Ensnared

by A. G. Howard

  “Wait a minute.” Dad rocks back on his seat, causing the boat to bob. “You kissed that arrogant . . . ? I don’t even know how to process that.”

  “Me neither.” He’d be even angrier if he knew the rest. That it wasn’t the first time. That Jeb also knows about the other kiss Morpheus and I shared in Wonderland. That I told Jeb it didn’t mean anything—a lie—then turned around and did it again . . . even though I hadn’t meant for it to go that far. Morpheus twisted the situation to his own end, like he always does.

  “Morpheus is a mistake, Alyssa,” Dad continues, as if seeing my thoughts. “He’s manipulative. He has no scruples. And he’s not human.”

  “Neither is Mom. Neither am I. Or Jeb, for that matter. Not anymore. Does that make you love us any less?”

  The lighthouse swathes us in light and my face burns under Dad’s scrutiny. “Of course not. But love? Is that what you feel for Morpheus?”

  I swallow hard. “I’m not sure. It’s all wrapped up in my loyalties to Wonderland. But there’s something real between us. Something powerful.” I sink further into my seat. “It’s complicated.”

  Dad starts rowing again. “Well, I know what you feel for Jeb. And it’s simple and pure. You two have been friends since the day you met. And it grew into something more. That’s a tangible thing, Butterfly. And so rare. The best kind of love. He was planning to ask you to marry him. Did you know that? He asked me for your hand.”

  My eyes sting. It’s just like Jeb to do something so old-fashioned and beautiful. At least, like the Jeb I once knew.

  “He did propose,” I finally manage. “I didn’t get to answer.”

  “What was your answer going to be?”

  “Yes,” I say without hesitation. “But that was before . . .”

  Dad looks up at the stars. “I know. Before he and Mom were taken.”

  I consider correcting him, but it would lead to an interrogation I can’t face tonight.

  “You’re the only one who can get through to that boy and help him find his way home,” Dad presses. “But you’ll have to let Wonderland go to do it.”

  “No!” I prop my elbows on my knees and hold my head to keep it from exploding. “I’m a queen. I have responsibilities there you can’t even imagine. It’s wrong to deny that side of myself. To turn my back on a world that’s depending on me. I tried to do that . . .” I wave at everything around us. “Well, you can see how great it worked out. I’m never running from my responsibilities again. I have an obligation to the netherlings. I care about them. If Jeb and I are going to have any kind of future, he’ll have to make peace with the fact that Wonderland will play a role in every choice I make for the rest of my life.” I think of the diary at my neck. “In every choice I make here.”

  Dad sloshes the oars harder, causing water to spritz across us. “You were human first. You have commitments there, too. People who depend on and love you. Don’t get so caught up in power and politics that you forget that. Or you’ll be doing exactly what Jeb is. Hiding from your humanity.”

  Red’s fingerprint—that splitting sensation behind my sternum—punches me. I clutch my hands in my lap to keep from doubling over. “That’s not what I’m doing,” I grit out. “I’m trying to find a balance.”

  “How’s that possible?” Dad asks. “Madness is the antithesis to balance. I’ve seen the other side taking over you. And frankly, it scares me. You’re drawn to the darkness, to the lawlessness. Drawn to . . .”

  Morpheus.

  Even if Dad doesn’t say it out loud, I hear the name echo in the silence.

  “He has insinuated himself into your life,” Dad continues.

  “Some could argue that Mom’s choices had a hand in that.”

  The boat slams into the shore, jarring us. Anger radiates off my dad, which only feeds the sense of right rising hot inside of me.

  “I didn’t mean that like it sounded.” I attempt to placate him. “I’m just saying Morpheus didn’t plan to use anyone. Not in the beginning. He and Mom had a deal—mutually beneficial—until she backed out.”

  Dad tosses the oars into the boat with a thunk. “Don’t ever accuse her of making a cavalier decision. She did the right thing even when it was difficult. Left behind a world that promised her power and immortality, all because she couldn’t stomach stealing human children for their dreams.”

  “All because she couldn’t stomach leaving you as one of the stolen.” I regret the words instantly. I know it was so much more than that.

