A cold rain jolts me awake. The scent of moisture fills my nostrils and thunder shakes my eardrums, muffled by a swooping sound. My right cheek nestles against something both soft and bristly.
I shake my head, trying to remember where I am.
The mushroom lair. I'm in Morpheus's arms…He's flying me to his manor. I'm terrified to look, but have to know where he's taken Jeb. I push up, expecting to see Wonderland's terrain passing beneath my stratospheric heights. Instead, lightning brightens the haze around me, illuminating Dad as he glides on a butterfly mount up ahead. I'm surrounded by storm clouds, and I'm not being held by Morpheus. I'm riding a monarch.
Sadness snakes through me. Lately, when I sleep, my dreams relive moments in Wonderland with Morpheus, or in Jeb's garage, watching him paint and work on motors, or even making cookies with Mom in our kitchen. One common thread binds them all: Waking up is a dreaded occurrence.
I tighten my grip through the hairy bristles of the butterfly's thorax as we plunge out of one cloud and into another. My vision adjusts through sheets of rain and blinking darkness. The leafy treetops appear closer with each flash of lightning. Our butterflies are descending, which means we're about to reach Oxford and my heart-to-heart with Dad.
What's he going to think when he finds out I'm responsible for this entire nightmare?
Wind skids through us, causing our rides to lurch and catching the drawstring at my shoulder. The ballet bag jostles, hard enough for the diary to bump against my rib cage.
For an instant, I let myself get lost in the flavor of the rain, of skirting in and out of clouds alive with electric light. My wet braids flap around my face and shoulders-driven either by my magic or the wind.
The diary bumps against my ribs again. It's not the ride or the weather causing the movement this time. The strings stretch taut against the wind's pull. Something has roused the memories on the pages, made them restless. Maybe by cozying up to my darker side, I reminded Red's memories of their vendetta against her. Or worse, maybe the memories are a part of me now, no matter how much distance I put between us. After all, Red was once a part of my body. And she'll forever be a part of my blood.
Maybe even my heart.
I wrestle the drawstring to subdue the diary. The bag jerks free, slips from my shoulder, and plummets through the darkness and rain along with our chance to return to normal size, and even worse, my leverage against Red.
"Follow that bag!" I demand of my ride.
We are not taxis, the monarch answers. We stay the course.
"That's why we have to get it back!" I shout. "To stay the course!"
The monarch ignores my pleas. A daring thrum springs to life inside me, the one that Morpheus has always nurtured, the one I've been honing over the past month.
I rip my snaps apart and shed the shirtdress, leaving only the open-back leotard. The scarf around my neck shields the diary's key hanging beneath.
My discarded dress trails toward Dad. It slaps the back of his head and he looks over his shoulder. "What are you doing?" he yells.
"Saving our one chance to save everyone else." My wings pop free. I groan at the agony shooting through my right shoulder as the wounded one unfurls.
Without risking a look at Dad, I leap off the butterfly. Its antenna slaps my boot's sole as I descend, spread-eagle, caught up on a current of wind.
The hat pops off my head, but the scarf stays secure, its ends flapping in time with my braids.
"Allie!" Dad's desperate scream is snatched away by thunder.
I descend through the rain-streaked sky, terror giving way to awe. My wings provide drag and slow me down, but they're too weak to offer lift. The wind adds another hurdle, buffeting me. I'm invigorated. One thing being crowned a queen in Wonderland has taught me: Power is impotent unless it's cultivated with risks.
This is living…a free fall into the unknown.
Rain swirls and pelts me. I force my eyes open and tilt my wings to veer in the direction the bag fell. The pouch comes into blurry view as I gain momentum. An instant before I pass it, I snatch the bag and tuck it into the bodice of my leotard, glad I had the foresight to tie the drawstrings before we left. Everything is still inside.
Lightning slashes my surroundings. Giant trees zoom closer and closer, their leaves appearing deceptively soft. But what waits between the spaces-branches jagged and monstrous-will tear me to shreds. At my size, I may as well be a bug hitting a cracked windshield. There'll be nothing left but blood and tattered wings.
An instant before I collide with the nearest tree, I imagine its branches meshing together, the soft, thick moss rising to coat the domed shape, forming a giant pincushion.
On impact, the breath puffs from my lungs. I slide into the cushioned surface, like a straight pin burrowing through a sawdust filling. The force bends the moss and foliage around me until the top of my head bursts out and slams into the slippery trunk. A sharp pain slices through my skull and spine, and everything goes black.
