The Forgotten Mountain (The Collectors' Society Book 3)

by Heather Lyons

  I feel him. He’s—he’s here. This is not a memory, it cannot be . . . can it? I’ve bled. I felt pain. I feel him here, now, his body pressing against mine as we lay down upon our bed.

  And still, I pull away, my head turning until our mouths no longer touch. This doesn’t feel right. “We are to wed in two days’ time?”

  There’s surprise in his eyes, a bit of hurt, too. “Yes. Providing you still want to go through with the small ceremony.”

  I never wanted a lavish affair. He and I had always only planned on an intimate ceremony, despite our royal statuses. We reasoned a large celebration afterward, complete with plenty of food, drink, and revelry, would be enough for our peoples.

  Instinct, for the first time in so long, fails me. I cannot discern if this is truth or the Piper’s work. “Are you really here, Jace? Am I?”

  A knee gently spreads my legs open wider. “Yes, my queen. You are really, truly, absolutely here.”

  I scoot into a sitting position, clutching the sheets to my chest. Confusion swallows me as Jace stares at me, stunned by my actions. “The prophecy said we could not be,” I whisper. “That—that our love, the shuffling of the decks, would cause Wonderland’s people much pain.”

  He pauses. “Is this the same one which banished you from Wonderland?”

  I nod warily.

  “It was a dream, nothing more. I vow to you this.”

  The White King’s word has never been suspect. And still, I whisper brokenly, “I left. I left, and it shattered both our hearts, but I did it.”

  He takes my hand, the one that is not wrapped in his handkerchief, and places it against his heart. A steady, familiar beat thumps beneath my fingers. “I am here,” he says quietly. “You are here. My heart is, as it always has been, yours. It is not broken, but rather, fuller than ever before.”

  Hazy images flash through my mind: the Pleasance Asylum, the Institute in New York City, the Collectors’ Society, Van Brunt, Mary, Victor, Wendy, the A.D., the Librarian, Marianne, Todd, Rosemary, a playbook, my crown, the Piper, and Finn. Finn Van Brunt. Huckleberry Finn Van Brunt. He—I love him. Am in love with him. He and the others are in the mountain, too. I slew a giant to save him.

  I love him.

  I stare up in Jace’s eyes. There is no subterfuge in them—not that he ever has been dishonest with me before, but all that shines back at me in the growing light of dawn is love and concern.

  I no longer know what is real and what isn’t. He feels real. This feels real. He claims I have been having nightmares, vivid dreams. There are bruises up and down my arms, no doubt from pinching. There are cuts.

  Cuts. I have had more than one recently, haven’t I?

  “Is there a mark on my lower back? One at the base of my spine, caused from stitches now removed?”

  Gentle hands trace a path down my back until they reach the spot I’ve just described.

  “I feel nothing.”

  I reach back, my hand searching for where the boojum was removed. But there is nothing. No tenderness, no raised bump of a line to show where the Queen of Hearts’ duplicity happened.

  I hold back the sheet and peer down at my bare body, searching for the fading bruises from the battle with the giant. There is nothing. The only ones that I can find are small, the product of pinches. Could the Piper do this? Or the Wise Woman?

  “What of the Piper?”

  “Who?”

  “The Pied Piper. The one destroying catalysts and Timelines.”

  “Was he also in your latest dream? What are catalysts and Timelines?”

  Could Jace be right? Could it all be nothing more than a dream? A nightmare? Could all of what I thought I experienced over the last year be nothing more than a figment of my admittedly very overactive imagination?

  Could I be foolish enough to believe myself in love with nothing more than a dream?

  I turn my head away from Jace, shaken.

  “Shall I go make you some tea? Get some of your favorite biscuits? They might help you wake up a bit more.”

  The Piper had never been able to access Wonderland, which is why he could never find the catalyst. He could not have known what my house looked like, or my bed. He could not know that there is a painting of Jace and I, in the Field of Daydreams, hanging on the wall. He could not know that I always keep a vase of flowers—the non-person kind, of course—next to both sides of our bed. He could not know these things. He could not know of the scar on Jace’s face, the one that cuts through his eyebrow. He could not know that Jace more often than not brought me breakfast in bed.

