Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
ALICE
The clinking of metal echoes down the hallway, and I freeze, listening as gate after gate is thrown open, followed by muffled voices and the rustling of fabric.
People are being given things—clothes, masks, and who knows what else.
My heart pounds harder. This is happening.
What the heck am I supposed to expect? I don't even dare ask.
From the cell beside mine, that familiar voice—soft but urgent—calls out. “Hurry,” she says. “Get dressed. Don’t make the Queen angry.”
I blink toward the heart-shaped hole, catching a glimpse of her porcelain face. “What’s going on?”
“The Queen’s games. Get dressed.”
I look down at the gown in my hands, the black fabric shimmering with orange threads like firelight flickering under the night sky.
My fingers tremble as I hold it up. Every part of me wants to rebel, to throw the dress aside and refuse to play along.
But I don’t. More gates open, and people are being dragged out.
I’m out of time. Damn it. I scramble to peel off my hoodie and joggers, swapping them for the gown.
Of course, it fits perfectly, as if it was made for me.
They didn’t bother to give me shoes, though, so I’ll be wearing my trainers. Classy.
The mask feels heavy in my hands, but I bring it up to my face, securing it with delicate threads that wind into my hair. It’s too ornate, too fancy for someone like me, but that doesn’t matter here.
Before I can gather my thoughts, the gate to my cell swings open with a loud creak. Two guards appear, their faces expressionless beneath their helmets. I barely have time to adjust the mask before they grab me roughly by the arm and haul me out.
They’re not gentle. I stumble slightly as we walk, and they open the next cell, then the next. The Hare is behind me. The porcelain doll girl comes out in front, and she’s practically thrown at me. I catch her.
“Thanks,” she says in a small voice, her wide porcelain eyes blinking up at me. “I’m Rosie.” She thrusts her cold, solid hand into mine, and just as she does, the guards jab us forward.
“No talking. More walking,” one of the guards barks, his voice sharp and harsh.
“Alice,” I say quickly, though she clearly already knows.
We’re all pulled from our cells—a sea of dresses, suits, and masks, each more elaborate and bizarre than the next.
Everyone is dressed up for this twisted masquerade.
She’s not the only doll, but Rosie is the only one intact.
Further down the row, they drag out a boy made of porcelain too, but he’s cracked, his face and cheeks painted a glossy, unnatural red.
He struggles, and as he stumbles, his foot—broken and hollow—clinks against the stone floor.
The others catch him, but his movement is awkward, his shattered foot leaving him hobbling along.
We’re herded together, like cattle, all of us moving as one mass toward the grand double doors at the end of the hall. Just as we approach, the doors are flung open, revealing a room so bright and opulent it nearly blinds me after the gloom of the cells.
The ballroom is massive. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting a warm golden glow over everything.
But this isn’t some elegant ballroom for a fairy tale—it’s like Wonderland collided with Halloween.
The walls are draped in spider silk curtains, and pumpkins carved with twisted faces line the edges of the room.
Heart-shaped banners—painted blood-red—hang from the ceiling, blending in with garlands made of black roses and bones.
Mirrors tower along the walls, reflecting the eerie, grotesque figures of all the people dragged here for this macabre event.
My heart clenches when I take it all in. There are far more prisoners than Rosie guessed. So many masks. So many lives pulled into this twisted game.
We’re shoved into the centre of the room, where a long line of chairs is arranged back-to-back in an oblong shape.
The guards push us down into the seats, and I find myself sitting on a cold, hard surface, my back pressed to the person behind me.
It’s suffocating, being so close to so many strangers, none of us knowing what’s about to happen.
And then I see her.
The Queen.
She’s perched high on her throne, draped in crimson, her dark hair cascading down over her shoulders like a waterfall of ink.
Her sharp eyes gleam as she surveys the room, and a slow, satisfied smile spreads across her face.
She takes in the sight of us—all of us trapped, powerless, dressed up for her twisted party.
But just as my eyes drift from her, something else—or someone else—catches my attention.
He’s standing near the back of the ballroom, away from the crowd, and somehow, without even trying, he owns the space around him.
His posture is relaxed, but there’s a dangerous energy in the way he holds himself.
The dim light catches the edges of his sharp features, the hard line of his jaw, and the shadow of a smirk tugging at his lips.
He’s tall, powerful-looking, and every movement he makes feels deliberate—like he’s been here before and he knows exactly what game he’s playing.
His dark eyes flick over the room, but then—just for a moment—they lock onto mine.
My breath catches in my throat. There’s something in the way he looks at me, like he’s sizing me up, like he’s already figured me out.
Attractive? Yes. Dangerous? Absolutely.
I don’t know who he is, but somehow, I get the feeling that whoever he is, he’s not someone you’d want to be on the wrong side of.
And I can’t shake the feeling that he’s watching me, waiting. For what, though? I’m not sure I want to find out.
The Queen’s voice cuts through the room, and I’m forced to tear my eyes away from him.
But even as I sit here, I can still feel his eyes on me, lingering. Watching.
Waiting.