  Dad shakes his head. “I’m going to forget this conversation, Allie. You’re tired and obviously not thinking before you speak.” He climbs out of the boat, wading through the shallows to pull it in.

  He’s mistaken. I am thinking, proven by how I didn’t tell him the most inconceivable truth of all: That I can actually put a stop to stolen childhoods. That by having a future with Morpheus and sharing a son, I could fix everything between our worlds.

  I couldn’t tell him even if I wanted to. I can’t afford to lose my powers by reneging on a life-magic vow of silence. To defeat Red, find Mom, and put Wonderland back together, I need my magic intact.

  Dad secures the boat to the shore by winding its rope around a post. I clamber out before he can offer to help me.

  I hate that there’s friction between us. I hate feeling so far from Jeb while he’s haunting the rooms in this mountain hideaway, facing his nightmares and heartache alone. I hate how jumbled my emotions are when it comes to Morpheus: hurting for him that he’s powerless, angry he holds a vow over my head—yet fascinated by him, endlessly.

  Most of all, I hate that Mom and my netherling subjects are trapped in a crumbling Wonderland, wondering if I’ll ever come to save them.

  Something nudges me on that thought . . . something quiet yet hopeful. I saw how strong Mom’s magic was on prom night; I learned how much she already knows about Wonderland’s inner workings. She was once almost a queen. She can survive in that world.

  I keep my thoughts to myself because they feel like hunches and I have no proof. But still, they comfort me.

  Led by starlight, Dad and I climb a steep, winding stairway made of stones that leads to the lighthouse. Inside, hurricane-style lamps float along the ceiling and follow us as we move, casting a soft amber glow. The walls are stone, the floor squares of black-and-white sand—miniature versions of the dunes Jeb and I surfed across in Wonderland over a year ago. I take off my plastic boots and dig my tired toes into cool grittiness. At the top of the tower, there’s a turret bedroom with a canopied bed and an open porthole that overlooks the ocean, letting in moonlight, the sound of waves, and salty air.

  Dad insists I should sleep there and opts for the couch downstairs. Back in the kitchen, we eat the dried flowers. They’re stringy, like beef jerky, but a deep golden color. The taste is sweet and waxy, reminiscent of honeycomb in the human realm. We wash the meal down with rainwater sipped from mugs made of rock-lobster shells. Dad and I are both so drained, not another word passes between us.

  I duck into the bathroom to take a shower and wash my long underwear so I can lay them out in my room to dry overnight. There’s everything I could possibly need: a toilet, a razor, a toothbrush, and citrus-scented soap. On some level, Jeb is still living a human life, however he tries to deny it.

  As I head toward the stairs, I stop where Dad is spreading a quilt out on the couch. Even though we’re at odds, we hug before parting ways to sleep.

  In the tower, I open a wardrobe against the bedroom wall and find a plaid flannel shirt. I shed the clothes Uncle Bernie provided and think about the guards at the Wonderland gate, hoping they’re okay after being there so long without supplies. I also worry about the message we were supposed to send via the metal pigeon. It’s doubtful, even if Jeb’s sea horse finds our duffel bag, that the mechanical bird will function after being submersed. I don’t even know if the beacon feature will work, so Uncle Bernie can find his way to us.

  I shrug into the flannel shi
rt, rolling the cuffs to make the sleeves fit. The hem hangs to my thighs. A pair of sweatpants with a drawstring waist is folded neatly at the bottom of the wardrobe. I set it aside for morning.

  I’m about to crawl into bed when a glittering green light perches on the opened porthole.

  Nikki curtsies daintily. “From Master Morpheus.” The tiny sprite’s bell-like voice drifts along the breeze. She offers a white box wrapped with a shiny red ribbon. It’s about three times her size. She’s stronger than she looks, to carry it all this way.

  The instant I take the gift, she flitters up into the night sky without another word. Unlike Gossamer, she’s not much for talking.

  Inside the box are two exquisite pieces of lingerie: a bra and matching boy shorts made of white cotton beneath a glistening gold lace overlay. The metallic lace looks vaguely familiar.

  A blush heats my face as I imagine Morpheus’s elegant hands folding the items, and placing them inside. There’s a note on black paper, no doubt written by the very quill he plucked off the osprey earlier.

