by A. G. Howard
JUBILATION
The memories worked like a charm. There aren’t any clocks in the royal bedroom. It doesn’t matter, since time is irrelevant in Wonderland. But it feels like it’s been hours since the baby was born.
The moment I heard his melodious cry and held his tiny, warm body, all of the pain, all of the fears, all of the sadness I’d been battling melted away. And Morpheus wasted no time ushering our helpful but noisy entourage out the door so we could be alone, just the three of us.
After I nursed the baby, I showed my king how to swaddle him in a blanket and hold him. At first, Morpheus held his arms rigid like a shelf, as if he feared our child was breakable. To see someone as powerful and confident as Morpheus leveled to helplessness by a wriggling bundle of wings, arms, and legs was both endearing and poignant. But with a little gentle coaching, he was soon nuzzling and cooing to his son like a pro. Once the baby had relaxed in Morpheus’s arms, he started to leave him in the cradle, but changed his mind and laid the prince gently next to me in the bed, settling himself on the other side with our son safely penned between us.
Talking to our prince in sweet and honeyed tones, Morpheus drizzled strands of blue light from his fingertips and called upon the moths in some opened terrariums across the room. The moment the bugs fluttered around us, Morpheus connected them to his magic. Guided by their enchanted harnesses, the moths flew in a circle, like a baby mobile.
Morpheus’s expression became dreamy, his face and the baby’s both glowing from the magical mobile lights. Our prince watched, his bright blue eyes dancing and his teensy wings trying to flutter inside the blanket that swaddled him. One day, he would have his father’s jeweled markings around his lower lashes and along his cheeks. For now, the intricate tracery of lines appeared more faded—like veins beneath the skin. He did have one patch of color on his left wrist, though, where his netherling birthmark coiled, visible and prominent.
“Do you see that?” Morpheus asked me, catching the baby’s tiny hand in one of his as our prince tried to reach for a moth with his own blue magic while cooing contentedly. “His pinky . . . it’s the size of my thumbnail.” Morpheus focused on me—those unfathomable eyes filled with enough love and wonder to breach the depths of my being. “And he has your nose. Look, see how it’s crinkled? He’s frustrated because I won’t let him catch the moth. You do that when I’m challenging you.”
I laughed. “No I don’t!”
Morpheus grinned. “You’ve done it ever since we were children together. You’re doing it now.”
I wriggled my nose. He was right, as per usual. I sighed, but as much as I wanted the puff of air to sound irritable, it came out as a purr of pure contentment.
“How is it possible?” my king asked. “That he’s so little, yet so profoundly, perfectly formed?”
“Because he’s a part of you,” I responded without even thinking.
Morpheus held my gaze. “And the other part you. You’re right. How could he be anything but perfect?”
Teary, I smiled and counted the baby’s fingers for the hundredth time, entranced by the blue sparks already brewing at their tips. “I never expected his magic to have a color,” I conjectured aloud. “Mine doesn’t. And he’s a half-blood, like me.”
Morpheus rested his cheek on his pillow, eyelids growing heavy. “Not like you, blossom. Both of his parents have magic.”
I quietly studied the baby’s hands, curious if he’d ever be able to take another form like his father, and wondering over the chaos he’d soon wreak upon this castle and its occupants. Raising a fairy child blessed with imagination was going to keep us all busy, to say the least.
As soon as our son fell asleep, so did Morpheus and I—exhausted from the night’s events.
Now I’m awake, and in the soft amber glow of the candlelight, I study them: my prince, and my king, lying side by side next to me. My throat catches at their beauty, and my heart brims with love. They have the same pout when they sleep . . . that mischievous turn to their lips softened to an angelic expression and shaped by fragile tremors of breath.
As if sensing me watching him, Morpheus’s fathomless eyes open. I brush back a strand of hair from his face. He catches my palm and kisses it.
“It took a while to get here,” he murmurs against my scars, his voice rough with sleep.
By here, I’m not sure if he means the birth, or the two of us.
