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.
Setting aside two mushrooms for me and Dad, I stuff the rest into the bag with the diary, pull the drawstring shut, knot it securely, then hang it over my shoulder.
With a plastic brush, I work the tangles out and braid my hair down both sides. I stare at a crocheted hat and scarf made of soft purple and scarlet yarn, testing to see if Red’s memories stay dormant. I have to be sure before we leave. I can’t risk losing control when I’m thousands of miles in the air.
When nothing happens, I pull on the scarf and hat.
I step around to the front of the case. Dad’s waiting in a Ken outfit: black-and-white plaid jacket, gray flannel pleated pants, and white dress shirt.
I pat the skin under my eyes, worried my netherling markings are showing after all the magic I’ve performed. “Do I look okay?”
“You look beautiful, Butterfly,” he says. His fingertip traces the edges of my eyes, following a phantom pattern that can only mean my markings are in full bloom.
His use of my nickname fills me with gratitude. He’s trying to accept me with all my peculiarities, even though he’s been dealt a huge shock.
I straighten his collar and brush dust off his jacket. “Best thing about these clothes? We know we’re the first people to ever wear them,” I tease.
Dad snorts. The sound echoes in the tunnel as we nibble our mushrooms—the smooth sides—until we shrink enough to fit on the butterflies’ backs again. We climb atop our winged mounts, flutter through the hole in the bridge’s foundation, and take to the sky for Oxford.
A cold rain jolts me awake. The scent of moisture fills my nostrils and thunder shakes my eardrums, muffled by a swooping sound. My right cheek nestles against something both soft and bristly.
I shake my head, trying to remember where I am.
The mushroom lair. I’m in Morpheus’s arms . . . He’s flying me to his manor. I’m terrified to look, but have to know where he’s taken Jeb. I push up, expecting to see Wonderland’s terrain passing beneath my stratospheric heights. Instead, lightning brightens the haze around me, illuminating Dad as he glides on a butterfly mount up ahead. I’m surrounded by storm clouds, and I’m not being held by Morpheus. I’m riding a monarch.
Sadness snakes through me. Lately, when I sleep, my dreams relive moments in Wonderland with Morpheus, or in Jeb’s garage, watching him paint and work on motors, or even making cookies with Mom in our kitchen. One common thread binds them all: Waking up is a dreaded occurrence.
I tighten my grip through the hairy bristles of the butterfly’s thorax as we plunge out of one cloud and into another. My vision adjusts through sheets of rain and blinking darkness. The leafy treetops appear closer with each flash of lightning. Our butterflies are descending, which means we’re about to reach Oxford and my heart-to-heart with Dad.
What’s he going to think when he finds out I’m responsible for this entire nightmare?
Wind skids through us, causing our rides to lurch and catching the drawstring at my shoulder. The ballet bag jostles, hard enough for the diary to bump against my rib cage.