“I’ve found an even better way now.” The danger edging his voice makes the hair along my neck stand up.
Tears singe my eyes. A few slip free and run down my face. They hang at my jawline before dripping down and spattering on my chest.
Jeb finishes the back of my shirt—leaving slits at my shoulder blades for wings—and moves to my front. He studies my face. “You’re going to have to stop crying. You’ll smear the paint.”
“Jeb, please.”
“It’s not worth the tears,” he assures me, though a tremor shakes his voice as he notices the wetness on my chest. He drags a horizontal strip of paint along the bottom of my rib cage and above my navel to form the shirt’s front hem. “You’re looking at this all wrong. To be able to create your own scenes and landscapes. That means you get to reign over them. Hell, I’ve given myself wings with my shadow. I can fly with you. Together, we could rule this world and build our own happy endings. I have everything to offer you that Morpheus has.” He juts out his chin in thought. “Had,” he corrects with a smug smile.
My lungs ache, as if he’s knocked the breath from me. “I don’t want those things from you. I love your faults and imperfections. Your kind heart. The scars that match mine, and the struggles to find ourselves. I want your humanness. Nothing else.”
He frowns. What I wouldn’t give to witness his lips break into a genuine smile. The one with those dimples I love. My throat hurts, clogged with emotions I’m afraid to unleash.
“I would’ve followed you anywhere,” he mumbles, his voice raw with agony. “All I ever wanted was to spend forever with my best friend. With the girl who gave life to my paintings. But I’m not the one who inspired your mosaics, am I? It was always Wonderland. That’s why you chose him.”
“Chose him? It was a kiss, that’s all—”
“It’s not the kiss. Sometimes words are louder than actions.”
“Words . . . ? What words?”
“The promise you gave him that you couldn’t give me.”
I growl to keep from crying again. “You’re not making sense. Please, tell me what you mean.” Maybe Morpheus told him about my vow. If he’s been taunting Jeb this whole time about our day together, that would explain some of this animosity. But not all of it.
“No more talking. I need to concentrate.” Jeb fills in the lower half of my shirt. He layers paint along the skin beneath my bust line, avoiding where my necklaces hang. I should take them off . . . get them out of his way, but I can’t move because the brush is riding the curve of my right breast, coating it so no bandage peeks through.
Jeb’s breath catches at the same time as mine. I know his body language, how the muscles work in his jaw when he’s struggling to stay in control.
The brush becomes an extension of his hand. It doesn’t matter that bristles and a handle stand between us. Even through the bandages, I can feel our connection. There’s no heat, or warmth, or pressure. It’s a deeper bond, born of friendship and hard-won trust: a summoning beneath the skin, as if my spirit calls to him.
I sip slivers of air with each movement of his brush . . . afraid to breathe too loud, afraid to move. Afraid if I disturb the atmosphere in any way, I’ll break the spell he’s under. Maybe I can bring him back, help him remember the good parts of his human life. Maybe, if I can get him to reach out and hold me, it will remind him of everything we meant to each other.
His hand starts to shake the moment he finishes painting my left breast.
“Jeb.” I venture a whispered plea. “All those weeks I was in the asylum, I gave in to my madness, faced those fears. But I never forgot you. Or us. Please, show me you remember, too.”
His gaze intensifies on mine. My body aches with longing, familiar with that look from the past.
The palette and brush clatter at my feet as he grabs my face, careful not to smear the paint on my chest. His thumb traces the trails my tears made on my cheek and then nudges the dimple in my chin. His breath cloaks my face, warm and sweetened by the honeycomb-flower he ate earlier.
I run my palm across his chest and lower, seeking his scars through the thin fabric of his T-shirt. Seeking the Jeb I’ve grown up with. My solid rock in spite of his own brokenness.
He groans. His fingers thread through the hair bunched at the base of my neck. I clutch his shirt, tip my face to kiss the labret at the edge of his lower lip.
With a surprised sound, he breaks my hold and jerks back. Red light reflects off his face. We look down at my neck simultaneously. The diary’s pages are glowing.
