For an instant, I let myself get lost in the flavor of the rain, of skirting in and out of clouds alive with electric light. My wet braids flap around my face and shoulders—driven either by my magic or the wind.
The diary bumps against my ribs again. It’s not the ride or the weather causing the movement this time. The strings stretch taut against the wind’s pull. Something has roused the memories on the pages, made them restless. Maybe by cozying up to my darker side, I reminded Red’s memories of their vendetta against her. Or worse, maybe the memories are a part of me now, no matter how much distance I put between us. After all, Red was once a part of my body. And she’ll forever be a part of my blood.
Maybe even my heart.
I wrestle the drawstring to subdue the diary. The bag jerks free, slips from my shoulder, and plummets through the darkness and rain along with our chance to return to normal size, and even worse, my leverage against Red.
“Follow that bag!” I demand of my ride.
We are not taxis, the monarch answers. We stay the course.
“That’s why we have to get it back!” I shout. “To stay the course!”
The monarch ignores my pleas. A daring thrum springs to life inside me, the one that Morpheus has always nurtured, the one I’ve been honing over the past month.
I rip my snaps apart and shed the shirtdress, leaving only the open-back leotard. The scarf around my neck shields the diary’s key hanging beneath.
My discarded dress trails toward Dad. It slaps the back of his head and he looks over his shoulder. “What are you doing?” he yells.
“Saving our one chance to save everyone else.” My wings pop free. I groan at the agony shooting through my right shoulder as the wounded one unfurls.
Without risking a look at Dad, I leap off the butterfly. Its antenna slaps my boot’s sole as I descend, spread-eagle, caught up on a current of wind.
The hat pops off my head, but the scarf stays secure, its ends flapping in time with my braids.
“Allie!” Dad’s desperate scream is snatched away by thunder.
I descend through the rain-streaked sky, terror giving way to awe. My wings provide drag and slow me down, but they’re too weak to offer lift. The wind adds another hurdle, buffeting me. I’m invigorated. One thing being crowned a queen in Wonderland has taught me: Power is impotent unless it’s cultivated with risks.
This is living . . . a free fall into the unknown.
Rain swirls and pelts me. I force my eyes open and tilt my wings to veer in the direction the bag fell. The pouch comes into blurry view as I gain momentum. An instant before I pass it, I snatch the bag and tuck it into the bodice of my leotard, glad I had the foresight to tie the drawstrings before we left. Everything is still inside.
Lightning slashes my surroundings. Giant trees zoom closer and closer, their leaves appearing deceptively soft. But what waits between the spaces—branches jagged and monstrous—will tear me to shreds. At my size, I may as well be a bug hitting a cracked windshield. There’ll be nothing left but blood and tattered wings.
An instant before I collide with the nearest tree, I imagine its branches meshing together, the soft, thick moss rising to coat the domed shape, forming a giant pincushion.
On impact, the breath puffs from my lungs. I slide into the cushioned surface, like a straight pin burrowing through a sawdust filling. The force bends the moss and foliage around me until the top of my head bursts out and slams into the slippery trunk. A sharp pain slices through my skull and spine, and everything goes black.
When I come to, my muscles and flesh hum with the sensation of being stretched. Something purrs at my ear, then a buzz of wings and a brush of soft fur, all too familiar.
Chessie?
It can’t be. I never saw him after the incident in the art studio a month ago. I assumed he’d already returned to Wonderland and was trapped there like Mom. He would’ve visited me in the asylum otherwise.
My eyes don’t want to open. I wriggle my arms and legs beneath the cozy weight of blankets, expecting my head to pound. I heard my skull crack when it hit that tree. Instead, I’m comfortable, serene . . . euphoric, even. A tingling sensation lingers at my ankle. Someone melded their birthmark to mine.
Maybe it was Chessie.
I groan.
“She’s coming to.” It’s Dad’s voice.
My eyelids refuse to budge. A bitter flavor sits on the back of my tongue and I smack my lips.
“I wasn’t sure I got enough down her.” Dad strokes my hair soothingly.
“Drinking mushroom tea is five times more potent than eating them.” It’s a stranger’s voice—gruff, as if he’s been gargling sand. “She’s going to need food soon, to counteract the effects. Perhaps I should bring her something so she can stay hidden. Not all of the castaways are as understanding as this little fellow. In fact, he’s the one responsible for keeping them here all these weeks. Most of them wanted to find her so she’d fix the portals. They miss their world and their kin.”
So Chessie didn’t visit me in the asylum because he didn’t want to lead any angry netherlings my way. He’s really here!