Chapter 33
Molloy carefully struck a line through the second-to-last address in the registry.
Nearly two hundred lurlicite mirrors—closed, inactive.
Only one remained. The manor, located in the Yorkshire Moors, far beyond London, with very little recorded information.
Not who commissioned the mirror, nor who owned the property.
It belonged to someone who wished to remain hidden.
The entry in the ledger was smudged; Molloy herself had obstructed the information. If Alice had been taken to the manor in Yorkshire, then Molloy’s greatest fears had been realized. Lord Roquat or his followers were trying to find her.
Molloy’s wand sparked as she carved the passageway. A cold wind pressed against her as she stepped through, arriving before the manor.
The moment she crossed the threshold, dread coiled in her stomach.
In the center of the grand foyer stood a soldier—no longer flesh and bone, but solid stone.
His arms were outstretched, mouth frozen mid-scream.
Molloy’s boots crunched against something brittle.
Large, lifeless insects littered the floor.
Dirge drones—unmistakable by their curved stingers, their venom.
In large enough quantities, they were potent enough to kill a horse.
And they could only be found in the Western Quadrant of Oz.
This mirror had been opened.
She hurried past the solarium, ruined by overturned chairs and rotted food. A dinner party in carnage. The bodies of dirge drones lined the marble steps, leading Molloy higher up marble steps smeared with black oil and insects, toward an apartment.
The apartment looked as though a storm had been born inside of it.
Black oil sprayed across mahogany paneling and brocade fabric.
Past twin poster beds lay a hidden wardrobe with mirrored doors that had been ripped from their track.
Molloy tapped each door to be sure. Solid.
Lifeless. The wardrobe was grand with gowns that lined nearly every inch and cabinetry from floor to ceiling.
Then, she saw it.
At the room’s center, shattered into a thousand gleaming fragments, was the lurlicite mirror, commissioned by Nasrin, the former queen of Ev, after she had fled from Ev during the Death plague in her lands.
The fragmented edges still pulsed with silver light—faint traces of magic dissipating into the air.
Molloy’s breath caught. On the floor, tangled among the debris, was a balled-up uniform—brown, worn, unmistakable. A Pastoria House uniform.
Alice had been here.
Had she passed through the mirror before it was destroyed? If so—she could be anywhere in Oz. No way to follow. No way to know where she had gone.
Molloy steadied herself. Keep searching.
There had to be some clue as to who had been here.
What she found, however, only deepened her concern—a second Pastoria uniform, tossed carelessly among gowns that had been ripped from their racks.
Wendy had been here. With Alice. What had they discovered about each other?
Molloy forced herself to push aside thoughts of Peter—of the inevitable fury he would unleash over this. Instead, she moved deeper into the apartment, her eyes scanning for anything else out of place.
Moving deeper into the apartment, she found another hidden compartment. Rows of floral hatboxes lined interior shelves, each meticulously numbered.
She knelt and carefully lifted the lid on box number three.
Inside, nestled in a silk bag, was something heavy. She untied the golden rope bow, her fingers brushing against something… soft. It was not fabric or lace, but something plush—like piled goose down.
A rich scent curled through the air, perhaps vanilla, lavender. Slowly, Molloy opened the bag. Inside rested an ornate wrap of thick red braids, secured with a jade hair comb. A wig?
She reached in to retrieve the mannequin head beneath it.
The moment her fingers pressed against the head, her stomach turned. It wasn’t wood or plaster. It was warm. The head was skin!
A violent shudder tore through Molloy. She ripped her hands away, stumbling back. The box tipped, its contents spilling onto the floor as a head tumbled free.
It rolled once—just once—before the weight of its braided bun stopped it. Molloy’s breath hitched.
In the glow of the shattered lurlicite, the woman’s eyelids twitched! Molloy clutched her chest, her pulse hammering. “What enchantment—” Her vision swayed as sickness crawled up her throat. The woman’s head, attached to a glowing choker, was one she knew. Moira Darling, Wendolyn’s mother.
How in all realms could anyone know? Molloy felt as though she might faint, as Moira’s eyes scanned through dreams behind her heavy eyelids.
What if the heads of Wendy and Alice were in two of these boxes? Her gaze flickered over the rows of hatboxes. A dozen of them. Each one potentially holding a severed, enchanted sleeping head.
Molloy swallowed hard. She would have to open every single one.