“What is that thing?” His voice is thick with emotion. The red light flickers in his eyes like candles’ flames. His expression changes from curious to mesmerized. He uses his pinky to lift the two strings grazing my collarbone, managing not to touch the dip between my breasts.
“Are those real pages?” he asks.
I push my heartbeat from my throat with a gulp. “It’s nothing.” I lift the tiny book along with the key over my head and hide them in my fist.
Don’t slip away again . . . Please, stay with me . . . Hold me, hold me, hold me.
My silent mantra shatters as he catches and flips my wrist to drop the necklaces onto his waiting palm. The moment they make contact, he curses and flings them across the room. Eyes widened in shock, he opens his fingers.
The diary left an imprint—a red, fiery brand—in the center of his hand.
Jeb pries his palm away as I try to assess the severity of his wound. His mood shifts to accusatory in the blink of an eye. “What do you have inside that book? Why did it burn me?”
“I don’t know,” I mutter, as much to myself as anyone.
The diary has protected me at least twice while I’ve been inside this mountain. Does it think Jeb is a danger to me, too?
Is he?
“It’s just words,” I add. “Magical words. Nothing to do with you.” I can’t be any more specific, or he’ll figure out that I’m planning to search for Red while he and Dad are gone.
Jeb narrows his eyes, as if he doesn’t buy it. I’m bewildered, wondering once more where all this animosity and suspicion is coming from.
Dad chooses that instant to step back into the room. He notices my half-painted state and quickly looks away. “Everything okay with you two?”
“Never better,” Jeb says.
Dad picks up the duffel and carries it to the table to sift through the supplies with his back turned, an obvious ploy to give us privacy.
Not that we need it. Jeb makes additions—a panel of lace flowing out from my T-shirt’s hem to cover my navel and lower back, and fingerless gloves that match—so removed from the motions, I feel as if I am a one-dimensional doll after all, and he’s folding paper clothes around me.
When he’s done, he leads me to the cheval mirror so I can watch as he taps each painted piece with the brush’s tip, now lit with violet sorcery.
The golden pigment on my legs transforms to glittery, footless tights that end at my ankles. They bend and stretch, like spandex. The two flaps of red, ivory, and green plaid he painted from my waist to midthigh form a front and back seam on a miniskirt, and the black cropped T-shirt loosens to a comfortable fit. The ivory skull and gold vines on front puff out as if embroidered with metallic thread.
He takes down my hair, then whisks the paintbrush through my platinum blond waves. I reach up to touch a tiara-like headband of white roses and glistening rubies that match my crimson streak.
For the first time in a month, I feel like me again. Part netherling and part human—and a touch regal.
Jeb’s reflection appears behind mine, his chin above my head. He drops the diary and key necklaces into place, careful to touch only the strings. “I can’t stress this enough,” he says. “Don’t get the clothes wet.”
I turn to thank him for giving me such beautiful things, but he’s already across the room, discussing the Wonderland gate mission with Dad.
Back behind my screen, I check under my clothes. The ban
dages have bonded with the painted outfit, leaving only Morpheus’s lacy gifts intact. I pull my Barbie boots over my tights. We decided it was better I have waterproof shoes. As soon as I step out, Dad and Jeb escort me to the lighthouse.
Dad gives me a hug and strict instructions not to budge till they return. Together, they head back to the boat. I’m gloating to myself, laughing at how they’ve forgotten I can fly, when Jeb stops halfway down the stone stairs, says something to my dad, and returns to where I’m standing.
He grips the doorframe above my head, leaning over me, his strong features lit up by the moon. “I know you’re planning to leave,” he says.
I stifle a denial, furious he can anticipate my every move when I can’t even peel away one layer of his thoughts.
“There are only two ways to get out of this refuge,” he continues. “One, the way you came in. I’ve commanded the graffiti not to hurt you, but also not to let you into that tunnel. You don’t have enough rainwater here to erase them all. And if you try to take water from this ocean, it will evaporate as soon as you carry it out of the scene. The other way is the mountain passage, and I’m the only one who controls it.”
