Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
HOOK
The first streaks of dawn filter through the dusty windows, casting an odd, silvery light across the room. I’ve been awake for hours—or it feels that way. Every sound, every creak had me alert, my fingers curled around the knife under my pillow. Old habits and all that.
Alice lies beside me, fast asleep, curled on her side with a few loose strands of hair catching the eerie light. She’d almost look peaceful if it weren’t for the occasional flicker of unease on her face, as if whatever bothers her in this place has slipped into her dreams as well.
The fire’s down to embers, casting a faint warmth that keeps the morning chill at bay.
The room feels calm, that perfect temperature that makes me loathe to leave the bed.
But dawn’s creeping in, along with the unsettling sounds that mark daybreak in Wonderland.
I know it’s only a matter of time before the Queen’s minions start scouring the land for us again.
With daylight on their side, they’ll be combing through every last shadow, and I’m certain the Queen won’t rest until we’re found.
Alice stirs, her expression finally softening, her brow relaxing.
Watching her, anyone might think she’s innocent.
But I know better. Women like her are rare.
That sweetness of hers? It has thorns. Still, watching her now—unknowing, vulnerable—I feel something that shouldn’t be there.
Something as aggravating as it is dangerous.
Before I dwell too much on it, I slip my shirt on, carefully working it over my wounded shoulder, the sting of it a reminder of our narrow escape.
Shrugging into my coat, I run my fingers over the worn leather.
It’s not my coat, not the one I’d grown accustomed to, but it’ll do for now.
With my knife secured at my belt, I pause for a moment at the door, glancing back at Alice.
“Rest a little longer, Princess,” I murmur, slipping out quietly to head down the stairs.
The tavern feels different from last night. It's alive in a way it hadn’t been before. The ghostly patrons are now almost solid, their forms filled with a faint glow. Laughter rolls across the room, rich and strange, and as I step in, every face turns, eyes following me.
“Always a party down here?” I stretch my arms, taking in the odd stares they’re giving me. The room falls quiet. Every figure—nearly alive and yet not quite—fixes me with a gaze teetering between curiosity and reverence, as if they’re sizing me up for reasons I can’t guess.
“The lady sleeps?” Merrik asks, his tone as formal as if he were asking after a queen.
“She does,” I reply, keeping my expression neutral.
“And you, sir, did you sleep well?” He asks it like it’s a script, as if my answer were already known to him.
“Sound as can be.” I catch his eyes, sharp with curiosity. “Is there food available this fine morning?”
A knowing smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Of course, sir.” He pauses. “Shall I have food sent up for the lady?”
“No, she’ll be down soon.” I shake my head, moving towards the main door. Dawn’s light trickles through two tall windows, casting warped, glimmering shapes across the floorboards. As I step closer, the shadows seem to shift, like ripples in dark water.
The girl from last night—the one who brought food and clothes—is sitting at a corner table, sketching something on a tattered scrap of parchment.
Her eyes flick between the paper and me, her lower lip caught between her teeth.
I don’t need to look twice to know what she’s drawing.
The dark coat, the red dress, the golden hair—it’s unmistakably us.
She tilts her work away, a blush crossing her cheeks, as if she’d been caught with something private.
“So,” I begin, casting a broad glance around the room, “you lot all come back to life in the daytime, is that how this works?”
There’s a ripple of uneasy glances. Brows knit in confusion, patrons exchange wary looks. One man fiddles with the cuff of his jacket; another leans in, muttering something to his neighbour.
“Not exactly,” the girl whispers, but she doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push. Fair enough.
“Tell me,” I continue, letting my gaze settle back on her, “have you seen a man from my world? Short fellow, bit of a round belly, fumbles more often than not—loyal to a fault. Goes by the name Smee.”
A few of them shift uncomfortably. The girl’s gaze drops to her sketch, her lips pressing together tightly. A man across the room mutters under his breath, his tone just shy of a warning.
“No,” the girl finally says, her voice almost too quick, “we haven’t seen anyone like that.”
I’m about to press her when a commotion at the far side of the room catches my attention.
A huddle of patrons has gathered around a table, their focus entirely fixed on a strange, chameleon-like creature skittering across the tabletop.
Its body shifts colours rapidly, blending with the background before darting to another spot, nearly vanishing altogether.
One of the patrons lunges with a netted stick, only for the creature to slip just out of reach, letting out a haunting, almost mocking shriek.
