Chapter 4
FOUR
“I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.”
—Alice, Alice in Wonderland
Accomplish one impossible task each day.
I made that promise to my father when I was little and full of wild dreams of scaling the soaring Mount Pleasance or trekking the grueling Tempest Trail.
Luther Knightly had been an avid outdoorsman, with me as his eager sidekick.
There I was, always racing after him as he called out to me from over his shoulder, “Hurry, Alice, our next adventure is only a minute away!”
His enthusiasm made even the most mundane activity exciting.
He made me believe adventure awaited around every corner or over the next hill.
After he died, I had a giant chasm in my life, one I filled with tears and grief and guilt.
My world crumbled, crushed by the weight of sorrow, and when the pain became too much, I did something I’ll forever regret.
A thing I didn’t mean to do.
Something no one will let me forget.
They say time heals all wounds, but the lingering ache in my heart is cruel proof that’s a lie.
Each day is a battle of me struggling to hold the shattered pieces of myself together.
My daily endeavor is still surviving one painful minute to the next without fracturing back into a million shards of despair.
I hoped escaping the chaotic whirl of Wonderland and starting over at Krobes Art Academy would offer me at least some solace from the constant grief.
Wrong. All I did was exchange one torment for another.
But I’m home now, and as I watch the dawn from my bedroom balcony, the world feels so very far away.
Each long and deliberate breath I draw fills my lungs with air ripe with the familiar scent of the rolling garden behind Tiger Lily Manor—named in honor of my mother’s favorite flower.
Katherine Knightly wanted an enchanted palace, and my father did everything he could to create one for his ungrateful wife.
Cobblestone paths snake through beds of tiger lilies, roses, daisies, violets, and larkspurs to create a vibrant kaleidoscope of color.
At the heart of Katherine’s Eden stands a massive hedge maze—a work of art, really—that holds a life-sized chessboard at its heart.
And there, draping over the chessboard like a silent guardian, is a weeping wisteria tree, its cascading blossoms a breathtaking curtain of vibrant violet.
My tree.
Mine and Maddox’s.
So many cherished memories run wild inside my mind, all playing out in agonizingly glorious detail.
Of sweltering days that bled into sultry nights spent with Maddox and me tucked away from the world inside that maze.
God, how I miss him. I miss everything about him, from his crooked grin to the ever-present gleam of mischief in his mesmerizing amber eyes.
He haunts me, that mischievous boy who stole my heart.
Time and distance only made him wrap tighter around my soul.
I still hold him close, even though I choose to push him away.
A million times, I wanted to call Maddox just to hear his voice.
Yet, every time I pulled up his number on my phone, I clicked right off.
Since we were seven, he’s been my haven, my safe harbor, but the night my dad died, Maddox became a brutal reminder of everything I lost. So, instead of calling him, I listened to the playlist he texted me—listened to it over and over again over the years I was gone—a bittersweet collection of our favorite songs.
It’s better for Maddox that I stayed away because I would have only infected him with my misery. That’s the lie I’ve been telling myself, anyway. Is it true?
Perhaps.
I’ve been home now for a month and still, I’ve kept my distance even though it’s taken everything not to run straight back into his arms. Since the day I returned to Wonderland, I’ve kept to the same predictable routine.
Go to school, come home, hide away in my room, spend all the rest of the day in front of my easel creating an army of beautifully terrifying monsters.
There’s safety in predictability, and after the last couple of months, monotony—banality—is precisely what I need. Ironically, that’s what I sought when I left Wonderland.
Life, I’ve found, has a way of kicking a person right in the ass—especially when they’re down.
I shove away from the balcony railing and stride back inside my bedroom.
School began two weeks ago, and while I’d love to linger outside a bit longer, I have an early class.
But first, I pitstop at the caddy-cornered easel near the balcony’s French doors.
I lean in close, my critical gaze appraising the monstrous cat slowly coming to life on the canvas.
Each stroke and smear of black charcoal is confident and angry.
A far cry from the pretty pastels I used before…
Well, before. Seems sorrow changed every aspect of my life, including my art.
I grab my bookbag and cell phone before I abandon the sanctuary of my cozy, pink bedroom.
