by A. G. Howard
They’re too big, of course, but the tender gesture reminds me of times when I used to stand on the toes of his shoes so we could dance together. I smile. He smiles back, and I’m his little girl again. Then his expression changes from awe to disappointment, as if he’s coming to terms all over again with what I am, what Mom is, and how long we’ve kept it hidden from him.
My stomach feels like it’s caving in. Why did we rob him of such a big part of ourselves? Such an integral part of him? “Dad, I’m so sorr—”
“No, Allie. I can’t hear that yet.” His left eyelid starts to twitch and he looks away, his socked feet cautiously feeling around the debris.
I follow and sniffle, telling myself it’s the dust making my eyes water.
When we arrive at the doll-clothing case, it’s as tall as a two-story building, and the zipper handle is the length of my leg.
“How are we supposed to open this thing?” I ask.
“Better question: How are you supposed to fit into her clothes?” Dad points to the dust-caked Barbie. “You’re barely the size of her head.”
The doll’s irises are painted as if she’s looking off to one side. Paired with her catty makeup, she appears to be sneering at me. Exasperated, I thrust my hands in my apron pockets. My knuckle nudges the conductor’s pen. Digging deeper, I hit the mushrooms and an idea forms in my mind. “Let’s sit her against the case.”
Dad shoots me a puzzled glance but doesn’t hesitate. He grabs her shoulders and I take her ankles. A yellowish spider the size of a cocker spaniel scuttles out, grumbling at us for ruining its web. It disappears into the pile of books. Once we have the Barbie seated upright, I settle beside her.
I hand Dad a mushroom and kick off his shoes so he can put them on again. Next, I take a mushroom for myself and nibble the speckled side. I grit my teeth against the discomfort of sinews extending, bones enlarging, and skin and cartilage expanding. The surroundings shrink as I continue to eat until I’m head to head with the doll.
Dad follows my lead, nibbling his mushroom until we’re both big enough to unzip the case and wear the 1950s-style Barbie and Ken outfits that slide out.
I shove aside silver bell-bottom pants and a black-and-white striped swimsuit, uncovering a leotard and matching attached tutu the same watery green as Jeb’s eyes at times when he’s upset. The exact shade they were when he caught me and Morpheus kissing in my room before prom.
Regret gnaws at my stomach. All these weeks, Jeb’s been thinking I betrayed him. In the last moment we shared at prom, he grabbed the pendant at my neck—a metal clump that had once been my Wonderland key, his heart locket, and his engagement ring—and kissed me. He promised we were far from over. Even after I’d destroyed his trust, he was still planning to fight for me.
A ticklish sensation brings my attention to my ankle where a spiderweb dangles at the edges of my wing tattoo. I got it months ago to camouflage my netherling birthmark. Here in the shadows, I realize how much the tattoo really does look like a moth, just as Morpheus has always said. I can almost see his lips curl up in smug delight at the acknowledgement.
That strange unraveling pain gnaws in my chest again. It hits most often when I’m teetering between my two worlds.
What did Red do to me?
Red . . .
Her repudiated memories thunder through my skull once more. I groan softly.
“Did you say something, Allie?” Dad looks up from the Ken clothes he’s sorting through.
After rubbing my temples, I lift out a sleeveless shirtdress with snaps down the front and a cherry and green-stem print that matches the leotard. “Just that I think I found something.” I hold it up for Dad’s inspection.
“Looks good. I’ll be over here.” Dad grabs his bundle and goes to the other side of the case.
I peel off my asylum clothes, careful not to let the remaining mushrooms spill from the apron pocket. I’ll have to find another way to carry them.
Before I undress, I search for some lacy lingerie. I’ve been wearing generic cotton underthings since I’ve been at the asylum. Something pretty would be nice. Unable to find anything, I settle for what I have on and slip into the green leotard. The ballet outfit’s best feature is the open back. It will make it easy to free my wings. The satiny fabric smells of crayons and gumdrops, making me long for my childhood before Mom was committed.
Next, I shrug into the shirtdress and secure the metal snaps along the cherry-print bodice, leaving the skirt open to display the three tiers of green netting that puff out above my knees.
A fuchsia ribbon serves as a belt. Pink stockings complete the outfit. They fit perfectly from my thighs to my calves, but the toes are pointed. I fold the excess under before slipping into a pair of squishy, knee-high red boots.
