Lorina had managed to unlock her husband. She sat upon his shoulder, fanning herself with a wing. Wide-eyed, she nodded in silence—the most heartfelt accolade she could’ve offered. The dodo knelt beside Jeb, a huge feathery presence. “We are forever in your debt, lad. What can we do to help?”
Gossamer pointed to a far corner of the dungeon, where a burlap blanket covered a cot, draping down to the floor. “Bring me what’s beneath that bed.”
Jeb watched, numbed by a mixture of disbelief and dread as the dodo carried over the jabberlock box.
Lorina gaped. “Morpheus had Ivory hidden down here?”
Gossamer nodded. “Upon Rabid’s suggestion. He said this was the one place in the castle that no one would search for her.”
After asking Charlie to open the lid and arrange a stone for them to stand on so they could see within, Gossamer dismissed the strange couple to a far corner of the dungeon for privacy.
Jeb stroked the white velvet roses flocked along the outside of the box, mesmerized by Ivory’s beautiful face as it bobbed to the surface. Her haunted, crystallized gaze slid from him to the sprite and back again—cautiously curious. He shuddered at the thought of taking her place.
Did he really have to do this?
He felt Gossamer watching his profile. “I must ask one last time if you’re sure,” she said. “For, you see, since you are choosing to be locked within and sealing the choice with your blood, the box will never let you out. No one can save you. You’re signing away your eternity for Ivory, a queen you don’t even know.”
Jeb gulped a knot from his throat. “No. I’m trading my eternity for Al’s.”
Gossamer smiled tenderly. “I once saw in your dreams your fear of not being good enough for the girl. After such a sacrifice, no one could ever question your worth as a man, or your love for her.” She kissed his cheek, leaving warmth that trickled into his heart and managed to melt a small portion of the icy terror there.
Gossamer handed him a paintbrush and drew back. “Now, use the power only you can wield. Paint the roses with your blood.”
Dizziness rushed over him. He mumbled . . . senseless, fearful things . . . agonized words that he knew would be his last.
Then he channeled all the anger, terror, and longing for a future he would never have into the sweep and sway of the brush. He stained each snow-white blossom red until he lost himself within the shadows of his work, and became one with his masterpiece.
THE MOTH’S RESOLUTION
The scene stretched and blurred as Morpheus was dragged out of Jebediah’s memories and deposited back into the chaise lounge. Darkness weighed heavily upon the room, yet he didn’t budge to turn on the lamp. The pitch-black surroundings seemed to suit the murky thoughts in his head.
He ran a thumb along his thigh, tracing the ridges of the pinstriped fabric and smoothing the wrinkles.
Why was he feeling so out of sorts? He’d found exactly what he’d hoped to find. Jebediah’s weaknesses had been there for the taking: a rage that could easily be coaxed out and manipulated, a sense of worthlessness fed by a violent and critical father, a jealousy that evoked a reckless protectiveness—even at the expense of his own life.
What Morpheus hadn’t expected to find, however, was how similar he and the boy were. The demons from Jebediah’s tormented past were not unlike his own. He’d often found himself jealous of humans . . . having never had a father or mother’s tenderness. He also empathized with the fear that he might never know completely another’s trust and affection, based solely on his place in the world.
Although, in the past, Morpheus had never considered that a bad thing. He’d enjoyed being a reclusive and self-reliant soul. At times he was vainglorious, of course, when it suited him to be the center of attention. But attention, affection, or trust weren’t things he needed. Not until Alyssa came along. When she chose to ignore him, he couldn’t function . . . felt bumbling and incompetent.
And now, after standing in Jebediah’s shoes, Morpheus understood more than he wanted to about how the human side of Alyssa worked. Although one half of her had wings and could float past trivial, mortal insecurities, the other half of her was grounded and craved what any human would crave: reassurance and reliability.
Having seen Jebediah’s courage, ingenuity, and loyalty to Alyssa firsthand, Morpheus knew without a doubt that that was exactly what the boy was offering her: a safety net of emotion that would keep her from ever falling too hard.