  Grateful for a reason to distance myself, I tell him I would very much like that.

  He presses a kiss against my cheek before rolling off the bed. I watch as he tugs on a robe, one with the seal of the White Court of Wonderland embroidered on it. He pulls open the heavy curtains to reveal the most perfect kind of morning: golden light, skies so azure they almost hurt to gaze upon them, clouds curling into intricate patterns as they paint the sky, trees swaying gently in a light breeze. The flowers in our garden are already singing their morning choruses.

  He slips the letter opener into a pocket. “I’ll be right back. Go ahead and rest. The others won’t be here until midday.”

  I nod and then he leaves.

  For a good minute, I lay in our bed, stunned. The Piper—he—

  Wait.

  Wait.

  I cannot clearly remember the Piper’s face. He was . . . tall? No. Medium build. I shake my head, desperate for the memories, but they feel like sand between my fingers. He had . . . a musical instrument. There was a hill. A mountain? My fists knock against my forehead. Why can’t I remember? I must.

  Finn.

  I yank at my hair. His face, in my mind, is blurred. No. No. I cannot let him go. No. I must remember him. He’s—he’s my heart. My partner. Isn’t he? I must find him. I must—

  I pluck at my hair. Focus, Alice. Focus.

  Everything swirls about me. I rush over to the looking glass, peering at my back. There is no cut there, no sign of stitches . . . but there is a small smudge of blue and purple lines. Could they be . . . bruises? I crane my neck further. No—not bruises. But what are they?

  A minute later, I’m tugging on my own robe. A robe that has a bird on it, my bird, the one carrying a diamond in its beak. Drawers are opened and searched, the closet the same. Everything inside is just as it ought to be. My things. Jace’s things.

  I am home.

  I sit down at my vanity. My hairbrush lies before me, strands of my hair in the bristles. I stare into the looking glass—the Queen of Diamonds stares back at me. There are darkish circles beneath my eyes, my hair is braided. Nothing is amiss.

  My vision blurs before refocusing. Why am I concerned that anything might be so? How very silly of me.

  By the time Jace returns with a tray of tea and biscuits, I am back in bed, looking over papers from the stack on the nightstand. There is also a gift of a small cluster of white heather. A smile curves my lips. “You are so good to me.”

  He sets the tray down and joins me on the bed. “Feeling better?”

  “Much.” A small laugh falls out. “All this drama over a dream. I fear I am such a mimsy. This will teach me to not drink any of the Hatter’s juice before bed.”

  An empty bottle of the wretched yet delicious concoction lies on the floor next to two goblets.

  Jace kisses my shoulder, and I force myself not to flinch. “I still think we ought to talk to our Grand Advisors about what’s happening.”

  “Nonsense.” I take his hand and squeeze it. “What we need to talk to them about are these.” I rattle the papers in my other hand.

  A sigh follows a quick glance that darkens his handsome features. “Well, that’s the Red King for you.”

  “The arena games are barbaric, and the fact that he is now using prisoners for blood sport is appalling. Some of these people are merely debtors, too poor to pay their taxes. Some have been imprisoned for steali
ng a loaf of bread to feed their hungry families. They do not deserve such a fate. We must put a stop to the games.”

  “We will.” He lifts our hands to kiss the base of my knuckles. “The White Queen will back us in this. My envoy to the Hearts’ Court claims he believes the King of Hearts will also lend his support. That will give us a majority.”

  I let out a bitter laugh. “Not the Queen of Hearts, though.”

  He rolls his eyes. “She probably has offered up her own prisoners.”

  At the thought of my fellow royal, anger simmers in my blood. Although I am typically annoyed and revolted by the woman, searing rage such as I feel now is not so common.

  “Has she done anything more despicable than normal lately?”

  “Hearts?”

  I nod.

  He tears a piece of a biscuit off and pops it into his mouth. “None of our spies have reported so. Why?”

  “Instinct,” is all I can tell him.

  “As your instinct is nearly infallible, let us send word for another report.”

  I pour us cups of tea into china marked with an elaborate white diamond embellished with a J&A. “On a related note, I am gobsmacked that White agreed to our conditions.”

