I laugh, shivering at the sultry vibration in his chest. He laughs, too, then pulls my hips close and kisses my ears, my temples, my lips—immersing me in a thousand different sensations, each so delicious, I almost forget what I have left to do.
I break our embrace. Jeb’s half-lidded expression looks back at me, questioning. “Be right back,” I say. I peel off my soiled gloves, cast them aside, and scramble onto the table, stopping beside Hattington. “The vorpal sword. Alice brought it to you, before you were frozen. We need it.”
The flat screen of his face blinks, flashing between a reflection of mine and Alice’s. The effect is creepy, like a movie screen snapping between two different eras. Jeb steps closer, waiting.
“Sword?” Hattington glances at his two companions. “Either of you remember anything about a sword?” They all burst into chuckles—a sound that rattles me.
“Perhaps you swallowed it, Herman,” the hare says between snorts. “Open your mouth, and let’s have a look.”
“Better take a flare gun,” the mouse squeaks. “It’s dark and wide as a canyon in there!”
More snorts and giggles.
Jeb grabs the hare by the ears and holds him above the table, ending the laugh-fest. He points to Herman and the mouse. “A little cooperation would go a long way toward you two keeping your hides.”
Hattington’s face flashes to Jeb’s image. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, woodchuck.” He glances at the mulberry overhead. “Someone sent you on a wild duck chase. Wonder who?”
The leaves rustle, and Morpheus appears at the top of the canopy. “That would be me,” he answers, a smirk on his face.
I shade my eyes to look up at Morpheus, an angry knot forming in my chest. Jeb was right. All he can do is mislead us. “You lied.”
His smile fades as Gossamer peeks out from under his hair. “I was misinformed,” he says.
Jeb’s entire body visibly tenses. “‘Misinformed’? You sent Al out here, into danger, on misinformation?”
I clamber off the table, fingertips resting on his bunched-up back muscles to calm him.
Morpheus grins again from his perch atop the tree—regal and pompous with his wings spread high, a backdrop of sleek satin shading his pale complexion from the sun. “It was foolish, I know. Taking hearsay for fact. I was in my cocoon when little Alice escaped with the sword. I didn’t see for myself what happened. I’d heard through the rumor mill that she came here with it. But now I’ve learned the truth. The sword has been hidden all this time in the Red castle itself … guarded by the bandersnatch.”
“Right.” Jeb’s voice is choked with strained self-control. “And we’re just supposed to take your word for that.”
“My spy only learned of it today. Alyssa believes me, don’t you?” Morpheus trains his gaze on me.
I don’t answer. Truth is, I don’t trust him.
“Take her silence as a no, bug for brains.” Jeb stays focused on the canopy.
“Neither of you is even curious about the battle I waged to keep you safe? Pity the ingratitude.” Morpheus straightens his gloves while Gossamer flutters around his jacket, checking for snags. His clothes are rumpled and ravaged, even sooty in places. He’s lost his hat and his hair’s a shock of wild waves. “Had to torch the dining hall to smoke them all out. But they’ll soon be spreading over Wonderland in search of you. Queen Grenadine has a dinner party planned, and she’s determined to unveil a new pet to entertain her guests.”
Jeb’s shoulder blades fidget beneath my palm. “Pet?”
“Grenadine has wanted a replacement for Alice for decades. A caged bird, as it were.” Having dropped that bomb, Morpheus takes a graceful leap and glides to the tabletop, landing next to Hattington and crew. “Good to see you fellows again. How was the nap?”
The three netherlings greet Morpheus with hugs and handshakes.
I grab Jeb’s hand, my pulse racing. “Do you remember the psych report? Alice told the therapist she’d been in a birdcage for seventy-five years in Wonderland. But she must’ve come back. She got married and had a family. Or else I wouldn’t exist. Right?”
He pulls me close. “I don’t know what’s happening. But we need to get you out of here quick.”
“Now that the curse is broken,” I say, although I don’t feel any different.
Morpheus seems oblivious to our urgency. He pats Hattington’s conformateur. The blank-faced little man comes only to his thigh. “Splendid to have you back among the living, Herman. I’m in dire need of a new Cajolery Hat.”
“Can do!” The lid flips closed on the hatmaker’s contraption. His bone structure and skull contort and crack into place as the metal pins squeak and mold around his head until he and Morpheus look like a matched set of nesting dolls.
That’s why he’s the best hatmaker in the realm. He becomes his subject’s head and face until he finishes a project, making for the perfect fit. What would that be like? To never have an identity of your own? No wonder they call him mad.