Page 39 of Wondrous

“I see,” I said in a serious voice, secretly delighted. Surely the mock dragon belonged in Wonderland more than he did in his own nightmarish world.

“Tell me how you came by this,” I said, gesturing to the jar.

The mock dragon launched into his tale—he’d come by the perfect “twilight petrichor” breeze after frightening the inhabitants of a village out of their homes, then burning the village to the ground. I didn’t much understand his motivation for this—he explained it as if it were simply what one did, in his world. The rain had put the fire out, fortunately, and it was later that night, when the mock dragon curled up against a thorntree, damp and smoky but pleased with his day’s work, that he discovered the breeze.

After he’d talked himself out, I held up the next bottle—“deep mountain caverns”—and then the next, and the next, asking him to tell me about each one. After several hours, I was struggling to stay awake. Jack, once he’d figured out what I was doing, had clapped his hands in delight and laughed out loud, which the mock dragon had taken as encouragement to grow even more long-winded in his explanation of the difference between thunderstorm breezes in November versus December. Jack untied the mock dragon’s hands and made us tea, not once allowing our cups—happy memory for the dragon, wisdom for me—to go unfilled, which gave me the strength to keep going.

And then, as afternoon melted into evening and several borogoves began their mournful hunting songs, we came to the last bottle, “misty peak.” The dragon blustered away about it as he had the others, and I felt despair settle over me. My theory wasn’t working—the dragon’s flame had dimmed, but it still flickered in his throat.

Jack nudged me, pointing, and I looked up. The hollows the mock dragon had made were beginning to close, like wounds healing after a poison is drawn out. My hope surged again—we just had to keep him talking.

“I—would you like to tell me more?” I said as the dragon fell silent.

“I would love to,” the dragon said, downing the tea Jack had unobtrusively poured for him. “But it’s rather late, and I wouldn’t mind a nap, myself.”

Indeed, the monster’s eyelids had fallen half shut, and even his colossal horns seemed to be drooping.

“But I’d love to hear the story of how you caught the ‘strawberry fields’ breeze again,” I said desperately.

But the mock dragon only gave a quiet grumble. His eyes drifted shut.

The leaves began to rustle overhead. The breeze lifted my hair, though I barely noticed it, so focused was I on the mock dragon. But the creature’s eyelids snapped open.

“Ah!” the mock dragon said. “ ‘Marsh with frogs.’ Delightful! I already have one of those, though.”

“Are you sure?” I examined the bottles. “You said this one here was ‘swamp with toads.’ That’s not the same, is it?”

The dragon’s nostrils flared, and his pupils widened like a cat’s. “Quite right, quite right! Hand me one of those empty bottles, would you, child? Quickly, if you please.”

I handed him a bottle, and the mock dragon twisted it open, hands shaking. I found myself catching a little of the mock dragon’s anxiety. The breeze began to die, but then it picked up again, a great frog-scented gust. The dragon gave a happy cry and made a scooping motion with the bottle.

And as he twisted the cap shut, smiling to himself, the last of the hollows he’d created disappeared, and the flame in the dragon’s throat winked out like a snuffed candle.

Chapter 20

“It’s not too late to turn back, if you’ve changed your mind,” Jack said the next day as we pushed through an especially viny part of the Tulgey Wood. “I could still catch up to him.”

“No,” I said. “I trust the mock dragon. After all, he believes we’re friends, doesn’t he? I think he’ll keep his word. And even if he doesn’t, I’ve saved Wonderland from him, so I’ve followed the prophecy, even if it isn’t in the way the Queen expected.”

“That queen of yours will want to see his head.”

“She’ll have to content herself with this,” I said, shaking the bottle in my hand. The mock dragon had given me a handful of feathers from his wings in one of his empty breeze bottles. They shone faintly like flakes of puffy snow tinged with gold—I would offer them to the Queen of Hearts as proof that I’d defeated the mock dragon. I put my odds at middling at best that she would accept this proof; she was so contrary and unpredictable that she might throw me into the dungeon if I looked at her shoe buckles aslant, and declare someone else the victor. I had to put my faith in Wonderland, that the world itself would recognize me as its protector and protect me in turn.

As for the mock dragon, he was making haste for the Fairfarren Mountains, which lay beyond the Momes. They were too far away for any of the other Alices to track him, and the mock dragon had been pleased by my suggestion, having never visited the Fairfarrens and seeming delighted by the prospect of the unique breezes they might offer. He claimed he had yet to discover the perfect “mossy stream” breeze.

The mock dragon had helped us further by telling us where one of his kin was hiding. She’d made herself a nest in Weirgrove, a particularly ancient part of the Tulgey Wood along the banks of the Lake of a Hundred Names. The Lake of a Hundred Names was just what I called it, because nobody in Wonderland could agree on an official name, leading to endless confusion. The Hatter called it the Lake Where I Spent My Eight-Thousand Five Hundred and Sixty-Third Unbirthday, which was a mouthful.

“She is”—the mock dragon had paused—“not like me. She belongs in Briarland.”

I didn’t like the fear in his eyes. Despite his silly wings, the mock dragon was every bit as intimidating as you would expect a monster to be. I couldn’t stop wondering what he’d meant as Jack and I fought our way through the dangling ivies.

“We’ve walked a long way today,” Jack said. He no longer marched far ahead but kept his pace level with mine, slashing at the vines in our path with my knife. He was able to use his eerie jabberwock powers to part the vines, but he seemed to enjoy doing it the more dramatic way. “Would you like to make camp for the night?”

I thought it over, taking account of both the setting sun and my weary legs. “That’s not a bad idea. We’re only an hour or so from Weirgrove, but I’d rather not meet the next mock dragon after nightfall.”

Jack set about unpacking his knapsack. We’d finally hit upon Peddler’s Path and wandered along it for an hour before we found someone who could sell us fresh supplies, including a new tent, blankets, and a second pan, because I didn’t like sharing mine with fried moths. While Jack got a fire going, I put the tent up and set out the tea things. Jack and I had been taking turns with the wisdom cup and the happy-memory cup. My heart still ached for my lost sleepiness cup; the three remaining teacups looked lonely dangling from my belt.

“Jack?” I said, turning to the fire to find him gone. Then the shadows shifted to my left, followed by branches rustling to my right. I caught a flicker of shadow from the corner of my eye and turned, and the flash of a dark shape—taller than Jack’s current form—darted behind a tree. My breath caught, but when I turned again, he was abruptly there, casually adding wood to the fire as if he’d been there all along.