  “She saw the writing on the wall. The people are behind our marriage; they crave for the stability of unified kingdoms. Even she would not risk an uprising.”

  That is debatable. I offer him his cup. “When does she arrive?”

  “I am sure she will arrive no less than absolutely possible before the ceremony. She’ll want to make a scene.”

  The tea is delicious. Jace has always known exactly how to brew it right. I savor the warmth of the cup by wrapping my fingers around the delicate china. “When doesn’t she?”

  He laughs over his tea. “Yes, but this time, she’ll want to do it doubly so. The benevolent, magnanimous White Queen of Wonderland, standing back and watching her co-regent marry her equal in the Diamonds Court? She’ll ensure all will know of how she’s sacrificing much for her people. Chances are, her agents will whisper suggestions to villagers of sainthood.”

  Agents. Why does that word feel so . . . important? Meaningful?

  I shake my head. “Chances are, you are right.”

  “I suppose it’s one of the prices of happiness.”

  I lean my head on his shoulder. “It’s a fair price.”

  Once breakfast is eaten and we have dressed for the day, we go for a ride. Just beyond the eastern edge of the tulgey woods lies the Field of Singing Wildflowers. Their songs are particularly lovely this fine day, melodious harmonies swelling in the air. It feels good to be upon my horse, to have the wind in my hair as we race through the field. Calls of, “Greetings, Your Majesties!” follow us until we find the great willow hovering over the burbling creek that waters these fields. This tree has always been a favorite of mine—tall and graceful, its leaves silvery green, it acts more like the field’s guardian than anything else.

  Wonderland is at its best today, filled with magic and beauty so wonderful that it leaves me drunk on pleasure.

  Jace pulls his horse up next to mine. “What has you so pleased?”

  “It sound silly, but it feels as if I haven’t ridden for pleasure in so long.”

  He urges his stallion a bit closer so he can lean over to kiss me. And this, too, feels good. Better than good, despite how my muscles tense with each touch between us.

  I’m happy. Content. Above us, the clouds twist into our initials.

  Once we dismount, and our horses are munching on soft blue-tinged grasses nearby, we lounge beneath the tree. Tiny Rocking-horse and Snap-dragon-flies buzz merrily in the warming air around us. “Do you remember the last time we came here?”

  Heat fills his eyes. “How could I forget?”

  I climb upon his lap, my arms circling his neck. I was so cold to him this morning, so distant. I have never felt that way toward this man before, and it concerns me. “It was a perfect afternoon.”

  “Any moment with you,” he says so wonderfully, beautifully seriously, “is perfect.”

  Our mouths find each other’s once more. Our kisses are languid—there is no rush right now. Wonderland is at peace. We are to be married, our kingdoms unified. Soon, we will be able to launch our educational programs that we’ve worked so hard on. The worst trouble in the land comes from the Red Court, and even then, we will have very little trouble overcoming them. If anything is a dream, it is this, here, now. It is what we have worked so hard for, what we have always wished for.

  Eventually, the layers of my skirt are sorted and pulled to the side. His breeches are loosened. Heat fills our kisses, our touches, until I feel as if I’ve consumed a full glass of the Hatter’s juice. My heart jackrabbits in my chest, his does the same. Our touches have always been able to do that to one another. Just before I am about to position myself over him, though, an uneasy feeling tickles at the back of my consciousness.

  It’s . . . guilt. A sense of wrongness. And it grows stronger with each second that passes by. This—this isn’t right. I shouldn’t be doing this.

  This isn’t the man I want to be with.

  “What’s wrong?” His hands come to cup my face, his breath is hard. “I feel like you are a million miles away all of a sudden.”

  I blink, my eyes refocusing on the man beneath me. “I . . .” Yet I do not know what to say. To explain the insidious feeling of betrayal scratching away at my happiness, as if . . . as if this here, the two of us together, is wrong. That I am meant to be elsewhere, with someone else.

  I desperately try to remember the man from my dreams. Who is he? Why does he feel so important? Because Jace and I . . . We are not wrong. We cannot be wrong. Wonderland is on our side. Wonderland has sanctioned our union.

