Ensnared (Splintered, #3)(11)
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 world. Still, it’s a comfort to have it dangling at my collarbone.