . . as one who will always be there for you when needed, I ask that you trust in that heart. Trust in the strength of its love. I always have, and I believe your prince does, too. You could not have failed him. The Queen of Diamonds does not fail those she loves. She will fight, kicking and clawing if she mu
st, to protect those she allows to walk beside her. You may have been sleeping while he was tortured, but you woke, did you not?”
I cannot live in a dream world, no matter how alluring it may be, not when there are those in the real world who need me.
Not when my north star was, and is, in danger.
“You woke, and your prince is no longer anyone’s prisoner. Hearts is gone, although you must stay on guard. I do not need to have been present to know that you fought your way to your prince, and you made his safety just so.”
I open my heart once more: raw, steady, honest. “You were in my dreams, when I was in Koppenberg Mountain, hunting for the Piper. We were in Wonderland, and there was peace.”
The White King’s smile is wan. His lip is split and caked with dried blood and pus. “And still, you woke.”
I woke, because I could not, would not, let Finn go. Not even in a dream. I freely gave him my heart, and he gave me his in return. I have a home in New York, a purpose. A mission.
I say lightly, “You sound like the Sage.”
The quiet timbre of his laugh comforts my hardening bones. “Perhaps I do. I visited her many times after you left Wonderland. She and I debate often.”
I tsk, grateful to have, after digging so deep into this confessional well, a clear cup of humor. “A Wonderlandian king dares to disagree with the Sage? Treasonous.”
“That is neither here nor there.” He cups his mouth, mock whispering, “I believe she rather enjoys it.”
Of course she does. She is the Sage, is she not?
I inelegantly wipe a sleeve across both cheeks and nose. “So. It appears that the exiled will return to Wonderland yet again.”
For the Piper and the Queen of Hearts.
The White King’s name is bellowed just before the roar of thunder distorts his image upon the screen. “Name the date,” he says, “and I will have soldiers meet you at the rabbit hole in order to assure safe passage.”
“Much appreciated, but no escort will be necessary. To risk anyone further is unforgivable.”