  Nonetheless, I cannot make love to this man with such feelings haunting me. My stomach cramps, tears sting the backs of my eyes. I shift back slightly, shaken. Our lovely moment slips past my grasp. “Maybe we should talk to the Caterpillar.”

  He leans forward, cupping my face to kiss me once more, only this kiss is meant to be soothing. And still, I am entirely unsettled. My muscles tighten beneath his hold. “I’m glad you think so.” Earnest concern etches his face. He is gentleman enough not to call me out on my change of heart. “Speaking of, we ought to be heading back to get ready to receive him and the Cheshire-Cat.”

  I nod, but as we adjust our clothing, I cannot help but feel more than a bit ridiculous that I’ve allowed irrational feelings from a rapidly fading dream to ruin this moment for us. I can only rouse snatches of the dream to memory, and even those are fluid and increasingly out of reach. And yet, the sensations of importance, of relevance, refuse to lessen their grip on me. The entire ride back to our home, I am fixated on trying to piece together any and all bits of the nighttime imaginations that would inspire such emotions within me.

  I fail, though. By the time our horses are tended and put into their stalls, my focus returns to where it ought to be: preparing for the merging of two of Wonderland’s kingdoms in as many days’ time.

  WHEN THE PAGES TUG down the ramp from the carriage bearing the White Court’s shield and hold open the door, I am inexplicably tempted to reach for Jace’s hand. I do not, though. I assume the pose that my mentor and Grand Advisor taught me early on: back straight, feet together, hands primly folded together in front, a serene yet aloof smile upon my face. The Cheshire-Cat appears first, his length growing with each paw padding down the ramp. By the time he touches dirt, he is the size of a pony. Brownish fur sleek, golden eyes glowing, he regards us with an impish smile. “The old canker is in a frightfully nasty mood—”

  “I heard that, you blasted flea-ridden beast!” comes from inside the carriage.

  The Cheshire-Cat continues without a beat, “Therefore, I hope tea is ready and waiting.”

  I turn to a lady-in-waiting, now exiting the carriage behind that of the Grand Advisors.’ “Please ready the table in the garden.”

  Sh
e curtsies. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  As she departs, the White King welcomes his Grand Advisor. “I hope the journey was comfortable?”

  The Cheshire-Cat yawns. “Tolerable, I suppose.” He motions to a nearby page. “Fetch a bowl of cream, boy. Make sure to add a dash of juice.”

  The page, arms loaded with trunks, dashes into the house.

  The carriage groans and shakes before the Caterpillar sticks his head out of the door. Half-moon spectacles are perched halfway down his rather bulbous nose, a small beret rests upon his head. More importantly, he wears his typical sleepy frown.

  My vision momentarily blurs for reasons I cannot understand.

  Each of his leather-clad feet patters against the wooden ramp as he descends. A small tilt of his head precedes, “Why you two continue to insist upon dwelling in such a remote location continues to boggle my mind.”

  “I refused to allow him to smoke in the carriage,” the Cheshire-Cat says. “I’m afraid it left him even more unfit for decent company than normal.”

  The Caterpillar ignores him, instead focusing on me. Eyes narrowed, he sniffs. “You appear rather fatigued. It does not become you.”

  I take no offense. “Let us go and enjoy some refreshments in the garden. Perhaps that will help ease the effects of such a weary journey.”

  “I hope you have instructed those flowers of yours to keep their petals shut while we’re out there. They’re frightfully off-key.”

  They had, in fact, been practicing a song before Jace and I left to go riding. Begonia, the lead Rose in the garden, has vowed on multiple occasions to produce a performance that will finally earn the Caterpillar’s applause, but it seems today may not to be that day.

  “I have done no such thing,” I say calmly.

  He sighs heavily before instructing another page to bring his hookah along with us.

  The house bustles with the added staff that the caravan has brought with it. The garden is no different, and as predicted, the flowers burst out in a symphony of choruses the moment we walk through the gate. The Cheshire-Cat makes a grand show of his delight, purring so loudly he might as well be part of the show. In direct opposition, the Caterpillar plops down upon his tufted velvet pillow with a distinct groan of displeasure.