Gathered around the long table is a mishmash of creatures, some clothed, others naked. Though they vary in size and gender, they’re all more bestial than humanoid. One looks like a hedgehog, prickles and all, except she has the face of a sparrow. She must be shy, because she rolls into a ball upon our entrance, then bounces under the table. A pink woman with a neck as long as a flamingo’s ducks down and gives the hedgehog a thump with her head, sending the ball out from under the table to the other side of the room.
There are more creatures: some with wings; some that are part-frog/part-plant, with wriggling vines growing out of their skin; others as bald as seals with the bodies of primates and the woolly heads of lambs.
The one thing they all have in common is their interest in me. I’m the focal point of fifty-some sets of eyes.
A few muttered whispers break the hush.
“It’s her …”
“Spitting image, she is.”
“I hear she drained the ocean with a sponge. A sponge. Cunning and imaginative, that.”
They all know about my relationship to Alice and what I’m here to do. Talk about epic fail potential.
My nerves combine with the stenches of food, animal dander, and musk. Dizziness spins the room. Jeb’s behind me. I know he’ll catch me if I faint. I also know that if I do, it will ruin everything. I have to stay strong for Alison. So I pull it together and glance from one strange face to the next, curious which creature came to collect the fan and gloves on behalf of the duchess.
Morpheus leads me to the table and slides out a chair at the right-hand side of his seat at the head. There’s a huge mallet propped beside the table’s leg, and one underneath every chair down our row. He settles me next to a small wiry creature that looks like an albino ferret wearing a black baseball helmet on his head, though his serpentine eyes and forked tongue detract from any cuteness factor.
Jeb takes his place behind me, just out of reach. Morpheus stands at his chair and tips his hat to the guests, black wings arched high. “I apologize for my lateness. But on the bright side, our avenging angel has come at last. So, let the celebration begin!”
After a smattering of applause from our guests, Morpheus hands his hat off to Gossamer and several other sprites. They hang it on the chair’s arm as Morpheus sits, folding his wings over the back like a cloak. Gossamer perches on his shoulder and everyone else resituates with a creak of wood and a rustle of fur and fabrics. Chatter resumes, along with smacks, gulps, and slurps.
“Have a taste, luv.” Morpheus motions to my plate. Then he turns to have a hushed conversation with a green piggish beast who sits at his left across the table from me. The pig wears a gray pinstriped suit complete with fur cuffs. His sleeves stretch down, barely covering lobster claws. He smiles, and I cringe at his teeth—black and round like peppercorns.
On my plate, a handful of goldfish flap around the center, gasping.
“Twinkle?” the ferret next to me says in a flutelike voice. He points a clawed finger at the fish.
“Are we supposed to eat these raw?” I ask him. “I’ve never been a fan of sushi.”
“Sue-she?” he asks.
“Never mind.” I turn from the goldfish to him, grateful for the distraction. “So, your name is Twinkle?”
He tilts his head, his shiny helmet glinting as he gestures to the fish skeletons on his plate. “Twinkle.”
Nauseated, I stare again at my own thrashing dinner.
Their fish eyes sag in their sockets, looking right at me. Pity and revulsion twist in my stomach. I can’t even imagine my pet eels out of water and unable to breathe. Do the moths and bugs I use in my mosaics suffer like this when they die? Why have I never cared enough to ask?
“Twinkle,” the creature next to me repeats. He lifts a silver spoon almost as big as himself, stands in his chair, and proceeds to thwack several of my fish on their heads, knocking them dead. “Twinkle them, see?” His forked tongue flits past his lips.
“Oh, no! Please …” On impulse, I reach for my goblet to pour liquid over the remaining live fish so they can breathe again. The mixture oozes out slowly, coating the fish in a gritty glob that smells of cinnamon and apple juice. Desperate, I dig the smothered fish out of the mess, getting the goop under my fingernails and into the weave of my gloves.
Everyone’s looking at me again, but I’m too disgusted to care.
“What is this?” I snap at Morpheus.
His eyes gleam. “Do you not put sand in the cider where you’re from?” He smirks. I remember seeing that same teasing smile in dreams as a child, how it used to mean we were about to do something daring and fun. But now there’s an edge of malice behind it. What could’ve happened to change him from the playful boy to the troubled man he is today?
“Would you rather try the wine?” he asks.
At the other end of the table, the primate netherlings are capturing the wine bottles, which float in midair, and stuffing bits of wool from their lamblike heads into the bottle necks to weigh them down. They then pass the wine around for toasts.