This room is the only thing left of me that holds any color, and with my blonde ponytail swishing against my back, I dash down the long corridor.
The soles of my heavy black boots pound against the white marble steps of the curved staircase that leads down to the rotunda-style foyer.
God, I hate this house. It’s too big, too cold, and too damn impersonal.
Tiger Lily’s inhospitable, museum-like quality mirrors Katherine’s untouchable personality.
It’s everything my father wasn’t, and as I hurry out of the wrought iron–gated glass front door, I welcome the sun-drenched warmth that bathes me as I step outside.
Three years ago, I’d be wearing something bright and billowy.
Now, my clothes are dark and heavy, the polar opposite of the person I was when I limped away from Wonderland.
Grief replaced soft curves with sharp angles.
I can’t remember the last time I smiled, and when I reach my sensible black SUV parked beside my mother’s white Maserati, I climb behind the wheel, tucking my black-and-white checkered skirt under my ass.
I start the vehicle, and immediately, “AMERICAN HORROR SHOW” by Snow Wife blares from the radio.
The song is unapologetically raunchy, but I lower the windows anyway and sing along as I pull out of the circular driveway.
I don’t get more than two blocks before my phone pings with a text. At the first red light, I check it, and of course, it’s from Ivory.
Ivory: Ur late
Me: OMW
Ivory: B careful dont rush
Briar Rose is less than ten minutes from Tiger Lily, with my first class—Painting IV—located inside Juniper Hall.
The university is a Gothic masterpiece, a fortress, actually, that dominates the north side of town, complete with spires and towers and surrounded by soaring stone walls.
With an enrollment of roughly three thousand students, it’s one of the smallest and most prestigious universities in the country.
The armed guards who protect the bratty offspring of the wealthy and powerful are a discreet presence who patrol the ‘hallowed’ three hundred acres.
Would I be like the rest of them if I’d leaned more toward my mother rather than my father, or if I hadn’t spent three years at Krobes?
“Nope,” I say aloud, having faith in my sense of self, in my morality.
Ivory isn’t like the rest of them, either, despite being a McQueen and growing up with Scarlett as her nasty fraternal twin.
After parking my SUV and racing across Brakle Green, I sweep into Painting IV breathless from the sprint.
Everyone is already here, and I immediately spot Ivory, March, and yes, even Scarlett.
God, how my stomach rolls at the sight of her.
Professor Katzinski watches me, clearly unamused by my tardiness, as I settle on the stool by my easel.
Slowly, quietly, I slide the bookbag off my shoulder and rest it near my feet. Ivory makes a tsk gesture, rubbing her right index finger over the left. In response, I flip her the bird.
While I was at Krobes, Ivory and I stayed close, and although Scarlett and I were also friends, that came to a sudden end during senior year at Hilltop.
One day, for literally no rhyme or reason at all, Scarlett decided she hated me.
Her hostility makes art classes interesting since we’re forced to share those spaces.
Her relentless and ruthless attitude turned something that should be enjoyable into a damn war zone.
More than once, I was tempted to change classes, but to hell with that.
If I let her win the battle, she wins this ridiculous war.
Throughout the two hours we’re here, Professor Katzinski wanders the room, providing constructive praise and criticism as he studies each student’s project.
When he gets to mine, he nods. “Expert use of the entire canvas.” He hovers his finger, tracing the simple charcoal outline of the caterpillar perched on a mushroom. “See this?”
“Yes,” I reply.
“Nice clean lines and smooth curves.” He purses his lips and nods again. “Good. Very good.” The tall, gray-haired man faces me, with his probing brown eyes searching my face for…something. He laces his hands behind his back and asks, “But what are you saying here?”
I don’t know.
At least, that’s the first thought that jumps into my mind because it’s just a weird caterpillar on a giant piece of fungus. But when I look back at the fledgling drawing, I see it—the meaning of it what’s buried deep in my subconscious. “Escapism?”
I guess?
“Is it? You tell me, Alice. Is that what this drawing represents to you?”
I study the drawing harder, and the deeper I look, the more I see. “The hookah, I suppose, supplies a momentary reprieve.”
“From what?”
“Pain,” I whisper without hesitation.
“Humph,” he mutters. “Why this insect, I wonder?”