the bottle of stardust in my hand, determined to be stronger than the agonized ache behind my sternum. When my family had returned to Jeb’s hospital room that night three years ago, they found me asleep with my head on his chest. They thought he was sleeping, too, but he had quietly slipped away.
As they woke me, I felt something in my fist and opened it to reveal the last token of our time together. Everyone was so busy grieving, they didn’t notice that I had captured a star, or that I slipped it into my pocket—another secret to keep, the final magical stitch to complete my heart.
Sniffling, I tuck the bottle into my backpack along with the other two, and zip it up. The flock of butterflies and moths that have been my veil grow impatient, and herd me toward my final destination.
I turn my back on the human realm, staring into the rabbit hole at my feet.
“Alyssa, luv. Take the leap.”
This time, there’s no question who’s speaking in my mind. It’s the voice of my Beloved Moth.
It hits me how tired and depleted I am. How ready I am to break the bonds of mortality—to step into my forever.
Without another moment’s hesitation, I let my body crumple and fall. I drift, like a feather, and shut my eyes against what I know passes me on my descent: Open wardrobes filled with clothes, pieces of furniture, stacks of books on floating shelves, pantries, jelly jars, and empty picture frames pinned by thick ivy to the dirt walls.
I won’t look because I want his face to be the first thing I see.
At last, I feel his strong arms catch me and set me on the ground. Morpheus—ever waiting—just like he promised.
My eyes open to his immaculate fairy features, untouched by time, flickering in the firelight from the upside-down candelabras. The scents of wax and dust fade to the familiar perfume of hookah smoke.
There’s a grinding sound as the rabbit hole closes overhead, leaving only the candles to light up the windowless domed room.
“Welcome to your new reality, little plum.” He takes my wrinkled and age-freckled hand, holds it to his warm, soft mouth, and drags me in for a kiss—right on the lips—despite that I’m old and frail. He sees beyond that, to what I am inside. To the ruler he’s helped shape in my dreams since my childhood.
Just when I think I’ll drift away on waves of madness and passion, he breaks the kiss. “Let’s get you out of those hideous human clothes, aye?”
A knot of excitement and nervous anticipation scrambles through me as he peels off the simulacrum and removes my tennis shoes. But I stop his hands before he can touch my sweats.
After years of riddles and wordplay and manipulating my subjects in the Red Court, my mind is finally Morpheus’s match. But my body is inferior now. I’m weak and ancient—a sluggish mass of gnarled skin, pitted bones, and atrophied muscles. He’s always been elevated, either in thought or form. From this day forward, I want to be his equal in every aspect—body, spirit, and mind.
“First,” I insist, with a voice more royal and commanding than I ever thought myself capable, “make me young again.”
“As My Queen commands.” Bowing, he reaches around me to the table in the middle of the room, lifts my crown off a pillow, and then places it upon my head.
There’s an enchanted beat . . . not one that I can hear, but one I feel—a rhythm of life and magic that starts in my heart and throbs through every nucleus of every cell, waltzing across the expanse of my DNA. My hair thickens and warms with the pale blond of youth. A few wispy strands twirl around me, shimmering and alive with magic. I hold out my arms, and my skin, breasts, and muscles lift and smooth to suppleness. I release my wings, gasping in rapture as they rip through the back of my shirt and spread tall and proud behind me. Colors bounce off the walls, reflecting the jewels that span the length of my gossamer appendages . . . showcasing every mood for Morpheus to see.
His study of me intensifies, mesmerized and reverent. He’s so quiet and somber, I’m afraid something went wrong.
I touch my face, tapping the soft, flawless skin. “Did it work?” My vocal cords quaver. “Am I normal? Am I me?”
“Not quite, Alyssa,” he answers, his voice gruff. “You have ne’er been normal. You are