Copyright © 2017 Danielle M. Wong
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.
Published 2017
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1-63152-284-0 pbk
ISBN: 978-1-63152-285-7 ebk
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017944428
Book design by Stacey Aaronson
For information, address:
She Writes Press
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Berkeley, CA 94707
She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.
For my father, Derrick Wong.
I miss you in the light, dark, and everywhere between.
PART I
Prologue
Wonderland, January 1920
It’s a dark, starless night in the woods, and part of me wants to turn around. There’s so much energy inside my head— transitory thoughts and heavy regrets. The ache worsens as I make my way through the towering redwoods. I want to take it all back, the detrimental words and their cruel repercussions. But I can’t . . . and I can’t turn back now.
I strike the match before tossing it far in front of me, a split second of doubt and nothing more. With the simple flick of my wrist, one tiny golden spark transforms before my eyes. Beautifully ominous flames abound in seconds. Even if I wanted to take this back, it would be far too late. The grounds are al-ready brilliantly ablaze with inferno and chaos.
I walk quickly as my paranoia proliferates into a beast of its own. I’m jogging now, treading on the shrubbery I’ve passed a thousand times or more. It’s so dark that I can’t see my own fingertips, much less what’s in front of me. But it doesn’t matter. I know every fraction of this forest—every branch of every tree.
I’m far away from the fire now, but its blaring roar convinces me otherwise. I stop running and feel the sharp air mount in my chest, a piercing pain exacerbated by the cold. The sting makes my eyes water as I attempt to catch my breath. Moments later, I turn around to face the amber glow.
I feel numb as I stare into the flames before me. She’s gone. Because of me. Bittersweet memories of our time together flood my mind until the fire has wholly consumed the building in its wake. We ended because of me.
And just like that, Wonderland is no more.
Chapter 1
Oxford, August 1919
LIA
Cases of unopened rouge and globs of melted lipstick lined my cluttered vanity. I sighed as I looked into the smudgy mirror hanging from my ecru bedroom walls. The beauty class my mother had so fervently encouraged me to take the previous summer had yet to pay off. A halfhearted swipe of mascara was all I could handle.
I ironed a navy dress and finger-combed my chestnut mane into a disordered braid. My boyish frame looked particularly plain that morning, accented by the dress’s straight cut. Typical back-to-school fears buzzed through my head— getting lost, not knowing anyone, and being the strange new girl. All legitimate, might I add.
The main campus was a brisk ten-minute walk from my front door. Well, not my door, per se. I was staying with the Watson family in their large Victorian home. My father had never met Mr. Watson personally, but they shared a mutual friend named Teddy Graves. I didn’t quite understand the connection, and my father never explained how they knew each other.
All I did know was that after the war ended, my father told Teddy about my desire to travel—something that transpired after a few too many drinks, since my dad would have never done that while sober. Teddy mentioned my wish to Mr. Watson, who then offered to let me live with his family in England for the year. Mrs. Watson even wrote me a kind letter and insisted that I stay for as long as I wished. I intended to take full advantage of her offer, especially since I was away from home for the first time in my life.
The Watsons lived in a well-to-do neighborhood called Spindly Oaks. It was the kind of place that made you wonder if any of the residents were as interesting as their grand mansions and beautiful yards. Everyone I’d seen thus far looked like they’d stepped out of a department store window or holiday catalog, groomed and primped to perfection.
Luckily for me, the walk from Spindly Oaks to my destination was a beautiful one. I’ve always loved being outdoors, so I couldn’t wait to explore the surrounding area and campus grounds. Grand oaks towered over late summery blossoms as tiny birds sang sweet songs. The scent of fresh pine flooded my nostrils as I left the Watsons’ protected neighborhood behind. I couldn’t believe I was finally there. I was about to study at my dream school, the University of Oxford.
I’d made sure to cover all my bases. I’d purchased course books ahead of time, borrowed a souvenir campus map from a friend back home, and was now leaving for class two hours early, just in case. Unfortunately, my tattered map was a bit inconsistent. Somerville College was nowhere to be found. My remaining sense of calm quickly evaporated.
When I finally arrived at the correct building, a flyer notified me that my first class had been canceled due to a shortage of enrolled students and would be moved to the following semester. The university housed hundreds of soldiers during the war, and students were still trickling back in slowly. Wartime only ended the year before I arrived, so Oxford’s campus was still sprawling with leftover soldiers. This lack of students meant that I would be taking economics instead, a subject I hadn’t prepared for whatsoever.
Overwhelmed and confused, I raced to the library to try to track down the books I needed for this new course. As I ran, an unexpected August wind flushed my fair cheeks and rustled my thick hair. My braid quickly became a sad excuse for an attempted hairstyle.
I quickly turned a corner to escape the cruel wind and collect my thoughts—and as I did, my hand-me-down book bag slipped off my shoulder and sent my textbooks crashing onto the cold pavement beneath my feet.