I watch, intrigued, as another player lunges, his hand just grazing its tail before it twists away again. Frustrated sighs and muttered curses rise from the table as the creature evades them, one move after another.
“What exactly are they doing?” I ask, gesturing at the peculiar spectacle.
Merrik raises an eyebrow, glancing over at the game with mild amusement. “They’re playing Catch the Caterpillar,” he replies, as though that should explain everything.
“Right,” I say, watching the creature dart away yet again. “Is there a point to this, or do they just chase it around for the fun of it?”
Merrik’s mouth twists in a wry smile. “Oh, there’s always a point,” he murmurs. “But the caterpillar’s slippery—never stays caught for long.” He shrugs. “The impossible is just a matter of patience.”
“Sounds maddening. I’d wager half the thrill is in the failure.”
The girl keeps her eyes down on her sketches, fingers busy shading in details, while I survey the room and the odd spectacle unfolding around me.
Just then, one of the patrons lunges at the chameleon-like caterpillar—misses by a mile, naturally—and stumbles right into the girl’s table.
Idiot. Her sketches scatter across the floorboards, and she scrambles to gather them.
And I, being the gentleman, go to help her.
She has a surprising number, all hastily done yet brimming with detail.
As I flip through them, my fingers grazing over each page, something stills my movement—a sketch, just peeking out of the stack, catches my eye.
I pause, my breath hitching, and carefully slip it free.
It’s a portrait drawn in soft, almost tender strokes, yet the faces are unmistakable.
Two faces.
My mother’s gaze stares up at me from the page—gentle, knowing, as though she could see right into my soul. And beside her, a boy with wide, innocent eyes. Samuel.
The sight hits me in the chest, a cold rush that leaves me hollow. It feels as if the ground beneath me tilts, and for a heartbeat, the world around us narrows down to just this fragile piece of paper. The memory. The past. Alive in this sketch, so vivid it almost breathes.
“What is this?” My voice, once steady, now drops into something rough and sharp, the question tumbling out before I can stop myself.
Dangerous, accusing. I hold the sketch just out of her reach, fingers tightening as if afraid to let go, even as my stomach churns with unease. “How do you have this?”
She freezes. I watch as her eyes widen, a flicker of something—fear, regret—crossing her features. Her gaze darts away, lips pressing into a tight, trembling line, refusing to meet mine. She looks cornered, like a bird caught in a snare, each breath quickening.
“Tell me,” I demand. I step closer, closing the distance, my pulse pounding. The paper quivers slightly in my hand. “How do you have this?”
She shrinks back, her whole body folding in on itself. Her arms wrap around her knees, holding tight. She sinks further into the chair, her gaze lowering, her mouth refusing to form words. The silence stretches, charged, aching, clawing at my patience until my chest feels tight, suffocating.
The room feels smaller, the air thick with tension. I can feel her trembling beneath her defiance, her fear like a pulse just beneath the surface. The image of Samuel—his innocent eyes staring back at me from the page—burns itself deeper, a ghost that doesn’t fade, a wound that never quite closed.
"Say something," I whisper, my voice strained, cracking under the weight of everything unsaid.
I open my mouth to push her further, to tear the truth out of her, but the echo of footsteps from the stairs cuts through the room.
I glance up, my eyes narrowing as Alice descends, her hair loose in waves, her chin lifted defiantly.
Even after last night’s chaos, she looks annoyingly composed. Perfect, almost.
I take one last look at the sketch, then tuck it into my pocket, slipping my usual mask back on, the corner of my mouth twitching—almost a smile. I shove down the images clawing at my mind, refusing to let them control me. Not now. Not in front of her.
“Good morning, princess,” I say.
“Stop calling me that,” she snaps, her brow arching as her gaze sweeps the room, taking in the strange faces, the tension.
Before she can say anything else, and as if I planned it, one of the patrons jumps up, pulling a chair and setting it at the table in front of her, bowing almost clumsily.
Another scrambles to ensure her seat is comfortable, like she’s some kind of royalty.
Alice blinks, her confusion there for just a split second before she hides it, her face smoothing into indifference.
“Enjoying the welcome?” I say, sliding into the seat across from her, my eyes never leaving hers.
She glares at me, her jaw tightening, the edge of uncertainty still there, just beneath her anger. And damn if that doesn’t make it all the more entertaining.