Ensnared (3 page)

“Wait,” the beetle pleads. “Forgive my impertinence, Your Majesty. You’ve made a fair point. But I’m the conductor. I must protect the reserves of lost memories from the stowaways. Let me down, I beg of you!”

I swivel on my heel to face the others. They peer out from under their seats—eyes ogling, tails drooping, hair frizzed—sneezing and trembling in fear.

The conductor whimpers as I toss the bag of peanuts at him. It snags inside one of the chains close to his left arms.

“He’s on his lunch break,” I tell the passengers. “Anyone who leaves their seats for any reason will have to deal with me. Are we clear?”

The stowaways answer with a collective nod and cautiously settle back into their places. A tendril of satisfaction unfurls within me.

Smirking, I slip the key into place, and open the door to my enemy’s past.

The instant I shut the door behind me, all my confidence wavers.

The room is small and windowless. An ivory tapestry hangs above a cream-colored chaise lounge and a tall lamp stands beside it, casting a glow on the checked floor.

An almond scent drifts from the moonbeam cookies that always seem to be waiting on a plate. As hungry as I am, I can’t eat them. Everything is too painfully familiar here.

I hugged Jeb and Mom in this place, felt their love as they embraced me back. My arms ache with longing. On the opposite wall, red velvet curtains wait to open and unveil hidden snippets from the past. I viewed my parents’ love story on this train, watched
Jeb’s memories, too. I walked in their heads and wore their emotions as if they were mine.

I felt Mom’s change of heart when she gave up the ruby crown to give my dad a chance at life . . . even saw Morpheus as he helped her, carrying my dad through the portal into the human realm, despite that it was putting all of his meticulous plans at risk. I experienced Jeb’s nobility and courage when he turned his back on his future so I could have one instead.

So many sacrifices have led to this moment. I would do anything to reverse the clock and set things right. But time is merciless.

“Time. You’ll have no such constraints in Wonderland. Let that be your silver lining. Now pull yourself together. We must prepare for Red.”
Those were Morpheus’s words on prom night, mere hours before everything fell apart. The message is so resonant, it’s as if he were connected to my mind; but that’s impossible with the iron dome between us. Still, it makes sense that his insight echoes through my soul when I’m teetering at the edge of insecurity, considering he’s Wonderland’s wisdom keeper, the custodian of all things mad and daring.

Jeb is an anchor; he holds me grounded to my humanity and compassion. But Morpheus is the wind; he drags me kicking and screaming to the highest precipice, shoves me off, then watches me fly with netherling wings. When Jeb’s at my side, the world is a canvas—unblemished and welcoming; when I’m with Morpheus, it’s a wanton playground—wicked and addictive.

Each guy occupies a different side of my dual heart. Together, they bridge my netherling and human worlds. What I’m supposed to do with that knowledge, I’m not sure. And unless my dad emerges from his room with memories intact, I might never get the chance to figure it out.

Tears prick my eyes for the first time in weeks. I’ve become good at hiding my despair. It was part of my crazy act for the asylum—to appear numb and detached. But that’s the furthest from how I feel.

Refusing to cry, I lift my chin. Morpheus would say that I’m a queen, and queens don’t cry. And Jeb would say, “
You got this, skater girl
.”

They’re both right.

I turn the dial on the wall to dim the lamp. The stage curtains open, revealing a movie screen. “Picture her face in your mind whilst staring at the empty screen”—I mimic the conductor’s instructions from the last time I was here—“and you will experience her past as if it were today.”

I’m surprised how easy it is to recall Red’s image in the sketches from my mom’s
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
book. Before little Alice fell down the rabbit hole, before the queen’s world was shattered by an unfaithful husband . . . before she was betrayed by her king. Back when Red was only a princess.

The screen lights up, and I burst apart into a thousand pieces, reuniting on the screen inside Red’s body and point of view.

She’s small and young, maybe ten in human years. Although children are different in the netherling realm—wiser and more cynical, lacking innocence and imagination. Her breath rattles in her lungs as she chases a band of pixies. They’re dragging a dead body draped in red velvet. The pixies don’t stop until they’re within the cemetery gate, safe inside the covered gardens.

“Wait! Bring her back!” Red screams.

She almost trips over her gown, but flaps her wings and lifts off the ground. She lands outside the gate just as it slams closed. Standing alone,
she peers through the bars. Sister One scuttles out from the labyrinth of shrubbery, her eight shiny spider legs kicking up her skirt’s hem. The gardener’s humanoid torso leans over Red’s mother and coaxes the spirit from her body. It wriggles, rising from the corpse like a fluorescent vine.

Sister One winds the spirit around her wrist and sends the pixies off with the empty body.

“No, you can’t have her!” Red shouts, a weight in her chest so heavy it hurts to breathe. The stench of mildew and scorched leaves stings her nostrils. She’s never been this close to the garden of souls, having grown up on horror stories of the keepers and the grounds. But tales of scissored hands and trespassers left in bloody shreds hold no sway today. Not with her mother being taken away forever.

Sister One stares back from inside the gate, a frown on her face. “This is hallowed ground, child-queen. Whatever you be thinking, ’tis foolish. You haven’t the power here that you wield in your kingdom.”

Red scowls. Her entire body glows crimson as she concentrates on the spidery woman’s hair. Strands, as shimmery and fine as pencil shavings, flutter around the gardener’s face with a breeze, but Red’s magic has no effect.

Red looks up and down the tall fence and the thorny branches that stretch over the expanse of the cemetery gardens like a roof. There’s no way to breach the defenses.

Sister One smirks haughtily. “It would be a mistake to attempt to find a way in, little princess, lest you wish to know my sister personally. She has a gift for making confetti of delicate little imps like yourself.”