The netherling in me is impressed by his new role as master manipulator. But the human side, the one who knows this isn’t the real Jeb, is afraid of what he’s become.
“Take advantage of this time,” he insists. “Rest and preserve your strength for Wonderland. It isn’t going to be a picnic for you or your dad.” The old Jeb flashes into view as he looks hesitant, and I wonder if he’s considered what it will mean for us if he stays in AnyElsewhere. That it will be good-bye forever.
He drops his burned hand and squints at the fresh scar. “You never told me what was in that book.”
I cradle the diary between my fingers. “I told you it was words.”
He huffs. “Well, it looks like words will always stand between us then, huh?” With that, he leaves. “Sometimes words are louder than actions” echoes in the scrape of his boot soles on the stone steps.
What could I have said the last time we were together that was so treasonous it tore his faith in us apart?
Gritting my teeth, I slam the door. Despite what Morpheus would have me believe, there’s something other than rage, jealousy, and regret eating away at the Jeb I know. Maybe netherling magic is too much for any mortal to harness without going crazy.
I sit on the bed in the tower. Worried about Jeb and Dad’s excursion, and disoriented by the perpetual darkness, I leave the canopy curtains open and lie on my side to watch the starry sky through the porthole. I breathe in the salty air, and plan my escape: Once Jeb and Dad have time to leave, I’ll seek out Morpheus in the underground rooms. He’s bound to know of another exit from the mountain. We’ll use the diary to lead us to Red. Although I’m not sure how we’ll find our way back afterward.
My eyelids grow heavy and I fall asleep . . .
Somewhere in my dreams, I see glimpses of Mom. Her hair is long now, far past her shoulders and shimmering with a soft, pinkish tint. She looks healthy, aglow with magic. She’s with Grenadine in the Red castle, replacing my substitute queen’s whispering ribbons in the absence of Bill the Lizard. Each day, Mom gently reminds Grenadine of the things she needs to remember. For that, she’s respected and revered by the court’s subjects.
But there’s a darkness encroaching that respects no one . . . a dusky dread that creeps along the castle walls and seeps into the crevices.
Before it can overtake the palace, Ivory and her knights arrive. Ivory blows a silvery mist that freezes everything it touches, including the card guards. Then she leads Mom and Grenadine somewhere safe. A place of light and glistening hope.
The dream ends, leaving their location a mystery. All I know is Mom has found sanctuary.
Unsure how long I slept, I scramble out of bed and sprint through the door. The moment the night air hits me, I free my wings. Half flying and half hopping, I race down the steps toward the shore. I leap at the last minute. My boots skim the water, then I’m airborne.
I’m reminded of how Mom flew alongside me on prom night. Morpheus once told me that she and I have an unusual bond. That he was able to use her dreams as a conduit into mine. Maybe she’s found some way to reverse that power and communicate with me. Maybe by having me here in AnyElsewhere, so close to Wonderland, she’s able to break through—because the dream I had feels like a premonition.
My body lightens and I rise higher as if the thoughts of her are giving me lift. The waves shrink, farther and farther below. The whitecaps look like foam on a cappuccino, the water as dark as coffee with only the starlight to see by.
Once inside the mountain hallways, I absorb my wings and head straight to Jeb’s studio—the only door that’s ajar. The sun is shining, so maybe I didn’t sleep too long. I glance at the table and paintbrushes. The one he used on my clothes still glimmers with violet magic.
I take the brush and follow the direction Morpheus turned when escorted by the moths. Five doors line the twisting hallway. I jiggle each knob in passing, not surprised to find them locked.
The first door is fashioned entirely of marbles. The next one’s wooden face is marred with cigarette burns. Another is crafted of gnarled bark with a draping of willow leaves. Velvety red rose petals form the next to last one. I stroke the soft flowers and breathe in their delicate fragrance, thoughtful.
“Morpheus!” I call out. Hearing nothing, I decide to open them all—find him by process of elimination. There aren’t any keyholes. Come to think of it, each time Jeb unlocks the diamond door, he simply commands the ruby knob to open.
