I force my eyes open.
The scent of melted candle wax warms my nostrils, and the soft glow of firelight blinks against a windowless wall upholstered with royal blue and forest green fabric.
It’s a private chamber. I’m on a round, backless couch piled with colorful tasseled throw pillows. The decor reminds me of a circus—wild yet weirdly graceful. Zebra-skin rugs drape the domed ceiling. Other than the candelabras, everything is cushioned, even the floor. The surroundings are a mixture between the padded cell at the asylum and Sister One’s cottage in Wonderland.
Two silhouettes take shape, standing over me.
The stranger looms as tall as my dad. There’s something very familiar about him, although I’ve never seen him before in my life.
A brown-leather cloak swallows his muscular form and suede khaki pants are tucked into his boots. His oversized hood cascades down his shoulders and back. All he needs is a quiver of arrows, and he could be Robin Hood.
Dark hair, flecked with gray, complements his goatee and bushy eyebrows. Eyes the color of root beer study me. “Why, hello at last,” he says kindly.
An itch starts at the tip of my nose. I drag a hand from under my blankets to cover my resulting sneeze. I squawk as my nose shrinks to the size of a pea.
“Ah, having a slight reaction to the tea, are you?” the stranger says.
“Slight?” My voice sounds more like a squeak because of my miniscule nose. I throw off the blankets and scramble to sit up.
Dad eases down beside me on the edge of the cushion.
“It’s okay, Allie. Just give it a second.” Even his calm expression can’t settle my nerves. Another sneeze bursts, and my nose returns to normal size, but my right hand inflates and doesn’t stop until it’s the size of a basketball.
I yelp.
“She has your chin,” the stranger says, as if oblivious to my spontaneous deformity. “But the wings and eyes . . .”
“Those are her mother’s,” Dad says proudly, as if he, too, is blind to what’s happening.
Maybe the reaction is that I’m hallucinating. I try to lift my swollen hand, but it sits next to me like a boulder. I squeeze it to a fist and give it a hard jerk. It pummels Dad’s stomach and sends him rocketing off the couch. He lands in a pile of throw pillows.
Nope. Not hallucinating.
Another sneezing fit overtakes. Once it stops, I sigh, relieved to find my hand is normal and all of my other body parts to scale.
The stranger helps Dad up. Dad brushes off his flannel pants, and they both look down at me with wide brown eyes—as if I were a science experiment.
I pat the top of my head, the one part of me I can’t see. “Oh, no. My head’s the size of a blimp, isn’t it?”
The stranger chortles. “Not at all, child.” He slaps Dad’s back. “She’s definitely got the Skeffington sense of humor, yes?”
Chessie flutters into view, smiling mischievously. I’m so happy to see him I shout his name.
The tiny Barbie ballet bag hangs around his neck and a ragged hole gapes in the bottom. The mushrooms are gone. But thankfully, the outline of the diary still wrinkles the satiny fabric from inside. Red’s magical memories survived.
I feel my collarbone to find the necklace still in place, although the key is as big as a regular one after growing with me. Since the book is still toy-size, it must have fallen out of my leotard’s bodice before I drank the tea. Maybe it’s better that the diary is small. It will be easier to handle if the emotions get unruly again.
Chessie unscrews his head and it rolls toward me along the floor, the bag’s strings tangled around his cranium. A silly laugh escapes him as his decapitated body gives chase.
Dad and the stranger smirk.
How can my dad be so comfortable around all this weirdness? And the stranger, too? They’re both wearing the same goofy Elvis grins.
In fact, they look so much alike they could be . . .
I swing my legs around. The bright colors of the room disorient me. “Dad? Is this . . . ?”
“Oh, sorry, Butterfly.” Dad sits down next to me again, putting his arm around the tutu at my waist to avoid crushing my wings. “This is Bernard.”
“Call me Uncle Bernie,” the man insists.
Chessie’s nose bumps my plastic boot and comes to a stop. I tug the ballet bag’s strings, and his head spins like a top. As I wrap my fingers around the diary, the stranger’s words register: Uncle Bernie.
A smile spreads over my face. There’s a knowing behind his eyes, an unconditional affection that I didn’t do anything to earn, other than being born.
“You’re brothers.”
Bernie’s grin widens. “That we are. Nice to finally meet you.” He places a hand on Dad’s shoulder. “Our family . . . they’ll be overjoyed. We’d given up hope.”
A strangled sound I don’t recognize breaks from my throat.
“She needs water,” Dad says to his brother.