A shudder races from Red’s spine to the tips of her wings.

With a final glare at Red, Sister One winds the whimpering, glowing spirit through her fingers. In a sweep of skirts and spidery legs, she disappears into the maze of foliage.

Red’s kingly father arrives, his face flushed from trying to catch his daughter.

“What’s the good of being immortal,” Red asks, her nose wedged against the gate and cold from the metal, “if we can’t be together eternally?”

“Immortality merely means you reach a point and stop aging . . . and your spirit never dies,” he responds between panting. He squeezes her shoulder. “But the body is vulnerable to some things, and can be left but a shell.”

Red’s arms and legs go numb. Her own body feels like a shell. Empty and brittle, as if it might blow away at the first gust of wind.

She clasps the bars, holding herself steady. “But why can’t we bury her in the ground, amongst the begonias and daisies in our palace courtyard? Like the humans do? If she lived in the flowers, we could visit her every day.”

Her father frowns, as if considering. “You know our spirits need dreams to satiate them, to keep them from being restless . . . from possessing living bodies. Only the Twidsters can find and supply such things.”

“Dreams.”
Red sniffles. “One day, I’ll bring dreams to our kind, Father. They’ll be in abundance everywhere, not just in the cemetery. One day, I’ll free the spirits, so they can sleep inside our gardens, brushing our windows at night, and bumping against our feet in the day. I’ll bring imagination to our world so everyone might always be with those they treasure.”

He pats her head, a tender gesture that almost fills the gaping hole in her chest. “That would make you the most beloved queen of all time, scarlet rosebud. But until then we are bound to follow rules like everyone else. We cannot abuse our power and status, or endanger our subjects. No matter how much we love her.” He blots his eyes with a handkerchief. “Understand?”

Red nods.

The scene scrambles and blurs. I’m dragged out of the memory and dropped back into my seat, cradled by the darkness around me. A knocking sensation shakes my skull, as if a fist punches it from the inside. I press my hands to my temples until it stops.

It must be the repudiated memory nesting inside my cranium, because I didn’t experience anything like that the last time I was here.

The screen flicks on again. A vivid rainbow smears across the room to jerk me back to the stage. My bones settle into Red’s, and my skin conforms to hers.

She’s older by six years or so. Her father married a widowed netherling after her mother’s death, so the Red Court would have a queen to rule until Red was of age. But in just a few more months, Red will have her coronation, and the crown-magic will fill her blood . . .

Red hides behind some bushes in the castle courtyard’s garden. The purple-striped zinnias wilt from the anger seeping off of her as she spies on her father and younger stepsister. Grenadine is the daughter from the new queen’s prior marriage, and has proven to be a thorn in Red’s side.

It isn’t enough that her hair shimmers with the sheen of rubies, and her silver eyes dance beneath thick lavender lashes. She’s constantly forgetful—a blank slate waiting to be written upon. Her frailty and dependence offer a distraction for the king’s grieving heart, one that Red’s strength and independence can’t.

The king leans down to show Grenadine for the hundredth time how to play croquet, having already reminded her for the thousandth time he’s her new father. He points to the U-shaped metal hoops that form a diamond-patterned run in the ground. Pink and gray stakes mark each end, and two sets of balls lie in a box lined with satin.

“We follow the circuit of wickets,” the king says gently. “My red color races against your silver. The first side to get their balls through the wickets in order and hit the peg wins.”

Grenadine shakes her head, her ruby curls bouncing about her shoulders. “What is a peg, again?”

“The stake, at the end of the run.”

“And a wicket . . . is that this?” Grenadine holds up a flamingo-necked fae whose body has been magically stiffened to the shape of a hockey stick. The blush-colored feathers ruffle as if the fae is offended by the misnomer.

“That is a mallet, darling. Wickets are the hoops we hit our balls through.”

Grenadine’s dimples appear like they always do when she’s bewildered. “Oh, Father, I simply can’t remember.”

He smiles, charmed by her mindless grace. “I’ve found a way around that, I think. Sir Bill?” He waves someone into the scene.

Bill the Lizard—a reptilian netherling with the ability to write without ink—scrambles into view and bows. His red tailcoat and pants shift to green leaves, matching the bush he’s beside so convincingly, he appears to be a decapitated head and clawed hands floating in midair.

Grenadine curtsies in return. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

The lizard smiles, beguiled by her sweetness like everyone.

“Sir Bill is the Red Court’s stenographer. He has the ability to eat whispers,” the king explains. “And afterward, he can write them out on any surface, where they’ll adhere forever as quiet murmurings, so they can be heard and not seen. Whisper something you wish to remember.”

Grenadine mumbles the rules of croquet she heard moments before.

Bill’s chameleon-like jaws unhinge, and his tongue snaps out in midair, capturing the echo of her whispers. His bulbous eyes rotate in different
directions as he swallows a rather large lump. Next, he takes a velvet ribbon from his pocket and writes on it with a clawed fingertip.

Blinking, he hands the red strip to the king.

“Listen,” the king says, holding it to Grenadine’s ear.

She waits, then bursts into rosy-cheeked giggles. “It whispered the rules!”

The king ties the ribbon in a bow around her pinky. “Now you’ll never forget them. I’ve asked Sir Bill to be your very own royal consultant. He’ll make enchanted ribbons for as long as you need.”

Grenadine crinkles her nose. “Bill? I don’t believe I’ve met him.”

The king chuckles. “Of course you have. He’s right here.”

Bill the Lizard takes another bow.

Weary of the spectacle, Red concentrates on the ribbon tied upon her sister’s finger. Her body glows crimson as her magic unties the bow. The velvet strip flutters from Grenadine to land in Red’s palm. She steps out from her hiding place.