No wonder she was so captivated by him. No wonder he held her in his thrall. Hell, Morpheus himself was morbidly fascinated by the boy’s honorable traits, unusual in a human so damaged. Morpheus was tempted to step back and let Jebediah have his moment of happiness. Some might even say he’d earned it by being willing to give up his future, his memories, his life for Alyssa.
Morpheus growled and slumped forward, hands clenched, trying to lighten the unfamiliar weight upon his chest. It wasn’t as if the boy would be around forever. He was mortal. Someday he would die of old age, at the very least, and Alyssa would be fair game once more.
Fair game.
Morpheus’s jaw twitched. Romance wasn’t fair. Nor was it a game. It was war. And, as on any other battlefield, compassion and mercy had no place there.
The carpet beetle had been right. Human emotions were unpredictable and powerful things. They’d gotten into Morpheus’s head, weakened his resolve.
Elbows on his knees, he held his palms up, unable to see even their silhouette in the darkness. He conjured a small strain of magic to gather at his fingertips in plasma electric balls the size of peas, then coaxed the orbs through every corner of the room, trailing blue lightning like static electricity. They climbed the walls before gathering together in the form of a woman. The light pulsed hypnotically.
Imagining Jebediah with Alyssa, showing her the ways of love, taming her savage spirit with his common human conventions, scalded Morpheus’s throat with a bitter tang of envy.
He didn’t want her wildness to be subdued by any other man, didn’t wish to share any part of her. He wanted both sides: her innocence and her defiant spirit.
Where was the excitement in dependability? Where was the spontaneity in a predictable world? He could offer her an eternity of challenges and passion, of quiet, tender moments stolen in the depths of riotous flames and ravaging storms—tranquility amidst the chaos.
She belonged with him, wearing regal robes. He had so much to teach her about the nether-realm, about the glories of manipulation and madness. If he fed her gluttonous netherling side, her human insecurities and inhibitions would fade and, in time, vanish altogether. She would no longer crave Jebediah’s safe love.
Morpheus called his magic back, reeling in the coils of blue light until he was surrounded by darkness once more. His wings swept the floor as he stood. He lifted them high in a determined arc that nearly touched the ceiling.
No more deliberating. He’d tried to do the fair thing in past instances, and, without fail, it always came back to haunt him. He could suppress the twinge of guilt stirring in his chest, but he could not give up his needs for Jebediah’s. He would never be himself again without Alyssa by his side—the flame to his moth. He wouldn’t stop until she was back where she belonged, in Wonderland.
To win, he would fight dirty, reap the spoils of her heart by any means necessary, no matter what it cost the mortal boy. It was the netherling way, after all. To do any less would make Morpheus human. And he knew, now more than ever, that that was the last thing he ever wanted to be.
DEPORTATION
Some people might say it’s impossible to die and then live to tell about it. They’re the ones who’ve never experienced magic. As for me, I’m the great-great-great-granddaughter of Lewis Carroll’s Alice inspiration. I’ve believed in the unbelievable for over sixty-four years, ever since I was sixteen, and learned Wonderland was real and populated with a whimsical, eerie, mad sect of beings governed by bargains and riddles. Yet sometimes, no ma
tter how much you believe in the impossible, things don’t quite work out the way you planned. Even magic can hit a snag now and then.
For example, I never expected my corpse to end up in a shoebox. That’s what the cremation casket reminds me of . . . a human-size, corrugated cardboard box. The casket offers little comfort. There’s no velvet lining to soften the plywood base. No cushion to cradle my curved spine. And no clothes, other than a crinkly paper gown, to cover my wrinkled and aged skin.
The scent of cardboard settles in my nose and the gurney’s steel wheels roll along the tile hallway, squeaking somewhere beneath me alongside unfamiliar footsteps. I sense the transition from the cool, temperature-controlled room where the coroner signed off on my “deadness” (as the pixies in Wonderland would say). He then laid a stainless steel identification tag atop my chest and placed a lid over me, cloaking me in darkness.