“Thank you for your unfathomable patience,” I respond, because either way, it’s the answer he deserves. I caress our prince’s plump elbow with my free hand, memorizing his cherubic face. Though his eyes are shaped like his father’s, they’re colored like mine. And I can see myself in other places . . . in the dimple on his chin, his button nose, and the platinum blond tips frosting the ends of his long, dark lashes. “Good things come to those who wait.”
Morpheus releases me and stretches, his powerful wings fluttering on the other side of him. “The best things. Impossible things. Most impossible of all is a lone creature, who never once needed another living soul, having a family he would die and kill for.”
Still studying the baby, my face flushes. The possessive resolve in Morpheus’s confession comes from a place so deep inside, it must’ve gored his heart to say it. It’s obvious he’s awed by being capable of such a love.
“We haven’t decided on a name yet,” I whisper to hide how touched I am by this rare glimpse of his frailties. I refuse to embarrass him. Tomorrow we’ll be presenting our son to the kingdom, which makes for the perfect segue. “I don’t think Trouble is a name befitting the prince who’s going to make our world a better place.”
Morpheus nods sagely, but there’s a wicked glint in his eyes. “Yes, we wouldn’t wish to risk a self-fulfilling prophecy. Can’t have him too much like his old man.”
I smirk, although I’m going do everything I can to assure our son will be like Morpheus—as fierce and unpredictable and chaotic as all the varied landscapes of Wonderland that we’ll one day share with him. “Should we look through your list again?”
We spent the afternoon yesterday sorting through the options as we had so often before: Argon, Durian, Iseld, Rhyanon . . . and so many more I can’t even recall. Each one was lyrical and powerful, and ideal for a fairy prince, yet nothing seemed to capture all that he would someday be.
“Only one will do, now that I’ve seen him.” Morpheus strokes the blue, downy tufts on our son’s head. In time, he’ll have a full head of luminous hair like his daddy’s. “Muse.”
I consider the name. It wasn’t on the list, but as I study the baby’s flawless features, I can’t deny it fits. My muse led me into this world in the first place, then gave me the power to rule it; Jeb’s muse repainted Wonderland so many years ago, then stayed here to bring peace between two realms. Even though Morpheus would never admit it aloud, this is his way of honoring Jeb’s contribution, my other side, and human flights of fancy. The sentiment affects me deeply, warms me all the way from my wing tips to my toes, and I’m grateful beyond words.
But there’s one more thing that makes this name fitting above all else: This baby is our dream-child, destined to inspire the imagination of the creatures in the nether-realm, a gift that will bring eternal balance to our kingdom.
I smile, big enough it strains my face. “Muse, first prince of the Red Court. I love it.” I tear my gaze from the baby—as difficult as it is to look away—because I want to see my king’s expression.
My effort is rewarded. He’s happy and proud; carefree and unkempt; most of all, smiling. A beaming smile, just like he used to flash as a child. After all this time, he’s young at heart again.
I can’t resist, and catch him by his nightshirt to pull his face close for a kiss. “Do you realize?” I ask against his savory lips, overwhelmed by so many emotions I have to struggle to stay afloat. “He’ll have the same initial as you: M.” The teasing statement barely leaves my tongue before I’m giggling.
Morpheus laughs, too, deep and s
oft. He clamps a hand over his mouth when our son begins to squirm, long-lashed eyes struggling to open.
“Shhhh, go back to your dreams, little one.” Still smiling, I cuddle Muse’s body to mine, nuzzle his head, and inhale his baby scent. Triggered by my senses, I’m reminded of other babies I once welcomed into my arms—each precious birth preserved like a fossil within the amber tinge of distant memory. It makes me happy just to glance upon them now, knowing that I had a hand in their lives, if only for a fleeting moment. Knowing that in this world, I’ll never be separated by death from Muse or Morpheus, or the netherling creatures that I’ve come to love like family.
“Where are you, Alyssa?” Morpheus asks in a breathy voice, stroking my braided hair. “Reminiscing?”
I lean my cheek into his palm. “I’m here with you. Always with you. And our prince.” Tilting my face, I whisper into the baby’s tiny ear. “I intend to see that you never have to learn the word good-bye.” He snuggles close, and my heart fills with so much adoration I could burst. I turn my teary eyes to Morpheus, who’s watching us both reverently. “I think your son wants you to sing to him.”
