I remember first meeting the flower fae in Wonderland, how they mentioned that I looked like “you know who.” I always thought they were talking about Alice, or maybe Red. But that wasn’t it at all. They were talking about my mom.
I press my spine into the wall hard enough to pinch my wing buds. “The smudged writing in the Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland book,” I say, barely above a whisper. “Morpheus didn’t blur it. It was you. You didn’t want me to figure out you’d been there.”
Morpheus drops his hat into place again. He leans against the wall a few feet from me, one boot heel propped on the baseboard. “Your mum wanted to work with me from the very beginning, when she was thirteen and heard the nether-call. That’s how badly she craved the power of the crown. All I had to do was find a way she could accomplish the impossible tests in King Red’s decree. So for three years, I worked on an alternate route of obstacles to fulfill his requirements by playing on the definitions that he’d written out, getting her approval on each step—”
“You were going to let Queen Red live inside you?” I interrupt, staring at Mom in disbelief.
“Not quite,” Morpheus snaps. “Unlike you, Alison planned to use her wish as I instructed, to banish Red from Wonderland forever. And we wouldn’t even be in this sorry predicament had you chosen to do the same instead of saving your boyfriend’s insignificant mortal life.”
I want to scratch off the jewels under his eyes for saying that, but I can’t move.
Morpheus waves a hand. “It doesn’t matter now. I made the ultimate mistake, by not having her vow on her life-magic to finish what she started. Alison’s a traitor. She backed out because she met your father. ’Tis telling, though. How she kept all of the heirlooms, taking precautions so no one else could follow the clues I’d given her. Perhaps she wanted another chance to try for the crown one day.”
“That’s not why, Morpheus,” Mom hisses. “And you know that.”
He shrugs. “We could ask Rabid. He was there.”
I shake my head. “Where is Rabid?” In all the craziness, I’d forgotten we left him alone in my room.
“I tied him up,” Mom answers. “He’s being entertained by your eels. Electroshock therapy. Penance for his role in what happened to you last summer.”
I gasp at her callousness and start for my room, but Morpheus steps into my path.
“He’s fine,” he assures me, a hand on my shoulder. “Electricity has no effect on our kind.”
I shake him off. “Well, it can’t be good for my eels!” I shout. “They have to be terrified!” Morpheus and Mom both look at me like I’m losing it. If I am, they’re the ones to blame. “Get Rabid out. Tell him I demand to know why he’s here.”
Morpheus raises his eyebrows at me. Then, with an admiring glint in his eye, he removes his hat and bows. “As you wish, Your Majesty.” He passes a meaningful glance to my mom. “You might try telling your daughter the truth for once. Were you able to decipher any of the mosaics before hiding them?”
Mom shrugs, a sour expression on her face.
“Share what you saw … along with everything else you’ve been hiding. She won’t survive Red’s attack unless she’s equipped with the truth.” Morpheus offers me one last glance—jewels flashing the gentle blue of compassion—then replaces his hat. His boots clomp across the linoleum floor.
Once his footsteps are muffled in the living room carpet, I give Mom my full attention, waiting for that explanation. “The mosaics,” I blurt out, though it’s not at all what I want the answer to.
She returns my stare with one of her own. “I only had a chance to decipher one. There were three Red Queens fighting for the ruby crown, and another woman’s silhouette watching from behind a wall of vines and shadows—someone invested in the outcome … someone who had a deep stake in it all. I could see her eyes. Sad, piercing. I was in a hurry. That’s all I had time for.”
There have been three Red Queens since last summer: me; Grenadine, who I appointed to rule in my stead; and Red herself.
That leaves the question of the fourth player, the one in the shadows.
Mom watches my expression as I flip through the possibilities in my head. Her scowl softens to a sympathetic frown, and she looks like the woman I once knew: the one who made me Jell-O ice-pops when my throat was sore; the one who kissed my hurts away and sang me lullabies; the one who had herself committed to save me from Wonderland.
But the mom I’m remembering is not her at all. This mom’s hair is still glowing, her skin glistening like snow under starlight. This mom … this netherling … is a stranger to me.
“You were in Wonderland,” I say, voice quivering.