There’s a sharp jolt when the gurney takes a turn into a much warmer place. The rotten-egg stench of propane gas confirms our whereabouts. I’ve visited this room. I toured several local crematoriums late at night over the last few months, when no one else was around. So I’d be familiar with the giant brick-lined furnace that would be waiting to sizzle away my flesh. So I’d find the perfect layout, with a bathroom and a full-size mirror across the hall.
Once I decided on the crematorium at Pleasance Rest Cemetery, I prepared to die.
My original plan was to use Tetrodotoxin. In small, sublethal doses it leaves the victim in a near-death state for days, while allowing her mind to retain consciousness. But Morpheus didn’t agree. He pointed out that the margin of error between a nearly dead state and a truly dead state is slim in the mortal world, and not something to be trifled with. He didn’t want me to risk it. So he offered a Wonderland substitute: an enchanted cessation potion that works much the same way, but has a counter-inception potion with a one hundred percent success rate.
I drank down the cessation dose this morning, and ten hours later I can still taste the bitter and numbing flavor, like cloves swirling at the bottom of vinegary cider. I can’t smack my tongue to relieve the potency. The magic has rendered me catatonic—my eyes closed and unblinking, my heartbeat and breath muted to a silent purr undetectable by any human means.
My netherling side flutters inside my skull, assuring me this is going to work, but my human side instinctively recoils as fear tightens my throat. I can’t cry out to tell anyone I’m still alive. My vocal cords won’t work. Claustrophobia, my old enemy, forms itchy tangles beneath my skin. I know what’s going on around me, although my eyelids can’t open and my limbs can’t twitch. Every smell, sound, and tactile sensation is magnified by my inability to react to it.
The paramedic who answered my twenty-seven-year-old granddaughter’s 911 call this morning pronounced me dead on the scene—struck down by a heart attack. It was unbearable, hearing her cry and wail. It triggered memories of my own greatest loss—of Jeb’s death three years earlier. A knife still gores through my chest each time I remember our final good-bye.
But Jeb told me to be strong. And I taught my grandchildren the same—to always face things head-on. She’ll be all right. I know it without a doubt because she’s like me in so many ways, even beyond her blond hair, blue eyes, and inquisitive nature. She’s stubborn, loyal, and a survivor.
Once the paramedic delivered my body to the morgue, everything went like clockwork.
My family was aware of the cemetery I’d chosen and the four requirements in my will: no public viewing of my body, no chapel service, cremation within twelve hours of my passing, and the sprinkling of my ashes where Jeb’s were, beneath the weeping willow at our country cottage. That tree held special meaning, grown from a clipping taken off the willow that used to share our backyards as we were growing up.
Such unconventional requests didn’t even faze my family, considering the eccentric old woman I’d become.
After Jeb’s death, they watched me putter about my cottage, gathering up the mosaics I’d made throughout my life, filled with bizarre and mystical landscapes—with titles like Winter’s Heartbeat, Checkerboard Dunes, and Belly of the Beast—and pack them away in the attic along with other heirlooms, including a tourism brochure for the Thames sundial trail in London. The last things I added were two keys: One had belonged to my mom and could make a mirror into a portal, and the other could open the gate to Wonderland’s garden of souls. The latter was a gift granted to Jeb after he gave up his muse so he could fulfill the nether-realm’s need for vivid, imaginative dreams, and bridge our worlds with peace in the process. He gave up what had once made him unique, to keep human children safe. A courageous act his own children and grandchildren never had the privilege to know. That memento was the hardest for me to let go of, for it was a tribute to Jeb’s courageous heart and noble nature—the two things I loved most about him. But as Wonderland’s Red Queen, I had no business keeping such a hallowed key.
I hid everything in a trunk in the attic and locked it. Then I stashed the trunk’s key inside the pages of my well-worn Lewis Carroll collection. Jeb and I owned the cottage, and all the land around it, and insisted in our wills that it forever stay in our family’s name. That way, if any of our descendants should ever need to find me, they can. All they’ll have to do is look for clues like I once did. Follow the steps I’ve laid out, and believe in the impossible—in fairy tales and wishes and magic.
