“He’s about to be in grave danger if that ear mite gets to Red before me.”

I can’t argue that Morpheus is the lesser of two evils where Jeb’s well-being is concerned. “He’s in a simulacrum suit, looking for you in the dungeon.”

Morpheus’s face darkens. “Don’t dare leave this room. All I need is you running about and mucking things up more than you already have.”

Before I can respond, he flings the door open and slams it behind him. He scuffles with the guards, then talks his way out of being taken into custody by suggesting they “lock the blasted door to contain their magical ward, considering she’s the biggest threat to AnyElsewhere.”

Then he makes up an excuse about needing to find the queen.

His determined footsteps fade down the hallway and I mentally hurry him along. He has to catch the ear mite before it reports to Red, and even more pressing, has to find Jeb before anything happens to him.

I tell myself that’s why he left in such a hurry . . . to protect Jeb. Not because he’s jealous and wants to eliminate him, rendering my vow null and void. The two have forged an understanding over the past month. They’ll never like each other, but they’ve spared one another countless times, and have learned to work together, because they both love me.

I have to believe that Morpheus isn’t acting on his desire for our future to start today. That he’s not being driven by his romantic ideals: a tapestry of emotions and actions as fierce and unpredictable as the wildness of Wonderland itself. I’ve seen his compassion and how he struggles to do the right thing.

“Have faith in him,” I whisper to no one but me. “He’ll one day be your king.”

He told me to stay put. Little does he realize, I have no choice. I’m too weak and woozy to leave my prison.

I return to the easel and swipe my fingers across the drying paint to blur it beyond recognition. It’s bad enough that Red is hoping for a child between us. Once she’s possessed my body and sees him for herself, it’s only going to make getting rid of her that much harder.

When my fingers glide across the image of our little boy, smudging him to an indiscernible blob, that stitch in my heart ruptures another agonizing degree. A coppery taste stings my tongue. I cough, cupping my mouth with my palm. As I pull my hand away, fresh blood spatters the paint between my fingers. I double over, struggling for breath.

The room shakes to the beat of a thousand pulses. Streaks of burgundy and black mingle with shivering light. My arms and legs ache. I absorb my wings to lighten the load, but my spine curls and I lower myself to my knees as darkness swarms my vision. I shut my eyes, focused on breathing. Rolling to my stomach, I let the shag carpet cushion my cheek as I drift toward unconsciousness, into the hazy, numb warmth of a vision . . .

My body is light as air, free of pain. A black oily sludge drips from the walls and seeps across the floor toward me. The puddles rise into phantom shapes like smoke.

Mome wraiths.

They engulf me, sniffing my hair, wailing in my ears until my bones clatter. Oily marks stamp my skin where they grip my arms, fingers of shadow and illusion biting into me. They drag me to the top of the castle’s tower and toss me down. My stomach leaps into my throat.

Far below, the rabbit hole opens—a black, spiraling tunnel. I fall fast, racing past open wardrobes, stacks of floating books, pantries, and jars of canned goods pinned to the tunnel’s sides with thick ivy curls. I clutch at a wall, knocking into furniture and tearing at vines until my descent slows.

Below in the darkness, a struggle takes place. Sister Two wrestles in midair with my mom, who’s strung up by webs. Mom uses her magic, animating wayward books and pinned-up furniture to bombard Sister Two’s head and torso. The grave keeper’s eight legs and poisonous, scissored hands are preoccupied deflecting the attack, which buys Mom time to break free. She slips out of the spider’s thrall and starts falling.

“Mom!” I shout.

She looks up. “Allie!” she calls back and reaches for me.

The wraiths wail overhead and pull the rabbit hole closed, shuttling us all out of the tunnel and propelling us into Wonderland on a landslide of dirt.

I dig myself out into the flower garden. Lightning slashes the sky, casting fluorescent hues across the landscape. A pungent, charred scent carries on a loud and melancholy wind. Dark purple clouds fill the sky.

Mom is just within my reach, surrounded by vicious zombie flowers as tall as trees. Sister Two scuttles toward her with an army of undead toys.

I clamber up to help Mom, but my hand passes through her. I’m nothing but a ghost here, and I realize I’m reliving her entry into Wonderland that fated night.

A white swan swoops down, transforming into Ivory. Landing on the ground, she glitters from wing tips to toes. Her magic radiates in the purest strains of silver. She twirls like a crystalline ballerina and white mist streams from her mouth. Frost cloaks the ruthless flowers, slowing their movements.

A man breaks through the trunklike stems. I recognize him as Finley, the mortal Morpheus used as an imprint when he was in the human realm. Finley’s dressed as an elfin knight and commands Ivory’s army. With a collective shout, the elves attack the flowers, their swords clanging against the iced stems, cutting through in one sweep. The flowers scream and fall, writhing on the ground. Sister Two hisses and herds her undead toys into the heart of Wonderland, retreating to the garden of souls.

Ivory turns and offers a hand to my mom.

Mom takes it, then looks back at me. “I’m safe and we’re surviving. But the heart of Wonderland is dying. The doldrums are closing in. Come soon. We’ll hold them off as long as we can.”

I try to make sense of her warning, picking my mind apart for the definition of doldrums, but it escapes me.

“Allie!” Mom screams. “Wake up . . . wake up!”

Lightning streaks across the sky and splits into my chest, slamming me back into my broken body and the reality of unquenchable pain.

Someone has propped my back against what feels like cool tiles. I’m too weak to even lift my eyelids. I inhale and strangle on the liquid filling my lungs.

“She’s dying,” Red says, somewhere beyond my closed eyes.

“As she should be,” Hart responds. “Just look at the mess she made of my paints! And she nibbled on a tart. Confounded little mouse.”

Judging by Hart’s tirade, we’re still in the playroom. The scent of her perfume suffocates me, even more potent with my eyes closed. It’s the stench of death—wilted flowers and rotted flesh.