One Saturday afternoon, I took her to Butterfly Threads, the vintage thrift store where I work, and we shuffled through racks and racks of outfits.
Most of the clothes there appeal to my style, so we disagreed on almost every option. Until we found a funky satin purple and black polka-dot dress with a lime green belt and matching net slip that peeked out from the hem. I talked her into buying it. But once she got it home, she wouldn’t wear it in public, even though Dad loved it on her. She said it made her feel too flashy.
I asked her why she couldn’t do one little thing to make Dad happy after all he’d done for her. That was the first argument we had after her release. Now I’ve lost count of them all.
I can’t overlook the significance of her wearing the dress today.
“Hi, Mom,” I croak.
She grins and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Hi.”
“You look pretty.”
She shakes her head and bites back a sob. Before I realize what she’s about to do, she collapses, her face pressed to my abdomen. “I thought I’d lost you.” The words muffle, her breath broken and hot across the covers. “The doctors couldn’t wake you.”
“Aw, Mom.” I pet the soft fringe of hair at her temple where it’s pulled back with a sparkly purple hairpin. “I’m okay. Because of you, right?”
She looks up and lifts her wrist, where her birthmark coils like a circular maze. It matches the one on my left ankle beneath my wing tattoo. When pressed together, a magical surge can heal us.
“I swore I’d never use that power again,” she mumbles, referring to last year when she healed my sprained ankle and unleashed an unexpected chain of events. “But you were under so long. Everyone was afraid you were going to stay in a coma.”
What little mascara she has on stains her skin in tiny rivulets. The image makes me uneasy—it’s too similar to the eye patches I once had in Wonderland. But I shove that thought aside. This isn’t the time for a heart-to-heart about what happened last year.
“How long?” I ask.
“Three days,” she answers without pause. “Today’s Monday. Memorial Day.”
Shock closes my already achy throat. All I remember is a deep, dark sleep. It’s weird that Morpheus didn’t visit my mind while I was unconscious.
“I—I’m sorry for scaring you,” I whisper. “But you know, you’re wrong.”
Tracing the veins on the back of my IV-pierced hand, Mom tilts her head. “About what?”
“My boyfriend.”
A grimace tightens her lilac pink lips. She flips my hand over and studies my scars. I asked her a while back why she didn’t heal my palms when I was that five-year-old child. She said she was too shocked at causing the cuts to think straight.
“He wanted us to be alone,” I continue, “to give me something. A necklace.” I touch my neck, but it’s gone. Frantic, my eyes dart around the room.
“It’s okay, Allie,” she says. “Your necklaces are safe. Both of them.” There’s a tremor in her voice. I’m not sure if it’s triggered by my scars or the necklace. She prefers not to be reminded of the madness the ruby-jeweled key unlocks. But she knows better than to take it away after the fight we had over the jade caterpillar chess piece she hid from me a few months ago.
“We went to the old part of town,” I say, determined to prove Jeb’s noble intentions, “because he knows how much I like the rundown theater. It started raining, so we ended up at the drainage pipe for cover.”
“So there wasn’t a convenience store or someplace public you could’ve gone to stay dry?” she asks in a mocking tone. “Guys don’t drag girls into storm drains for anything respectable.”
Frowning, I release her hand and tuck mine under my blanket. Hot pain races from the IV to my wrist. “He wanted privacy, but not for what you’re thinking.”
“It doesn’t matter. He put you in danger. And he’ll be doing it again if you go with him to London.”
I grind my teeth. “Wait … what? So you’re going to start giving us a hard time now? Of course Dad wants me to have a ring on my finger before I move in with someone. I’m his little girl. But you always told me not to rush into marriage, to feel out my life first. Have you changed your mind?”
“That’s not what this is about.” She hands me the paper cup and stands, walking over to the flowers on the sill. She strokes the coral-tinged petals of a stargazer lily. Earlier, pink light streamed from between the blinds; now twilight has taken its place, coloring her hair the same purple hue of her dress. “Do you hear them, Allie?”
I nearly cough up my sip of melted ice. “The flowers?”
She nods.
All I hear are the lilies purring in response to her attention. “They aren’t talking …”
“Not now, but they were while you slept. The bugs, too. I don’t like what they’ve been saying.”