I’ve always kept them in the dark about our legacy, to give them a chance at a normal life. I even commanded the bugs and flowers to silence. I’m the only one who can hear those lines to the nether-realm now, and it will be that way as long as I’m the reigning Red Queen. But should any of my family members search diligently enough, they’ll find the truth I’ve hidden for them.
All these years, they accepted my quirks because I’ve always respected and loved them, unconditionally. And now I’m counting on their loyalty. My entire plan to die hinges on the timeliness of the execution of my will.
Cremation was the only way to avoid draining my blood and pumping my veins with formaldehyde, sewing my eyelids shut—all the morbid and intrusive steps taken to embalm and preserve a mortal’s body. I was blessed throughout my eighty years of human life with health and a sharp mind. I never needed a pacemaker and I have no prostheses, implants, or dentures, so there was nothing that might explode in high heat. That meant no incisions, no extractions. It was important that I remain intact—inside and out.
But if Rabid White doesn’t hurry and get here with the inception potion to rouse me out of my stasis, it won’t matter. I’ll be a pile of glowing embers. And Morpheus will have to find a new home for my eternal spirit . . . a new body for me to inhabit.
He’ll be livid if that happens, and he’ll never let me forget it. An eternity is a long, long time to listen to I told you so pitched continuously in a deep, cockney accent.
“I don’t care for it one bit,” he had said two weeks ago, while we discussed my exodus from the human realm over tea during one of my Wonderland dream visits. He lifted a cup to his lips, his studious face as perfect and ageless as always. He took a sip, and then set it down once more. “Too many things can go wrong. I should be there to execute my plan.”
“I’m doing it myself,” I’d countered. I studied the canopied bed and fireplace, located diagonally from the tall Victorian parlor chairs where we sat beside a small oval table, seeking comfort in the familiar surroundings. “And we’re going with my plan.” Those would be my last moments in the human realm. It had to be on my terms. I suppressed a tug of sadness and attempted the same graceful control Morpheus had displayed with his cup of tea, but hot liquid splashed down my age-worn hand as a tremor shook through my wrist. I yelped.
“Alyssa, please. Allow me.” He gently gripped my gnarled fingers in his elegant, smooth ones, wiping away the tea and soothing my scalded and scarred flesh with a cloth napkin.
Allow me. We both knew he referred to so much more than cleaning my spilled drin
k.
So many years we had spent together in my dreams—just as it was during our childhoods—with Morpheus training and teaching me about my kingdom and world. There weren’t opportunities for us to be alone, since he kept the veil of sleep pulled away so I could interact with Rabid, Chessie, Ivory, the creatures, and my subjects.
That had changed once I’d become a widow. I would uphold my royal duties each night and fight to be strong until my grief for Jeb became so intense, tears built up on my lashes and blinded me. Morpheus—sensing my shame, because queens don’t cry—would insist it was time for tea, which we’d take alone in the royal bedroom that would one day belong to us as king and queen.
There in our solitude, hidden from prying eyes and surrounded by lush red carpets and curtains of gold, I would lose myself to my grief. Allow me, he would say. Holding out his arms, he’d hold me as I wept. Night after night for a year, until at last I was cried out.
Shortly thereafter, Morpheus’s attentiveness changed. His touches became less comforting and more intimate. I was too embarrassed to respond, too self-conscious in my aging shell.
An eternally young fae romancing an elderly woman—I would’ve laughed at the absurdity, had I not been so deeply affected by his blind devotion and the depth of his love.
“Even if we go with your plan”—Morpheus’s voice was low and cross as he dabbed the napkin between my fingers, sopping up remnants of tea—“I should still be there in the wings, to supervise how it plays out.”
I frowned at him. His stubbornness, along with the firelight dancing across his wild hair and bizarrely beautiful features, reminded me of another night we sat in this room together—decades ago—when he first tried to convince me to wear the ruby crown. When I attempted to seduce him into giving me my wish back so I could escape Wonderland, cure my family curse, and keep Jeb safe. I was a different person then, brimming with youth, human aspirations, and innocence.