Splintered (Splintered, #1)(53)
A nudge of sympathy knocks at my heart. “You want me to help free Chessie from the bandersnatch, so he can find his head again.”
Morpheus turns on his heel to face me, wings drooping. “All I need is the vorpal sword. Only its blade can cut through the hide of the bandersnatch. Alice hid the sword in the one place she knew it would be safe. Somewhere so ridiculous and mundane, no one would look for it there.” His gaze falls on the figurines in front of me, and I pick up a character with an odd, cagelike hat.
“The tea party. The Mad Hatter has it,” I guess.
“You’ve forgotten. That is strictly a Carrollism—the name Lewis used in his tale of fiction. His true name is Herman Hattington. And there’s nothing mad about him. He’s rather jolly, in fact, when he’s awake.”
I tap the carving’s head, waiting for an explanation.
“Alice left the tea party guests beneath a sleeping spell,” Morpheus continues. “Wake them, and they can tell you where the sword is. You’ve already dried up the ocean and made peace with the clams. I’ve a guest coming to the banquet tonight who will receive the gloves and fan on the duchess’s behalf. After that, making things right for the tea party guests will be the only thing left undone.”
Standing the Alice figurine up again, I place the caterpillar next to her, thoughtful.
Morpheus returns to the table and drops the cat into the brass box, then sweeps all the other characters in with him. Standing over me, he holds out his palm. “What say you, Alyssa? Are you willing to help me while you’re helping yourself? A favor for your childhood friend?”
Once Jeb and I get home, I can tell Alison that the nightmare is finally over, that we’ll never be connected to Wonderland again. Just thinking of her smile sparks an ember in my heart.
Taking a breath, I slide my fingers into Morpheus’s and meet his gaze. “I’ll do it.”
He lifts my hand and presses soft lips to my knuckles. “I always knew you would.” Then he smiles, his jewels glistening gold and bright.
I wait in a cold, mirrored hall with a glass table and chairs for company. Jeb’s supposed to meet me here. I’m dying to see him again but at the same time nervous about how he’ll react to my decision to help Morpheus without talking things over with him first.
I close my eyes, disoriented by the movement all around me. Mirrors line every inch of the ceiling and walls, even the floors. Shadowy figures glide in the reflections.
In our world, mirrors are made by slapping a coat of silvery aluminum paint onto the back of a glass plane. A person can’t see anything but their reflection. Here, I can see shadows inside, like they’re sandwiched between the layers. Morpheus told me they’re the spirits of moths. It makes me wonder about the bugs I’ve killed back home.
Apparently, in Wonderland, everyone—or thing—has a soul. The cemetery is a hallowed place revered by all netherlings. No one will set foot inside, other than the keepers of the garden: the Twid Sisters.
At the hands of the twins, the dead are cultivated: sown, watered, and weeded out like a virtual flower garden of ghosts. One sister nurtures the souls—singing to the newcomers and keeping the spiritual flora content. The other sister weeds out withering spirits that have languished and turned bitter or angry—something to do with locking them inside other forms for eternity.
The Twid Sisters aren’t getting along with Morpheus right now because he refuses to send his dead moths their way. He’d rather let them fly free somewhere between life and death than tie them down in a prison of dirt. So he hides them inside his mirrors.
Some might call that morbid. I see a degree of tenderness there, in his effort to give them dignity. The same tenderness I’ve glimpsed in our past, and earlier, when he treated my injuries.
The birthmark on my ankle is universal to the creatures of Wonderland—keys to their world and a way to heal one another—and a part of the Liddell curse. I still don’t know why, in her old age, Alice lost the marking. Or why she forgot her time in the real world, swearing she lived in a birdcage here instead of having married and had a family. But at least one thing is clear: I’m a part of this realm until I can shatter the curse to pieces.
Heavy boots echo along the mirrored floor and I glance up.
“Jeb!” I race toward him. The floor is slick, and the boots the sprites gave me have little traction. I slip. Jeb drops the backpack, leaps forward, and catches me.
He drags me up until our foreheads touch and my feet dangle above the ground. It never ceases to amaze me how easily he can lift me, as if I weigh nothing at all.
I stroke his clean-shaved face and garnet labret—breathing him in, assuring myself he’s all right.
“Did he touch you? Hurt you?” Jeb whispers in the silence.
“No. He was a gentleman.”
Jeb frowns. “You mean a gentleroach.”
I snort, which melts his severity and makes him smile. He spins me around. “I’ve missed you,” he says.
I tuck my chin against his broad shoulder and hug him tightly. My body’s thirsty, drinking up his warmth like a sponge. “Never let me go, okay?” Any other time, that might sound lame. But right now, it’s the most genuine request I’ve ever made.
“Never plan to,” he whispers, his mouth close enough that his breath grazes the top of my ear.