Red boots. Red’s memories bash against my cranium until I feel so much sadness for her I drop onto the pile of leftover clothes. I fist my hands against my head until it passes. When I open my eyes, I’m half-buried in Barbie shoes and accessories, as if I thrashed around half-consciously.
“Everything okay over there?” Dad asks from his side of the case.
I grunt softly, clearing everything off me. “Having trouble with my stockings.” Maybe stealing Red’s memories was a big mistake after all. I’m going to end up wearing a straitjacket again—this time for real.
As I stand, my foot kicks a Barbie-size diary with a key that must be one quarter the size of a straight pin to a normal human.
The conductor said it would take enchanted paper to contain repudiated memories. A year ago in Wonderland’s cemetery, Sister One told me that toys from the human realm were used to trap souls in her twin’s lair.
Sister One said that when the most cherished toys are abandoned, they want those things that once filled and warmed them. They become lonely and crave what they had. And if someone gives them those things, they’ll hold on to it with every portion of their strength and will.
I flip through the diary. A few of the tiny pages have been written on—hearts and initials and flowers, because writing actual words this size would be difficult for any child. The last two thirds of the pages are bare.
Maybe this diary has missed being written upon.
Morpheus himself said toys harbor the residue of a child’s innocent love, the world’s most binding magic. If that’s true, then maybe these pages are enchanted enough to contain Red’s memories, to keep the emotional ties out of my mind.
I bite my lower lip. Look at that, bug in a rug. I just found a magic journal.
“Almost done?” Dad moves around on the other side of the case, as if he’s pacing.
“Just a sec!” I scramble to find the apron I was wearing earlier and pull the pen from the pocket.
“Netherling logic resides in the hazy border between sense and nonsense.” I mouth Morpheus’s words so Dad won’t hear.
I jot down Red’s memories on the remaining pages, writing as fast as I can. The emotions drain from me onto the page, a cathartic experience, like journaling to soften the blow of something tragic.
When I’m done, I close the book. It wriggles in my hands, opening enough to rustle the paper. The memories are trying to break free. Clamping my fingers tight around the covers, I clasp the latch and lock it with the key and the wiggling stops.
My head feels better, my thoughts clearer, and my sympathies are dulled. The transfer must’ve worked. I can still recall Red’s forgotten past, but they feel like events that happened to someone else, not ones I experienced and felt myself. The memories grow distant, silencing the sympathetic thunder in my head.
“Allie, we need to get going.”
“I’m looking for something to keep the mushrooms safe,” I stall.
As I dig, a pink ballet bag with a drawstring appears. I tuck the diary inside and thread a piece of cording through the diary’s key to fashion a necklace. Ever since the prom disaster, I’ve felt lost without my Wonderland key. This one isn’t ruby-tipped and won’t open another w
orld. Still, it’s a comfort to have it dangling at my collarbone.
Setting aside two mushrooms for me and Dad, I stuff the rest into the bag with the diary, pull the drawstring shut, knot it securely, then hang it over my shoulder.
With a plastic brush, I work the tangles out and braid my hair down both sides. I stare at a crocheted hat and scarf made of soft purple and scarlet yarn, testing to see if Red’s memories stay dormant. I have to be sure before we leave. I can’t risk losing control when I’m thousands of miles in the air.
When nothing happens, I pull on the scarf and hat.
I step around to the front of the case. Dad’s waiting in a Ken outfit: black-and-white plaid jacket, gray flannel pleated pants, and white dress shirt.
I pat the skin under my eyes, worried my netherling markings are showing after all the magic I’ve performed. “Do I look okay?”
“You look beautiful, Butterfly,” he says. His fingertip traces the edges of my eyes, following a phantom pattern that can only mean my markings are in full bloom.
His use of my nickname fills me with gratitude. He’s trying to accept me with all my peculiarities, even though he’s been dealt a huge shock.
I straighten his collar and brush dust off his jacket. “Best thing about these clothes? We know we’re the first people to ever wear them,” I tease.
Dad snorts. The sound echoes in the tunnel as we nibble our mushrooms—the smooth sides—until we shrink enough to fit on the butterflies’ backs again. We climb atop our winged mounts, flutter through the hole in the bridge’s foundation, and take to the sky for Oxford.
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 re
sponsible 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.