Ensnared (Splintered, #3)(9)

Ouch. I shove another handful of peanuts in my mouth, wishing things were like they used to be between us. How strange that somehow the lies became the foundation to our relationship. Without them, our bond is shaky . . . precarious.

I ache to reach out and hug him, but the void between us is too vast.

“If we’re going to help her and Jeb,” Dad continues, “I need honest answers from you. The whole truth. No more sugarcoating.”

I study my bare toes, wincing as we step down onto pebbles and broken rock. My soles aren’t the only things feeling exposed and tender. “I have no idea where to start, Dad.”

He frowns. “I don’t expect answers right this minute. We have to find Humphrey’s Inn first.”

“Humphrey’s Inn?” I bite my inner cheek. The only Humphrey I’ve ever met is the egg-man creature in Wonderland, the one called Humpty Dumpty in the Lewis Carroll novel. “What’s that?”

“It’s the one clue I have to my family’s whereabouts. It was my home here.”

“Here, as in London?”

“As in this world. Humphrey’s Inn is some kind of halfway house between the magi-kind and mortal realms. It’s hidden underground.”

His outright acknowledgment of a magical otherworld leaves me reeling. Maybe I was wrong about him being oblivious in dealing with netherlings. Maybe I even suspected as much, but it’s still hard to grasp how deeply Wonderland runs through my blood—on both sides of my family.

That thought triggers another splash of Red’s memories. I waver in place.

Dad steadies me. “You okay?”

“Just a headache,” I answer as the sensation subsides. I’ll have to make a concerted effort not to think of my great-great-great-grandmother until I can figure out a way to suppress these episodes. “You were telling me about the inn.”

“Yeah. It’s somewhere in Oxford.”

“Seriously? That’s where Alice Liddell grew up. Where she met Lewis Carroll.”

Dad rubs the stubble on his chin. “Somehow, way down the line, the Skeffingtons were related to the Dodgsons, which was Carroll’s surname before he took on a pseudonym. I hope to get more details once we find the inn.”

I don’t press any further. I can’t imagine the information overload he’s experiencing.

Off in the distance, the monarchs that provided our rides are hanging on the tunnel walls, wings flapping slow and relaxed. The firefly chandeliers reflect off their orange and black markings. It reminds me of tigers gliding through the silhouettes of jungle trees during a nature show.

The butterflies whisper: We know the way to Humphrey’s Inn. Would you like an escort, little flower queen?

Goose bumps coat my arms when I think of jostling through another bout of wind and rain. It’s not fear. It’s electrified anticipation—like standing in line for a favorite roller coaster. My wing buds nudge. The right one isn’t fully healed yet. Maybe I can let it out while riding, exercise my wings without the danger of falling.

Yes, please take us. I send the silent answer back to the butterflies.

“Are they talking to you now?” Dad asks when he catches me staring at them.

I swallow. It’s hard to get used to not pretending with someone I’ve been fooling my whole life. “Uh-huh.”

He studies me, his complexion almost green in the dim light. I wonder if it’s hit him yet, that we allowed Mom to be locked in an asylum for something that was really happening and not a delusion.

“The butterflies know where the inn is,” I say.

Dad makes a disgruntled sound. “After we get there, can we please return to our normal size?”

“Sure. I’ve got just what we’ll need.” I pat my pocket where the mushrooms wait, surprised to feel the conductor’s pen alongside them. I’d forgotten I still have it.

Dad slips out his wallet and sifts through receipts, money, and pictures. He pauses at the family portrait we had made a few months ago and traces Mom’s outline with a shaky fingertip. “I can’t believe what she did for me,” he murmurs, and I wonder if I was supposed to hear, or if it’s a private moment. I’ve never doubted how strong Dad’s love is for her, but only recently did I learn how strong hers is for him.

I’m curious how much he’s remembered, if he understands that she was going to be queen before she found him.

Dad’s jaw clenches as he slides the picture back into its sleeve. “We don’t have the right currency. We’ll have to use my credit cards. It should be around dinnertime when we arrive. While we eat, we’ll discuss things.” He looks tired, yet more alert than I’ve seen him in years. “We’ll plan our next move. But it’s important we lay low and try not to draw attention to ourselves. Considering my family’s profession, they could’ve made some very dangerous enemies.”

An uneasy knot forms in my throat. “What profession?”

He tucks his wallet into his pocket. “Gatekeepers. They’re the guardians of AnyElsewhere.”

My knees wobble. “What?”

“That’s enough discussion for now. I’m still processing.”

His curtness stings. But what right do I have to feel wounded? I made him wait seventeen years to learn the truth about me.

“Okay.” I stifle an apology and study my ragged gown. “It won’t be easy to stay under the radar while wearing asylum clothes. You’ll need to change, too.”