  The ink looks like silver foil, shimmery in the starlight:

  Dearest Alyssa,

  I am sending apologies for not welcoming you properly today. I wanted to lift you above me and swing you in circles until we were both dizzy and laughing. I wanted to kiss your lips and share your breath. And I wanted to dress you in threads befitting a queen. Tonight, I shall settle for the humble beginnings to your royal wardrobe. I imagine what you’re wearing beneath your clothes is as unworthy of you as the clothes themselves. But know that I will give you armoires filled with lace, satin, and velvet one day when you reign in Wonderland. All you need do is ask.

  Your loyal footman,

  Morpheus

  His sentiments wind around me, sensual and silky. I drape the lacy underthings on the porthole’s ledge and trace the golden overlay, trying to place where I’ve seen it before. Then it hits me: Morpheus’s prom costume had a white cottony shirt and a doublet overlaid in gold lace with hook-and-eye closures, just like on the back of the bra. My lingerie is pieced together from the layers of his clothes. He had to sew them by hand since he doesn’t have any powers, which would’ve taken time. That means he already had them made for me, waiting.

  Handwritten love notes, handmade gifts. In the absence of his magic, he’s making me more confused than ever. The sharp jolt in my heart revives. It’s becoming increasingly familiar and acute—as if there’s a seam down the middle and it’s stretching beyond its limits.

  I rub my sternum to alleviate the sensation, then drag my arms out of Jeb’s shirt and slip the lingerie on underneath.

  My blush burns hotter to find each item fits perfectly . . . that Morpheus knows my body without ever having run his fingers over it; even more, he knows how I’ve been craving pretty things since I left the asylum. He knows me.

  Buttoning Jeb’s shirt across my torso, I climb into bed and let the canopy curtains drop, grateful they’re heavy enough to eclipse the lighthouse’s beam. In the darkness, beneath the covers, I hug myself tight, surrounded by Jeb’s scent and Morpheus’s homespun lingerie.

  I dream I’m a paper doll, a creation of paint and imagination brought to life by Jeb’s hand. I rip myself in two, at last relieving the tearing pain of my heart. One half of me plays leapfrog atop mushroom caps, wraps myself inside Morpheus’s black wings, and dances with him in the sky beside a full moon . . . The other half skateboards in Underland, rides a motorcycle with Jeb, and steals starlit kisses with him underneath our willow tree. And in spite of the parallels and contrasts—or maybe because of them—it’s the most at peace I’ve been in ages. Both Jeb and Morpheus are happy, and Wonderland and the human realm are thriving.

  I jerk awake, wishing I really were that paper doll, so I could split myself right down the middle and give everyone their happy ending, just like in my beautiful dream.

  Voices from the kitchen nudge me awake a second time. I pull on Jeb’s sweatpants and my plastic boots and head downstairs. Jeb and Dad have been there awhile, judging by the empty mugs and the plate spotted with honeycomb-flower crumbs.

  I’m thrown off by the distorted sense of time here. Since Jeb painted the ocean as a night scene, it’s still dark out, but it must be morning because Dad looks rested.

  Jeb, however, doesn’t.

  The circles under his eyes are more defined, exaggerated by the bright glow within his irises. He’s in holey jeans and a white T-shirt smeared with red paint. One look at the matching smudges on his hands, and I know he’s been creating something new. I wonder what it might be.

  As I take the last step down, Jeb stands and rakes aside some hair that’s fallen across his forehead. The action borders on shy and self-conscious, but it doesn’t take long for his impassive façade to drop back into place. “Now that you’re up, let’s get you two some clothes.” He offers an apple and a bottle of water from our duffel bag of supplies. Looks like his sea-horse patrol was successful.

  “Breakfast,” he says, waiting for me to take the food.

  I pause. “How did you get here? We have the boat.”

  “I walked across the ocean,” he answers, not missing a beat.

  His declaration last night, that he’s a god, hits me full force. “You did?”

  The flirty tilt to his mouth is as unexpected and lovely as an eclipse. “Actually, I painted more than one boat.”

  “Oh, right.” Grinning, I take the fruit and water he’s holding. Our fingers touch. A muscle in his jaw ticks, then he turns to Dad and gestures for us to follow.