I collapsed and buried my face into my shaky hands. Tears welled in my eyes, and I tried to blink them away. All of my worries were coming to a head: I wasn’t cut out for Oxford.
Right then, a group of chic British students walked toward me. I was more embarrassed than I had been in a while. There I was, sitting on the ground with my used books scattered around me and cheap makeup running down my face, and now I had an audience.
“Oh dear,” a sweet voice whispered.
A pair of pointed black flats stood square in front of me. I slowly looked up and met their owner’s eyes—emerald gems that would catch anyone off guard. She knelt down and motioned for the rest of her group to continue on.
“I’ll catch up with you later!” she called after them.
A flurry of two-toned shoes disappeared into the distance.
“First day?” she asked coyly.
I nodded and wiped my eyes. “Is it that obvious?”
“You’re American,” she said with a smile. Her perfect pink lips revealed a straight set of pearly teeth. “Scarlett,” she said, extending a polished hand.
I shook it and felt the coolness of her stacked silver rings as they pressed gently into my palm.
“Lia,” I said quietly. “Lia Cole.”
“Short for Amelia?” she asked, brushing a lock of blond hair over her slim shoulders.
I nodded again. She was the first person I had actually enjoyed talking to since arriving in England. My few conversations with the Watsons felt stiff and forced.
I just stared at her. Scarlett’s voice sounded like an eloquent stage actress’s, elevated with a posh British accent.
“Here,” she said and knelt down beside me. She took my hair in her hands and rebraided it slowly. Every gentle tug put me further at ease, like everything was being woven back into order. I got lost in the floral scent wafting from behind me, and I wondered which expensive perfume Scarlett was wearing. Then she pulled a coral ribbon out of her bag and tied it around the end of my now-perfect braid.
“Thank you,” I whispered as I turned around to face her.
She gave me the slightest nod and another demure smile. I noticed a beautiful silver cuff sparkling on her slender wrist, but before I could say anything, she quickly adjusted it and stood up.
“You’ll be all right, Amelia.” Scarlett winked and brushed off her ruby drop-waist dress. Then, with a swift flutter of heavy lashes, she was gone.
I watched in awe as her petite hourglass frame moved further and further away. After she faded from view I sat on the ground for a while longer, thinking about the girl I’d just met. I wanted to know more about her. I didn’t even know Scarlett’s last name, but I had a comforting and hopeful feeling that we’d become friends. I warmed at the thought.
Then I noticed students pointing at me like a museum display, and my surroundings came back into focus. I stood up and resumed my route to the library.
FIVE mind-numbing hours later, I was back at the Watson residence, inhaling the smell of hearty beef stew that lingered in their entryway. I slipped out of my tight Mary Janes, and my feet relaxed instantly. More mouthwatering aromas drifted in from the remodeled kitchen; I tiptoed over and saw Mrs. Watson standing near the stove. A tray of piping hot butter rolls caught my eye before I noticed the heaping pot of simmering stew.
“Oh, hello dear. How was class?”
Of course I told her it was wonderful before heading upstairs to my room. But the truth was, my classes had been nothing exciting. I didn’t really know what to say about them. I’d done well in school my entire life, turning in decent work and earning good marks. But it felt like I was just going through the motions most of the time. Despite my best efforts to take interest in each subject, I was anything but fully engaged.
I’d never revealed this to either of my parents. After all, I was still in shock that they’d let me come to England in the first place. Home was so far away—another country entirely, with an ocean between. I finally felt like their enduring hold over me had loosened. If I was a bird, my cage door was opening. And I wanted nothing more than to fly away.
It wasn’t that I didn’t love or care for my parents. On the contrary, I respected them with every fiber of my being. My mother was a brilliant Italian woman, and my father a German immigrant, though his Brooklyn accent had since dominated his former one. They had fallen in love and built a life together from the ground up. I had witnessed their struggles firsthand and had a strong appreciation for the sacrifices they’d made for our family.
We owned a restaurant in Brooklyn called Selena’s, named after my mom’s grandmother. Mom and Dad created a unique menu of German meets Italian: herbed steak with sauerkraut and roasted vegetables, spiced Bavarian sausages over linguini, handmade raviolis with sage butter and broccoli. It had taken a while before we turned a profit, but the restaurant had since become a neighborhood staple.
Aside from being hard workers, my parents were also the most protective people I knew. Mom said it was their way of loving me, but it bordered on smothering—made worse by the fact that I had no siblings to share the burden with. This protectiveness increased during the war, understandably so. For a while, I spent as much time away from home as possible, to the point that both of my parents took notice and began threatening to move us to another state. I never understood how that would have solved anything, but I also believed that it was an empty threat. There was no way they’d leave their precious restaurant behind.
Back when my summer plans consisted solely of working at Selena’s, I started looking for other options. That was when they introduced me to Robbie Wells.
“Dinner!”
