And as we faded away, leaving one mad party for another, I whispered a final warning to Duke.
“By the way,” I said, “I hate Wonderland.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see.”
We faded out of one story and faded slowly into another, finding ourselves standing underneath a tree in a strange wood. Sunlight streamed through the branches from all angles, because nonsense reigned here, not logic. I stared at the shadows, the light, the shadows again…I felt unmoored, faint, not like I was dreaming but like someone was dreaming me.
And hovering in that tree we saw something—not a cat without a grin, but a grin without a cat.
“That’s why.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Rainy?” Duke asked, his voice rousing me from my reverie. “Do you see what I see?”
“Yes,” I whispered, clutching Duke’s hand with scared and sweating palms. “That is the Cheshire Cat. He’s disappearing. Let him disappear please.”
“How is this a book for children?” he whispered back.
“I’m sure it’s a very nice cat.”
Duke said, “I am not. At all. Can we run away? Quickly?”
The smile still hung above the tree branch like a crescent moon by day. And then, softly, somewhere, we heard a cat chuckling.
“Yes,” I said.
We took off running. A path lay ahead, half in light and half in shadow. Every step took us from the darkness into the light, like we were climbing a ladder.
The worn footpath led us out of the woods and up a gently sloping hill.
“Can I say something, darling?” Duke asked.
“Of course. Anything.”
“I also hate Wonderland.”
“Pops brought me here on one of his missions years ago. I swore then I’d never come back. It’s even weirder than I remember,” I said. “And that’s saying something.”
“When you’re a child,” Duke said, “a talking cat is a sweet little fantasy. When you are an adult, a talking cat is a waking nightmare. And that sharp-toothed grin floating in midair and nothing attached to it? And it was laughing at us? I’ll take Al Capone overthatany day.”
“In its defense,” I said, because Book Witches are always defending books, “the book has inspired some amazing art and music and movies and theme park rides and other writers and—”
Duke glanced back at the woods where we’d seen the grinning nothing.
“Not worth it,” he said.
“Aw, Chicago, I’m so sorry,” I teased. “Do you need a hug?”
“I’ll take a kissanda hug. And an apology from Lewis Carroll. And a few sessions with Dr. Freud. And a stiff drink.”
I put a hand on his shoulder, rose on my tiptoes, and kissed him lightly on the cheek before pulling away.
“That’s all?” he asked. “I didn’t even get my drink.”
“You do not want to drink anything in this story. You’ll end up ten inches tall.”
