“Perfect,” I answer. I start to stand but settle in my seat again as he pushes my shoulder with a spiny arm.
“First you ruin the one way back to Wonderland, making me a babysitter of dust bunnies and smelly pixies. Now you want I should endanger my life by showing you . . .”—he studies the passengers behind me, his crisscrossed mandibles trembling—“her private memories.” There’s a clicking sound surrounding his whisper, like snapping fingers.
I grind my teeth. “Since when do netherlings respect anyone’s privacy? That’s not in your code of ethics. In fact, most of you don’t know what ethics are.”
“I know all I need to know. I know that she’s not forgiving, that one.” He’s avoiding her name, keeping her anonymous.
I follow his lead. “She’ll never know you showed me.”
The conductor flips pages on his clipboard and scribbles something with his pen, stalling. “There’s another issue of concern,” he says louder this time. “The memories are repudiates.”
“What does that mean?”
“She wasn’t forced to forget. She chose to. Took a forgetting potion.”
“Even better,” I say. “She’s afraid of them for some reason. That’s to my advantage.”
The clicking sound grows as his mandibles quiver. “Ideally, you could use them as a weapon. Repudiated memories are tainted with volatile emotional magic. They want revenge against the one who made and discarded them. But you would have to carry them to her, keeping them dormant in your mind. Being a half-blood, you aren’t strong enough.”
I bristle at his condescension. “Mortals have their own way of making memories dormant. They write them down so the past doesn’t preoccupy their thoughts. All I need is a journal.”
He holds his pen an inch from my nose. “That won’t work with enchanted memories, lessen your book is filled with enchanted paper to bind them. Sadly, I’ve ne’er heard of such a magic journal. You?”
I glare in silence.
“I thought not.” The beetle taps my nose with the pen’s tip.
Snarling, I snatch it away and shove it in my pocket, daring him to get it back.
“Fool girl. When repudiated memories nest inside a mind, they become like earworms, playing over and over to a painful degree. Best-case scenario, they cause you to sympathize with your prey so you’re worthless against them. Worst case, you’re driven to madness. Are you willing to risk losing so much?”
I rub my hands along my bent knees, then tuck the excess material of my hospital gown under my hips. No matter how terrifying it is to imagine someone else’s hostile memories eating away my mind, finding Red’s weakness is the only way to defeat her.
“I’ve already lost everything and I’ve already gone mad.” I meet his bulbous gaze. “Need a demonstration?”
Multiple eyelids flick across his compound eyes. Bugs aren’t supposed to have eyelids or lashes, but this isn’t a typical bug. He’s a looking-glass insect, or reject, depending on if you choose Carroll’s terminology or the carpet beetle’s.
The beetle was swallowed by tulgey wood and turned away at AnyElsewhere’s gate. He was then coughed back up as a mutant. Which is exactly what almost happened to Jeb and Morpheus. Thankfully, they were accepted into the looking-glass world, although the thought of them alone there opens a whole new level of horror. Morpheus won’t be able to use his magic because of the iron dome, and Jeb is only human. How does either of them stand a chance in a land of murderous, exiled netherlings?
A silent scream of frustration burns inside my lungs.
I lower my voice so only the conductor can hear. “I used to collect insects. I’d pin them to corkboards. Had them plastered all over my walls. I’ve been thinking of taking it up again. Maybe you’d like to be my first piece.”
The conductor either grimaces or frowns—a tough call with all those moving facial features. He motions toward the aisle. “This way, madam.”
We head toward the private rooms. Two doors down from Dad’s, the beetle stops, looks over his shoulder to assure we weren’t followed, and drops a brass nameplate into place: Queen Red.
My wing buds tingle, wanting to burst free. A brew of magic and rage simmers just beneath my skin. Ready, waiting.
The conductor starts to unlock the door, then pauses. “I attended a garden party at her palace once.” He’s whispering again. “Watched her shave the skin off that Door Mouse’s friend . . . that hare fellow.”
I cringe, remembering when I first saw the hare at the tea party a year ago, how he appeared to be turned inside out. “March Hairless? Red skinned him?”