When I come to, my muscles and flesh hum with the sensation of being stretched. Something purrs at my ear, then a buzz of wings and a brush of soft fur, all too familiar.
Chessie?
It can't be. I never saw him after the incident in the art studio a month ago. I assumed he'd already returned to Wonderland and was trapped there like Mom. He would've visited me in the asylum otherwise.
My eyes don't want to open. I wriggle my arms and legs beneath the cozy weight of blankets, expecting my head to pound. I heard my skull crack when it hit that tree. Instead, I'm comfortable, serene…euphoric, even. A tingling sensation lingers at my ankle. Someone melded their birthmark to mine.
Maybe it was Chessie.
I groan.
"She's coming to." It's Dad's voice.
My eyelids refuse to budge. A bitter flavor sits on the back of my tongue and I smack my lips.
"I wasn't sure I got enough down her." Dad strokes my hair soothingly.
"Drinking mushroom tea is five times more potent than eating them." It's a stranger's voice-gruff, as if he's been gargling sand. "She's going to need food soon, to counteract the effects. Perhaps I should bring her something so she can stay hidden. Not all of the castaways are as understanding as this little fellow. In fact, he's the one responsible for keeping them here all these weeks. Most of them wanted to find her so she'd fix the portals. They miss their world and their kin."
So Chessie didn't visit me in the asylum because he didn't want to lead any angry netherlings my way. He's really here!
I force my eyes open.
The scent of melted candle wax warms my nostrils, and the soft glow of firelight blinks against a windowless wall upholstered with royal blue and forest green fabric.
It's a private chamber. I'm on a round, backless couch piled with colorful tasseled throw pillows. The decor reminds me of a circus-wild yet weirdly graceful. Zebra-skin rugs drape the domed ceiling. Other than the candelabras, everything is cushioned, even the floor. The surroundings are a mixture between the padded cell at the asylum and Sister One's cottage in Wonderland.
Two silhouettes take shape, standing over me.
The stranger looms as tall as my dad. There's something very familiar about him, although I've never seen him before in my life.
A brown-leather cloak swallows his muscular form and suede khaki pants are tucked into his boots. His oversized hood cascades down his shoulders and back. All he needs is a quiver of arrows, and he could be Robin Hood.
Dark hair, flecked with gray, complements his goatee and bushy eyebrows. Eyes the color of root beer study me. "Why, hello at last," he says kindly.
An itch starts at the tip of my nose. I drag a hand from under my blankets to cover my resulting sneeze. I squawk as my nose shrinks to the size of a pea.
"Ah, having a slight reaction to the tea, are you?" the stranger says.
"Slight?" My voice sounds more like a squeak because of my miniscule nose. I throw off the blankets and scramble to sit up.
Dad eases down beside me on the edge of the cushion.
"It's okay, Allie. Just give it a second." Even his calm expression can't settle my nerves. Another sneeze bursts, and my nose returns to normal size, but my right hand inflates and doesn't stop until it's the size of a basketball.
I yelp.
"She has your chin," the stranger says, as if oblivious to my spontaneous deformity. "But the wings and eyes…"
"Those are her mother's," Dad says proudly, as if he, too, is blind to what's happening.
Maybe the reaction is that I'm hallucinating. I try to lift my swollen hand, but it sits next to me like a boulder. I squeeze it to a fist and give it a hard jerk. It pummels Dad's stomach and sends him rocketing off the couch. He lands in a pile of throw pillows.
Nope. Not hallucinating.
Another sneezing fit overtakes. Once it stops, I sigh, relieved to find my hand is normal and all of my other body parts to scale.
The stranger helps Dad up. Dad brushes off his flannel pants, and they both look down at me with wide brown eyes-as if I were a science experiment.
I pat the top of my head, the one part of me I can't see. "Oh, no. My head's the size of a blimp, isn't it?"
The stranger chortles. "Not at all, child." He slaps Dad's back. "She's definitely got the Skeffington sense of humor, yes?"
Chessie flutters into view, smiling mischievously. I'm so happy to see him I shout his name.
The tiny Barbie ballet bag hangs around his neck and a ragged hole gapes in the bottom. The mushrooms are gone. But thankfully, the outline of the diary still wrinkles the satiny fabric from inside. Red's magical memories survived.
I feel my collarbone to find the necklace still in place, although the key is as big as a regular one after growing with me. Since the book is still toy-size, it must have fallen out of my leotard's bodice before I drank the tea. Maybe it's better that the diary is small. It will be easier to handle if the emotions get unruly again.