  I fall into line, munching on the apple, hopeful. Yesterday I thought Jeb was lost to me. But if he still has his sense of humor, I can reach through the barrier of anger.

  Once we’ve crossed the ocean, he leads us back to the greenhouse studio. Overhead, white and black moths cloak most of the glass roof. They pile up and creep across one another, forming a living blanket that looks like a midnight sky specked with stars. The result dims the room to shadows. A sheet of soft daylight filters from the only glass panel left bared—creating the disorienting illusion of night and day all at once.

  A palette of various colors waits atop the table. The familiar scent of the paint comforts me. I don’t even question where he’s getting his ingredients to make it. Even though it smells normal, its origins are probably magic.

  The studio appears bigger this morning in the absence of Jeb’s landscape masterpieces and easels. The only canvas that remains is a sheet along a wall, draped from ceiling to floor. There’s a cheval mirror on one side of the room, and Japanese screens obscure two of the corners. The red cranes embossed atop the panels move as if alive. A moth drops from its place on the ceiling, lands on the farthest screen, and is gobbled up by one of the painted birds with a squishy crunch.

  Dad takes it all in with a disturbed frown.

  As for me, I’m mesmerized. Last night I was leery of Jeb’s handiwork, but today a tickle stirs inside my blood—the resurgence of my madness. Jeb’s aberrant creations, their wildness and macabre functions, seem to feed my netherling side.

  “First,” Jeb says, talking to Dad as he lines his brushes and mechanical pencils along the table, “we have to draw your shadow.”

  He has Dad take off his shirt and shoes and roll his pants to his knees. Then he poses him in front of the canvas and snaps on a lamp. Bright light imprints Dad’s form on the sheet.

  “Hold still,” Jeb says as he sketches the image. I’ve missed watching him as he works. And to witness the power brewing beneath his skin as he breathes real life into his creations . . . it adds a dimension we never could’ve shared in the human realm.

  Like he said last night, he understands the allure of magic now, the passion and the freedom that goes along with giving our masterpieces the ability to interact with the world. The darkness in me swells with fascination while the human in me nudges a warning—tiny yet powerful . . . demanding to be heard.

  Part of accepting power is acknowledging
how intoxicating it can be. Jeb’s becoming an addict, just like his dad. I’ve been drunk on magic and madness myself. The only way to find sobriety is to balance it with the best parts of being human. But it won’t be easy to remind someone of humanity’s virtues when they’ve been crushed as many times as Jeb.

  “Once I finish the outline,” he says, drawing Dad’s lower half, “I’ll fill it in with paint. Then you’ll need to back up into the painting before it dries. It has to be joined with your skin to be able to follow you anywhere. It’ll stay intact as long as it doesn’t touch water. Since I manipulate the weather and landscapes, that won’t be an issue.”

  I lift an eyebrow. “So, you’re basically playing the part of Wendy.”

  Jeb pauses and glances at me. “Windy?”

  “Wendy, from Peter Pan. You’re stitching Dad’s shadow into place.” Peter Pan was his favorite fairy tale as a child. His mom read it to him every night.

  There’s the hint of a shy, boyish grin on his face—the one he used to give me when I’d catch him off guard. Then his smile is gone and he’s back to concentrating on his work.

  His detachment is like a splash of cold water. Dad winks subtly my way, encouraging me to relish the victory, however small it was.

  Jeb finishes his sketch on the canvas and starts adding wings. “Unlike Al”—curves and lines flourish flawlessly with a graceful sweep of his hand—“we don’t have the equipment built in. The safest way to travel here is to fly, so you’ll need wings for our trip to the Wonderland gate.”

  “We’re going to the gate today?” I have mixed feelings about the news. I know that if I leave without facing Red, it will come back to haunt Wonderland and the ones I love again. She’s proven that she won’t be gone until I make her gone. But I also want to get to Mom as quickly as we can, and it’s impossible not to be excited when Jeb has decided he’s coming. “So you’re going to leave with us?”

  Dad watches me with contrition in his eyes.

  “You misunderstood,” Jeb answers, punching holes in my buoyant hopes not only with his clipped response, but the flattened tone of his voice. He returns to the table and mixes paint until he has a black pigment with purplish undertones. “Only your dad and I are going today. His choice.”