“Excuse me,” I say softly.
She turns, snarling. Embossed letters glimmer on her brassy name tag: Duchess. Come to think of it, she does favor the duchess sketch from my mom’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland book. I’m not sure why a duchess is cleaning rooms at an inn. Unless I got her stuck here, too. In which case it’s better not to introduce myself.
“What do you want?” Her question is more of a growl. Her teeth remind me of peppercorns, just like those of the piggish creature I met at the Feast of Beasts last year: the duchess’s son. He gave us the pepper to wake the tea party guests. The family resemblance is unmistakable.
“I could use some clean towels,” I say. While she’s distracted with the lower shelf, I’ll snag the suits from the top and run.
“These are velvet robes, not towels. Complimentary to our most valued customers. The boss keeps count of them. If any go missing, they come out of my paycheck.” She waves me away with her feather duster.
I catch the feathers and she clamps the handle, engaging in a tug-of-war.
“Your boss wouldn’t mind if you give me one,” I insist. “We’ve become fast friends.” The lie sounds as stale as it tastes on my tongue, but it doesn’t matter because a cloud of orange, glittery mist appears behind the maid’s shoulder—silent and stealthy. Before Chessie’s body even materializes, I know it’s him.
I bite back a smile. He did hear me.
I send a silent explanation of what I’m after and Chessie bows, grinning that wide, mischievous smile. He’s always ready to leap into the thick of things without question, just for the fun of it. No wonder Morpheus considers him a worthy sidekick.
“About the robes,” I say to the piggish maid. “I only need one. You can just tell Hubert it sprouted legs and walked away.” I give Chessie a subtle nod. With a swish of orange and gray stripes, he tunnels into the pile of folded velvet robes on the corner of her cart.
“Do I look asleep to you?” the duchess asks me.
“No. Why?”
“Because the saying goes, ‘Let sleeping dogs lie.’ Well, I’m not asleep, so I don’t intend to lie.” She jerks the feather duster from my grasp. “Now, off with you.”
The instant the “off with you” escapes her mashed-in muzzle, a velvety robe scurries across the floor, long sleeves draped behind. The maid yelps, her orange eyes bouncing from me to the escaping robe.
“Looks like you won’t be lying after all,” I say.
She throws down her duster and gives chase. The robe floats like a magic carpet with Chessie propelling it underneath. The maid has to get on all fours to catch up.
As soon as they turn a corner, I grab the transparent coveralls and race the opposite direction toward an intersection of three halls. I have a passing thought of Chessie and send him a soundless thank-you. I’m not worried for his welfare. He won’t be captured unless he wants to be.
I round a corner and bump into Dad.
“Whoa there.” He catches my shoulders. “Where have you been?”
“Trying . . . to find you,” I fib between gulps of air. The fabric billows in my arms but can only be felt, not seen.
Dad wouldn’t condone stealing. That will change once we’re in AnyElsewhere, where his conscience will take a backseat to self-preservation.
Jeb pops into my head. He’s like Dad in so many ways. Protective, moral, and kind. Has he lost his strict sense of black-and-white, of right and wrong, to adapt to a world of netherling criminals? He’s had to. He’s a survivor. His childhood proves that.
I just hope he hasn’t forgotten how to forgive. And I hope Morpheus will forgive me, too.
Even if they have, things will still be complicated, because of the vision the Ivory Queen showed me before she went back through the rabbit hole on the day of prom, and what a life with Morpheus could mean to Wonderland.
That puncturing sensation jabs inside my chest, reminding me again of Red. Of what’s important now. Any decisions about my future will have to wait until Red has corrected whatever she put wrong in me and I destroy her.
“This way.” Dad holds my elbow. “Bernard’s waiting for us in the mirror room.”
Ignoring the sting behind my sternum, I drag the duffel from Dad’s shoulder. He’s so busy watching room numbers that he doesn’t notice me rearrange water bottles, protein packets, trail mix, fruit, first aid supplies, flares, and assorted iron weapons so I can tuck the stolen fabric beneath them.
Borrowed fabric. When I get back, I’ll return the enchanted clothes with an apology.
My breath stalls as I realize there’s no “when” in our scenario from this point on. Before Dad and I can face the looking-glass world and rescue the guys, or help Mom and repair Wonderland, we have to first make it through the portal and the gate.
Everything—our lives, our loves, our futures—hinges on one word alone: IF.