Chessie unscrews his head and it rolls toward me along the floor, the bag's strings tangled around his cranium. A silly laugh escapes him as his decapitated body gives chase.
Dad and the stranger smirk.
How can my dad be so comfortable around all this weirdness? And the stranger, too? They're both wearing the same goofy Elvis grins.
In fact, they look so much alike they could be…
I swing my legs around. The bright colors of the room disorient me. "Dad? Is this…?"
"Oh, sorry, Butterfly." Dad sits down next to me again, putting his arm around the tutu at my waist to avoid crushing my wings. "This is Bernard."
"Call me Uncle Bernie," the man insists.
Chessie's nose bumps my plastic boot and comes to a stop. I tug the ballet bag's strings, and his head spins like a top. As I wrap my fingers around the diary, the stranger's words register: Uncle Bernie.
A smile spreads over my face. There's a knowing behind his eyes, an unconditional affection that I didn't do anything to earn, other than being born.
"You're brothers."
Bernie's grin widens. "That we are. Nice to finally meet you." He places a hand on Dad's shoulder. "Our family…they'll be overjoyed. We'd given up hope."
A strangled sound I don't recognize breaks from my throat.
"She needs water," Dad says to his brother.
His brother.
Uncle Bernie nods and promises to return. I watch his back-broader than Dad's-as he steps out into a cushioned hallway lined with dozens of upholstered doors similar to the one in our room.
Chessie screws his head on once more, flitters his wings, and follows my uncle before I can thank him for healing me and watching over the diary.
The door shuts, leaving Dad and me alone with nothing but the popping of lit candles. I can still see the worry lines on his forehead, etched in place by Mom and Jeb's absence over the past few weeks. But there's happiness softening the ones around his eyes.
All my life I thought we had no extended family. Then last year I realized Mom and I were related to magical creatures from Wonderland. Now, I have an uncle. A human uncle who looks like the Prince of Thieves.
I must have other relatives, too. Cousins and aunts, even grandparents.
Which means Dad has nephews and nieces. Parents of his own…
"When are we going to meet them?" I ask, not sure he'll pick up on my inference.
"My mom and dad are gone." Regret echoes in his voice, becoming my own. "But I have two sisters, and they have children. As do Bernard and his wife. We'll meet them after we find your mother and Jeb. Other than the netherlings passing through, only members of the Looking-glass Knighthood stay at this inn. My brothers, uncles, male cousins, and nephews. The women and youngest children stay elsewhere in Oxford."
I stare at him, dumbfounded.
Dad catches both my hands. "We're descended from the same lineage as Charles Dodgson. After he discovered the way to Wonderland, and after Alice found her way back out of the rabbit hole-"
"Wait," I interrupt. "Charles discovered the way to Wonderland? I thought Alice told him about the rabbit hole. That she inspired his fictionalized account. Are you saying he actually knew the place was real?"
Dad shrugs. "The only history we've retained is that the men in our family were called by Charles to guard the gates of AnyElsewhere. To be appointed as knights. His published works help fund us. It's been our duty for over a century. The boys are tested when they're seven years old. There's usually only one son born with the gene. My brother and I were the exception. We both had it."
"What gene?"
"A second sight like Charles had. An ability to see the weak points in the barrier between the nether-realm and our world. It has to do with infinity mirrors."
The only infinity mirrors I'm aware of are in funhouses at carnivals and county fairs. I swallow hard, wondering how such a childish diversion could be the gateway to a horrific place like the looking-glass world. But then again, maybe that's fitting, considering Wonderland is built upon children's dreams, imagination, and nightmares-considering those things are its very foundation.
"So…you had that ability?" I ask.
"Have it," Dad corrects. "I forgot after my memories were erased. But it's all come back. I was captured by the spider creature a few months after I started training to be a White knight."
My chin quivers. I should be in awe just imagining him as a knight, but there's sadness in his voice. I lean in to hug him. He wraps his arms around me, careful to avoid smashing my wings.
He regrets missing out on the life he was meant for. Just like Mom missed out on hers.
My birth, my entire existence, has been at the expense of their noble and royal callings. Not to mention, a black stain on the once beautifully bizarre landscapes of Wonderland that are now withering because of me.
"I'm sorry," I say, wishing I could blot out all of my wrongs with an apology. But it's not possible.
I think of the tiny diary in the ballet bag. Red's regrets were so acute, she cast them aside, abandoning the memories that made them. But there's no "forgetting potion" I can take. And even if there were, I wouldn't. Nothing can be erased if I'm going to put things right for everyone. And I will, no matter what it costs me in the end.