Splintered (Splintered, #1)(92)
“Grenadine is the only one who has the command the bandersnatch was trained to obey. It’s a word passed down from queen to queen. But in the confusion of our takeover, Grenadine lost the ribbon that held that secret.”
I bite my inner cheek, determined there has to be some way for us to skip this step. “Okay, but if Chessie’s smile can tame the beast, then we can just cut him out of the toy here and release Chessie into the bandersnatch’s lair. We can all wait out of danger until the bandersnatch is subdued.”
“Ideally, yes.” Morpheus drags the teddy bear out of my lap. Straining, he yanks the stitches apart. Before I can blink, the threads mend themselves, closing the gap. “You see?” he explains. “Because Sister Two’s toys harbor the residue of a child’s innocent love, the world’s most binding magic, the only tool that can permanently sever these stitches is—”
“The vorpal sword itself,” I mumble, rubbing the knot in my stomach. I take the teddy bear back and trace the pits where it once had eyes. “What happens if … after I tame the beast?”
“The White army has agreed to leave this castle upon the condition that the Red Court crowns a new queen and frees Ivory. Both courts will accept you as the rightful heir once you’ve fulfilled the final test and harnessed the power of the smile.” An arrogant smirk crosses his lips. “I suspect King Red originally penned that with a knack for diplomacy in mind. But this interpretation hits all the high points. No one can argue that.”
Apprehension snakes through me at the thought of standing before both courts. “So, I’ll get crowned. Then Jeb and I can leave?”
“Once you’re queen, you can force King Red and Grenadine to free Ivory. Wonderland will be in balance once more. Both portals will be open to you. And then”—Morpheus runs a finger along the bridge of his hat—“you may use your wish to cleanse your blood of netherling traits, which in turn will save your mum, and your children thereafter. The Red Court will appoint a new queen once you and your toy soldier return to the human realm.”
Something about that last step doesn’t sit right. First off, who else would they crown as queen? Second, how exactly would half of me—the netherling half—just disappear? Would I be wiped clean by some magical eraser?
Before I can air my reservations, Morpheus hits me with the only words that could cause me to forget everything else: “Would you like to see your mortal knight now?”
I’m at the edge of my seat, about to get up, but Morpheus kneels in front of me, ever the obstacle in my path.
“No need to stand, plum. You can see him from where you sit.” Next to my right leg, he shoves his hand between the chair’s cushion and frame. The nerve endings in my thigh sizzle. Eyes locked to mine, Morpheus drags out a small handheld mirror, its frame embossed with shimmery silver. He flips the glass side to me.
In some dank, dark place, Jeb bangs his head against prison bars. Blood trickles down into his face, and he totters backward, dazed.
My heart breaks in half—a pain so acute, it could launch a thousand wishes and fill a sea of tears. “Jeb, stop …”
“For reference”—Morpheus studies my reaction—“that is a birdcage. Our pseudo elf is the size of a sparrow. Upon word from me, the guards will feed him to Queen Grenadine’s notoriously hungry cat, Dinah.”
“No!” I skim my fingers over the cold glass and the image vanishes. I’m faced with only my reflection. The girl whose selfish desires brought Jeb into this journey to begin with. All because I wanted him to myself. But I never wanted this.
The sob I’ve been holding back rips loose. I was delusional to think I could sway this game to my favor. The checkmate’s already been played. Morpheus has won.
“What will it be, Alyssa?”
The fire crackles behind me, a cat-o’-nine-tails whipping harsh tongues of light across his ruthless expression. I wipe my tears and level my gaze on his. There’s no need for another word between us, because he already knows.
I’ll do anything he asks of me now.
Morpheus escorts me down a long, dim corridor on the first floor. Candles in brass sconces light the glittery red walls. The lace and bustled skirts of my coronation dress sweep the black marble beneath my feet. This is exactly why I didn’t want to go to prom. I hate being on display, especially in something I would never choose to wear on my own.
From my hands to my feet, I’m dripping crimson velvet, ivory lace, and ruby jewels. The elbow-length sleeves and floor-length skirt pouf out like the princesses’ ball gowns in the picture books I used to read as a kid, and the gloves are made of stretchy velveteen.
My hair’s dressed up, too; long curls pile atop my head, studded with jeweled barrettes that flank my great-great-great-grandmother’s hairpin. Morpheus instructed my sprite attendants that Queen Red’s ornament should remain the focal point.
I’m the epitome of royalty. I even smell royal—perfumed with sandalwood, roses, and a hint of amber. But I’d rather be Sister One, awash in the scent of dusty sunlight and hiding spinnerets beneath my skirt, so I could wrap Morpheus in a web and leave him to hang.
As if intuiting my thoughts, he squeezes my velvety palm to his satin one, locking our fingers tighter. His jaw is set in the same severe expression he wore earlier—just after the sprites put me on display for his approval—when I told him how much I despised even looking at him.