Morpheus regards the flames, the corners of his mouth tugging down. “I wouldn’t let her go. We fought on the ground beside the sundial, then on wing in the trees. Red had me pinned to the uppermost branches of one, meaning to snap my neck. I cast her off, and she landed hard, impaled by the iron fence just below us. The metal went straight through her heart and poisoned her blood. I carried her down into the rabbit hole. I attempted an apology. But she would not forgive me. And she made sure I could never forgive myself as she took her last breath.”
“Deathspeak,” I whisper.
His gaze snaps to me, shock apparent on his face. Flickering light exposes the remorse in his eyes
I turn to the hearth again. “That’s why you dragged me here. It was never about saving your friend Chessie. It wasn’t even about Ivory being trapped. You’re the one who’s cursed. You need me to save your spirit from an eternity as a worm-eaten toy in Sister Two’s lair.”
“You judge too harshly. I do want to save my friends. It just happens that I can save myself in the process. I’ve been enslaved for too many years, racing against a ticking clock. Now, at last, I can make the hands stop. I can dethrone Grenadine and set the rightful heir in her place.”
“Even if the heir is unwilling.”
A heavy silence hangs between us.
Gently, Morpheus captures my chin, shifting my gaze to him. “What of the book I used as my storyboard, that one by the mortal bard Carroll. What are your thoughts on that?”
He’s relentless, leading me deeper into a place of both darkness and light. “Carroll came up with the story. But Wonderland, the place, the characters and names … I think that Red, as little Alice, inspired him with the half-truths she used to explain her short absence. Her family all assumed she’d wandered off to have a dream beneath a tree.” I frown. “Red became a child in every way, just like you once did. Her mind was innocent again. It’s a good thing her little-girl’s imagination took over. If she’d been completely honest about the dark, twisted creatures here, she would’ve been locked up in an asylum on her first day as a human.” My attempt at sarcasm is wasted because I’m one of those dark, twisted creatures. I always have been. Only now I look the part.
“Splendidly told,” Morpheus says. “And every bit of it, exactly as it was.” He taps my nose. “Do you wonder how the details come to you with such ease?”
My answers were more than lucky guesses. It’s as if the words were scripted on my tongue. Mentally, I thumb through each dream spent with Morpheus to see if he ever told me, but he didn’t.
Morpheus draws me closer to the fireplace, studying my hairpin in the light. He brushes his thumb across it. “Anything of particular interest happen in the cemetery, other than your retrieval of Chessie’s smile?”
I touch my hairpin, recalling my encounter with the rose. “Queen Red’s spirit … it flashed through my veins before escaping into the garden. She must’ve imprinted some of her memories on me! That was part of the Deathspeak, wasn’t it? You had to set her free, and you used me to do it.”
With a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh, Morpheus pulls me into his arms and strokes my hair. His scent enfolds me, his chest solid and warm. As a child, his touch used to make me feel secure when he’d hold me under my arms during flying lessons. But not now. I stiffen for an instant before realizing I’m face-to-face with his lapel. Nothing but a layer of silver and black pinstripes stands between me and my wish. Instead of pushing away, I snuggle closer—drawing my hands up between us.
A tremor travels the length of his body in response, fingers weaving through the braids at my nape. “Lovely Alyssa. What a grand pupil you were,” he mumbles, his mouth on the top of my head. “Yet you taught me more than I taught you. You are far more worthy to wear the crown than any other. Courage, compassion, and wisdom. The triad of majesties. You have something I could see even through the eyes of a child. You have the heart of a queen.” His voice cracks on the end of his statement, as if he’s saddened by it.
Gloved fingers—silken and confident—glide from my shoulders to my wrists. I curse him silently for moving my hands as he raises them to study the scars. He kisses them, his lips a fluid brush along sensitive flesh, then places my palms on his cheeks.
Mouth inches from mine, he whispers, “Forgive me for bringing you into this. There was no other way.” His skin is softer than clouds must feel, and the tears gathering around my fingertips are hot and tangible. But are they sincere?
Our breaths swirl between us, and his black eyes swallow me whole. My heart knocks against the bottom of his rib cage. I know what’s coming next. I fear it. But it’s the surest way to distract him and get the wish. And if it has to happen, I’m going to be the instigator.
Rising up on my toes, I press my mouth to his. He moans, frees my wrists, and sweeps me into his arms—sealing the teddy bear between us. My ankles swing at his shins, and my hand creeps toward his lapel. I’m in control.