The wave crosses the room and shakes the shelves along the walls. Moths and caterpillars scatter in their terrariums. The current comes to rest only after it has shuttled Morpheus’s hats off their perches and scattered them across the floor where they float, adrift beside Rabid’s snoring form and a bevy of swimming toys.

Morpheus howls and lifts a foot from the puddles, prying a teething ring’s snapping jaws from his big toe. He drops the creature into the treacle that is somehow still boiling.

My king’s wet hair hangs limp as he grimaces at me in the dimness. By some miracle, my covers are still dry. Only my face and hair got splattered.

“Any other time,” he mutters darkly, concern overshadowing the madness and beauty that so often call to me from within his long-lashed gaze, “I would be tempted to ravenous by your challenge for dominance. But right now, you need to preserve your strength.” Igniting his blue magic, he uses the strands like a fan’s rotary blades to dry himself and me. “Someone capture the baby’s playthings and salvage the cradle!” he grouses to our attendants.

The sprites shake themselves off and putter about the room, bumping into one another in a rush to straighten the mess my wayward monsoon left behind.

“Fetch more clouds!” Their combined shouts tingle like a clatter of coins.

Chessie and Nikki appear with a mop to clean up the puddles. A few sprites assist with sponges. Others use miniature nets to scoop up the toys and return them to their box. Our attendants’ glimmering bodies reflect off the wet floor and form rivers of stars, small and distant. Disorienting.

I moan and close my eyes to fight a surge of nausea. My magical hair slaps my face, taunting me. Morpheus captures the long waves with his fingertips and wrestles them into a braid to contain them. It would be easier if he used his magic to do it. But he always insists on managing my hair with his hands. It’s his “honor and distinct pleasure to tame my tresses with his touch.”

A residual water droplet wriggles from my hairline, down my temple, and stops at my jaw—a benign itch that’s oddly grating against the backdrop of the electric currents racing through my torso.

“Little plum.” My king’s knuckles sweep across my eye markings and swipe away the water—leaving a gossamer trail as delicate as a spider’s web. “Let nature take its course. Stop fighting it.”

My eyes open to narrow slits. The candles have spontaneously relit.

“Nature?” My voice is earsplitting and terrible, the one I reserve for disobedient subjects. “I’m ready . . . you’re ready. Our entire kingdom is ready. But no. He’s too busy flying around in there. He’s the one fighting it. He doesn’t want to leave! Nothing about that is natural.”

Hues of purple and gray glisten through Morpheus’s jeweled eye markings. He drops to his knees on the damp floor and sculpts his hands around my swollen abdomen beneath the sheets. “All right, Trouble.” His term of endearment for the baby incites an irascible arm or leg to jut from inside. “Stop playing games. Wrap up your wings. ’Tis time to meet your subjects. Your mum is tired.”

Our son reacts to his father’s voice in an excited tizzy. The flapping intensifies, stirring more contractions. I glare at Morpheus. “You just had to teach him to use his wings. You couldn’t have waited a few more weeks until he’d actually need them!”

Morpheus’s head bows, a blue curtain hiding his features. With a trembling hand, I push back the strands, regretting my harshness. He’s on the opposite end of the same situation as me. He has no idea how to act, what to do.

“Forgive me,” I whisper.

He clasps his fingers over mine and meets my gaze. “No need. I would’ve already taken off the heads of everyone in this room were I being tortured like you.”

With all the magic my king and I have between us, neither of us can control what’s happening to my body, or appease this lightning storm that brews within me, refusing to come out. But the pain doesn’t quench my maternal desire. My longing to see our prince . . . to cradle his tiny, magical body to mine, nuzzle his downy blue hair, smell his scent. To love him eternally. Unconditionally.

It’s overwhelming to consider how important he’s going to be, to more than just me and Morpheus. He’s going to improve our way of life here, by teaching the netherlings how to dream so they’ll never again need to rely on humans for that rare resource crucial for peace among the restless spirits in the cemetery.

Innocence and imagination, the components of dreams, have been missing in the fae lineage for so long, no one can even remember when they possessed such traits. Ivory once told me that it’s why Wonderland’s occupants don’t have childhoods. The nether-realm is founded on chaos, madness, and magic. Innocence and imagination fell by the wayside long ago, replaced by manipulation and murderous intent on their children’s playgrounds.

But Morpheus experienced innocence through me, each time we played together in my dreams, and he learned to wield an imagination because of it. So our son will be the first child to be born to two netherlings who’ve shared a genuine childhood. He’ll possess Morpheus’s dream-magic, and my imagination. Somehow, he’s going to pass on this unprecedented power, so the fae children will learn to dream again. They will experience childhood, in every sense of the word.

I don’t know all the details, I only know the prophecy, and the fact that Morpheus and I are to guide our son so he can master his gifts and impart them to all of Wonderland. I’m both honored and nervous to have a role in such a prestigious commission. Our prince is arriving not a moment too soon. The dreams Jeb left behind will begin waning now that he’s been gone for several years. That’s why I joined Red’s spirit to his muse, to buy us a little extra time. Sister One has assured me the substitute will last for a while longer. Still, I’ve no idea how old our prince will be before he comes into his full power.

Another contraction needles through me, and I bite back a howl.

Our kingdom has been on high alert over the last few months, preparing for their dream-child. But Morpheus and I have waited even longer to meet our son. Decades. So why is he determined to end me before I can even kiss his head?

I’m exhausted and scared like the human I once was. I’ve forgotten the process completely. When I experienced childbirth as a mortal, my mother was there to hold my hand, to guide me. I feel alone and fragile without her wisdom.

A sob clogs my throat as the thought of her provokes another: that she and Dad are gone forever, just like Jeb. That nothing is left of the human husband I loved except my memories and our children and grandchildren—a mortal family in a human realm I’ll never see again.

A deep sadness flares inside my chest. When I came here to reign as the Red Queen permanently, I made the choice not to have contact of any kind—even to view them through the looking glasses—although I couldn’t resist sending out scouts to watch over them. But aside from their reports of well-being, I ask for no other details out of respect for my king. As long as my earthly family doesn’t need me for anything life-threatening caused by my Wonderland ties, I have to stay away. To step in and intervene with magic under any other circumstance would only cause problems for everyone.

Still, there are times I long to know their everyday lives, times I grieve for those who died before I left. I’ve become strong, the master of my sentimentality. But tonight, I’m vulnerable, and the bittersweet memories threaten to drag me into their undertow.