My king trails the skin around my eyes with a fingertip. “I think you do. You’re spoiled to my lullabies.”
“I am,” I say, and wriggle my nose for emphasis.
He beams once more, his jeweled markings sparkling pink and purple. “Good. I can’t be the only diva in this relationship. It is far too exhausting.”
And with that, he drapes a long, satiny wing over me and Muse, sheltering our family from the world as he sings a new song with new words—a tribute to all things mad, wild, and beautiful.
An anthem to our beloved and eternal Wonderland.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, gratitude to my husband and kids for turning a blind eye to dusty furniture, mountains of laundry, and TV dinners when deadlines loom, and to my Agent Goddess, Jenny Bent, whose business savvy, diplomacy, and faith in her clients know no bounds.
Thank you to my Abrams family: Tamar Brazis, Nicole Sclama, Anne Heltzel, and countless copyeditors and proofreaders, for helping me polish each diamond in the rough until it sparkles. Also, gratitude to Jason Wells and Nicole Russo, my in-house publicists; the printing-press specialists who oversee the pages and special effects; and the marketing advisors and everyone who plays a part behind the scenes in the making of the books.
Appreciation to Maria Middleton, who always finds the perfect artistic themes for my books—both inside and out—and to Nathália Suellen, for providing the enchanted artistry that has brought my characters to life on the series covers.
Heartfelt thanks to every indie bookstore and bookseller, along with a fabulous community of online bloggers, who have put my books on countless readers’ radar.
Cheers to my local crit group, the Divas: Linda Castillo, Jennifer Archer, Marcy McKay, and April Redmon, for lending keen eyes, sharp minds, and listening ears to my projects. Thank you for teaching me how to be humble yet fierce during edits.
Hugs to my online critters and beta readers: Rookie (aka Bethany Crandell), the White Chocolate to my Godiva Dark; POM (aka Jessica Nelson), who loves cookie dough and bad boys almost as much as me; Stacee (aka @book_junkee), for being a most EPIC cheerleader; Owly (aka Ashlee Supringer), for adding in-depth insights into my characters and plots; Marlene Ruggles, my unpaid copyeditor; and Chris Lapel, my number-one fan.
Affectionate head butts to my #Goatposse, who are wiser and funnier than the average domesticated ruminant animal. Also, a holla to the WrAHM girls.
High fives to the twitter Splintered RP players: @SplinteredCrew, @LongLiveTheMuse, @AlyssaPaints, @PunkPrincessJen, @seductive_ fae, @MorphTheMoth, @NetherlingQueen, @splinteredivory, @tyedribbions, @RabbitNotBeMe, @taelor_tremont, and @Chevy LovingJock, for bringing my characters out to play in the real world, and keeping the madness alive.
My respect and awe to the talented fans who send artwork for my Pinterest board and write incredible fan fiction, and to the readers who follow/chat with me via Goodreads, Tumblr, Pinterest, and Twitter.
A shout-out to all my Facebook supporters, with special thanks to Saleana Rae Carneiro, Katie Clifton, and Diane Marie Hinds (and a hat tip to Harley Liddell and P Cat Moonchild)—the frabjous administrators on my Facebook fan page, who keep the peace and step on fires so I don’t have to get my hands dirty or singe my toes. And to Heather Love King (my Pinterest pal) and Elexis Darden, for talking up my books online every chance you get. Consider this an IOU for a hug when we meet one day in person.
Thanks to Jaime and Rachel at RockStar Book Tours for mastering the blog-tour ropes and being so supportive and generous with their time.
An eternal debt of gratitude to Lewis Carroll and Tim Burton for inspiring me to believe in the magic of Wonderland, and to sample it for myself.
And most importantly, gratefulness to the One who gives me the ability to write and the opportunity to do what I love every day.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
New York Times bestselling novelist A. G. Howard started writing the Splintered series while working at a school library. She always wondered what would’ve happened had the subtle creepiness of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland taken center stage, and she hopes her darker and funkier tribute to Carroll will inspire readers to seek out the stories that won her heart as a child. She lives in Amarillo, Texas.