Mrs. Watson’s shrill voice halted my train of thought. I walked downstairs to the gaudy dining room, preparing myself to make obligatory conversation with the Watsons for the next hour or so.
That night, Mr. Watson told me all about his successful day at the bank and how he “showed those pissers what real money was.” I nodded politely in between oversized bites of beef stew while Mrs. Watson egged him on—“Oh Brucey, you’re amazing, darling!”
Needless to say, I had to work hard to keep my dinner down. Mr. and Mrs. Watson reminded me of everything I never wanted to be—one of those wealthy couples who threw outlandish parties but didn’t really have any true friends. Mrs. Watson was okay by herself, but she turned into a different person around him. It was like she was playing a part: the doting housewife to his arrogant breadwinner. I cringed at the idea of ever marrying someone like that.
“Jesus, girl. Are you even listening?”
Mr. Watson was staring at me through drunken eyes. I looked around the table, unsure of what to say.
Mrs. Watson cleared her throat politely. “Brucey, darling, don’t you think you’ve had enough for tonight?” She gestured to his empty scotch glass.
He cocked his head and glared at her menacingly.
“I’ll get you another glass, then,” she said feebly. “Lia, perhaps you should go upstairs and finish your homework.”
I hesitantly stood up and cleared my plate. Their boys, Christian and Thomas, were playing with their food and seemed oblivious to the tension in the room. Mrs. Watson nodded and muttered something under her breath.
LATER that night, I couldn’t stop thinking about Scarlett. I pulled the coral ribbon out of my hair and turned it over in my fingers. I didn’t even understand what I was feeling. I pictured her outfit, perfectly tailored and polished. Her manicured nails, a ruby red to match the modern dress she was wearing. Her fashionable book bag, made of brown leather and filled with who-knows-what?
She was gorgeous, obviously. Scarlett looked like the lead actress in a big-time picture, with an arresting smile and bright eyes to boot. But it was something more—perhaps her inimitable attitude. I’d spoken with her for all of five minutes, but already knew that she was incomparable. Scarlett was mesmerizing: she was the person schoolgirls imitated—the woman men fought for.
I shook my head and opened my copy of First Year Economics. I needed to focus and get her out of my mind. What was wrong with me? I’d only ever obsessed this much over boys. Well, one in particular . . .
Robbie was a bank teller in the city. We’d gone to school in bordering neighborhoods, but had never met until his family supplied furniture to our restaurant. My parents instantly connected with them, so, naturally, I was encouraged to connect with their son as well.
I hated the situation at first. It felt like an arrangement between our bloodlines, merely a suitable match. But something changed the summer after we met. Robbie was kind, polite, and sweet. He took me to the movies and out to fancy dinners— until I told him that I hated expensive meals, at which point he laughed and suggested a little diner downtown. That was what I loved about him. He listened. Besides my grade school friends, he was the only person who actually cared about what I had to say.
The pages of First Year Economics fell into my lap as I drifted into a light sleep.
“Found a good one,” he calls out from across the field.
I run quickly through rows of sweet apple trees to find him.
“Robbie!” I’m laughing and running, inhaling whiffs of ripe fruit as I go. Suddenly I see him, standing next to the wooden ladder he made for apple picking.
“There you are.” He smiles as he pulls me into his arms. He feels so good.
“I found you,” I whisper.
He nuzzles my nose and kisses me
tenderly. “You found me,” he whispers back.
I was jolted awake by my clanging alarm clock. It made the most obnoxious sound that startled me every day, without fail. I turned it off and rolled over underneath my fort of covers. I would stay in bed until the last possible moment, even if it meant forgoing my usual half-hearted attempt at makeup application.
I climbed out of my four-poster bed and pulled back the blue linen curtains framing my oval window. The early-morning darkness stared back at me, daring me to go home. I quietly refused and resolved to give it another go, as the Brits say.
Soon I was out the door and on my way to day number two of classes. The crisp air rustled my campus map as I navigated my way to mathematics class. I had purchased an updated version from the student store the previous day, hoping desperately that it wouldn’t lead me astray, and my eyes were now glued to the thin charcoal line I’d drawn when mapping out my route the night before.
“Miss! Hello?”
I barely heard the female voice before I bumped into its owner.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” I said as I looked up into a pair of pale blue eyes.
The girl appeared to be about my age, maybe a couple years older. “Don’t worry about it,” she said, laughing. “Looks like you’re trying to find something important?”
“Yes, my mathematics course. Lady Margaret Hall?”
“I can take you there if you like,” she replied cheerfully.
“Okay, sure,” I said, a little wary. I couldn’t help but feel like she had some sort of ulterior motive.
“I’m Ida.” She smiled and extended a hand. Her curly black hair was pulled back, emphasizing her swan-like neck and lengthy physique.
“Lia, short for Amelia.”
“Nice to meet you, Lia. So are you new here? A freshie, I mean.”
“Yes.” I smiled back, thinking I really needed to work on an incognito approach to map reading.
“What are you studying?”
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