“Alison!” I bend over to grip her shoulders.
She refocuses. “Because we’d have to go down the rabbit hole.”
I don’t even ask if the rabbit hole is real. “Then I’ll find it. Maybe someone in your family can help?”
It’s a stretch. None of the British Liddells even know about us. One of Alice’s sons had a secret affair with some woman before he went off to World War I and died on the battlefield. The woman ended up pregnant and came to America to raise their love child. The boy grew up and had a daughter, my grandma, Alicia. We haven’t been in touch with any of them … ever.
“No.” Alison’s voice pinches. “Keep them out of this, Allie. They don’t know any more than we do, or we wouldn’t still be in this mess.”
The determination behind her expression shuts down any questions her cryptic statement might raise. “Fine. We know the rabbit hole is in England, right? Is there a map? Some kind of written directions? Where do I look?”
“You don’t.”
I jump as she pulls down my sock to expose the birthmark above my swollen left ankle. She has an identical one on her inner wrist. The mark is like a maze made of sharply angled lines that you might see in a puzzle book.
“There’s so much more to the story than anyone knows,” she says. “The treasures will show you.”
“Treasures?”
She presses her birthmark to mine, and a warm sensation rushes between the points of contact. “Read between the lines,” she whispers. The same thing she said earlier about the photographs. “You can’t lose your head, Allie. Promise you’ll let this go.”
My eyes burn. “But I want you home …”
She jerks back from my ankle. “No! I didn’t do all of this for nothing—” Her voice cracks, and she looks so tiny and frail at my feet.
I ache to ask what she means, but even more, I just want to hug her. I lower myself to my knees, ignoring the wound behind Jeb’s bandana as I lean in. It’s heaven, feeling her arms around me. Smelling her shampoo as I bury my nose at her temple.
It doesn’t last. She stiffens and pushes me away. A familiar jab of rejection scrapes through my chest. Then I remember: Dad and the nurse will be back at any second.
“The moth,” I say. “It plays a part in this, right? I found a website. The picture of the black and blue moth led me to it.”
Overhead, clouds dim the sunlight to a grayish haze, and Alison’s skin reflects the change. Terror sharpens her gaze. “You’ve done it now.” She lifts trembling hands. “Now that you’ve gone looking for him, he won’t be breaking his word. Not technically. You’re fair game.”
I lace my fingers through hers, trying to ground her. “You’re freaking me out. Who are you talking about?”
“He’ll come for you. He’ll step through your dreams. Or the looking glass … stay away from the glass, Allie! Do you understand?”
“Mirrors?” I ask, incredulous. “You want me to stay away from mirrors?”
She scrambles to her feet, and I struggle to balance on my crutch. “Broken glass severs more than skin. It will sever your identity.”
As if on cue, Jeb’s bandana slips from my knee, revealing the bloody bandage. A tiny yelp leaps from her mouth. There’s no tongue cluck to warn me before she lunges. My back slams against the ground. The air is pushed from my lungs and pain bursts between my shoulder blades.
Alison straddles me, peeling off my gloves as tears stream down her cheeks. “He made me hurt you!” She sobs. “I won’t let it happen again!”
I’ve heard her say those words before, and in an instant, I’m back in that place and time. A five-year-old child—innocent, oblivious—watching as a spring storm gathered outside the screen door. The scent of rain and wet dirt rolled over me, making my mouth water. Right against my nose, a moth landed on the screen, the size of a crow with a luminous body and wings like black satin. I squealed and it took flight, hovering, teasing me, asking me to play.
Lightning flashed, a flood of light. Mommy always told me it wasn’t safe to go outside when it’s storming … but the moth fluttered, beautiful, taunting, promising it would be all right. I piled up some books to reach the lock on the latch and tumbled outside to dance with the bug in the flower beds, mud squishing between my toes. Mommy’s scream made me look up. She sprinted toward us with a set of pruning shears.
“Off with your head!” she yelled, and snipped every flower where the moth perched, cutting the petals from their stems.