“Open,” I say to the door of marbles, but nothing happens. I lift the glowing paintbrush and tap the knob with the bristles. Still nothing. Then I notice the diary necklace is glowing. Not only that, it’s reaching toward the doorknob, pulling the string tight around my neck, as if magnetized.
Crinkling my brow, I lean down so it can touch the metal handle. There’s a spark and a click. Setting the brush aside, I open the door and step into an exact replica of the entryway at Jenara and Jeb’s house.
“Al?” Jenara greets me.
I gasp. Her eyes are dull and emotionless, like Jeb’s elfin doppelganger. Her pink hair is pulled up and she wears a funky pair of black-and-white checked leggings with a metallic silver tunic.
“What brings you here?” She acts like it’s the most natural thing to see me.
Emotions lodge in my throat. I want to throw myself into her arms. But this isn’t Jen. She’s nothing more than a hollow reflection of my best friend.
“Mom!” Jen calls. “Al’s here! Make us some cookies or something equally Martha Stewart–ish.” Linking our arms, Jen leads the way into the shadowy living room.
My skin prickles. She sounds like Jenara. She acts like Jenara. But, in my experience with some of Jeb’s creations, she’s not to be trusted.
“Hey there, Alyssa.” A man’s voice originates in the darkest corner of the room, from behind a wooden platform designed with wheels and pulleys. “Is Jeb with you?”
“Um . . . ,” I answer, recognizing the voice vaguely.
Jenara flicks on a floor lamp, illuminating the wooden contraption and the JABBERLOCKY’S MOUSETRAP painted on front.
“No,” I mumble in disbelief. It’s the same device that was at the bottom of the rabbit hole when Jeb and I fell inside the first time. The one that opened the doorway to the flower garden and the madness.
The one that started it all . . .
Jeb’s dad stands up behind the wooden maze, tinkering with one of the pulleys. His profile looks young and kind—nothing like the bitter, weathered man he was before he died.
Nausea hits me. Jeb brought him back to life in this kinder version, to relive his ideal family moments. It’s sweet, sad, and disturbing.
“Well, he has to be on his way,” Mr. Holt says, and faces me full-on. I stifle a moan. His eyes glow orange, flickering like the lit end of a cigarette. When he b
links, ash falls, tumbling down his face and leaving gray streaks. “This is his favorite game, after all.” He drops marbles into place on one of the ramps. “And he owes me a rematch.”
“You’re just hoping he lets you win this time, Dad.” Jenara giggles. He winks at her, causing embers to crumble down his cheek.
I shudder. “Uh, I have to go.” I back up with both Jen and her dad following.
“But you just got here,” Jen says, her voice more threatening than friendly now.
I bump into something soft and mushy and turn on my heel.
“Cookie?” Jeb’s plump mom smiles up at me and offers a plate piled with treats. Chocolate chip, bloody razor blade, and broken glass appear to be the flavor of the day.
“I don’t belong here,” I whisper, unable to tear my gaze from the deadly snacks.
“No, you don’t,” Mrs. Holt says. “Because we’re here to make him happy. And you’ve made him sad. But we’re going to fix that. Eat a cookie.”
My gut twists. I sidle toward the center of the room as they surround me, the request becoming a hiss: “Yesssss, we insissst. Jussst one cookie . . .”
The diary at my neck releases a blazing red light. Jeb’s pseudo-family leaps away screaming. They land on the floor, a tangled mess of limbs. Pulse hammering, I exit the room and shut them inside, thankful Jeb painted them in their own setting so they can’t cross the threshold.
I press my back against the door. Its glassy chill seeps through the slits in my shirt. The marbles must represent making marble ramps with his father, one of Jeb’s happiest memories. If that was a pleasant scene, I’m terrified to find what’s behind the cigarette-burned door around the next bend.
I’m not sure if it’s determination to find Morpheus or my dark side’s desire to delve deeper into Jeb’s mind, but I move forward.