Splintered

I’ve seen the riddle in the original book. Notepad in hand, I scribble Wonderland at the top and copy the poem, word for word.

I open a new search window to look for interpretations. One site has four different possible meanings. What if they’re all wrong? I skim over two until the third one catches my eye.

There are illustrations alongside the words—creatures with long curlicue noses digging holes beneath sundials. A sense of knowing overtakes me, and I close my eyes. Children play on the screen of my eyelids. A winged boy and a blond girl dive into a hole beneath a statue of a child that balances a sundial on his head.

I don’t know where the images came from. I must’ve seen them in a movie—but I can’t remember which one. They seem so real—and so familiar.

I jot down the definitions from that interpretation of the poem. According to whoever wrote it, brillig is four o’clock in the afternoon; a tove is a mythical creature—a mix between a badger and a lizard with a corkscrew nose. They’re known for making their nests beneath sundials. Gyre and gimble are verbs meaning to dig into the earth like a giant screw, turning out soil until a deep tu

The other words aren’t defined, but it’s a start.

According to the poem and the images in my mind, it seems that the rabbit hole could be under that little-boy sundial statue.

Now I just have to find it.

I hop back to the netherlings site and scroll down to see if there are any details I missed. At the bottom is a huge chunk of black space all the way to the end. No more text, no more pictures, even though there’s plenty of room for them. Could be the Webmaster meant to save the space for later.

I’m about to exit the site and do a search on sundials in England in hopes to find a city and address, when movement in the dark background catches my attention. It’s like watching a cricket swim through ink. But instead of a cricket, a simulated black moth flutters across the screen, just like the one from my past.

I’m starting to think the moth is tied to everything: the little boy and girl I saw by the sundial, my family’s very real curse. If only I could remember more about the insect. But my memories are blotted and misty, like looking down through clouds from dizzying heights.

The animation catches my attention again. It starts at the top of the empty space. When it gets a quarter of the way down, glowing blue text appears beneath the drag of the moth’s wings.

Find the treasure.

I read and reread until my eyes burn, shocked by the similarity to what Alison said. “The daisies are hiding treasure. Buried treasure.”

Dad plowed the flower garden after she was first committed years ago—destroyed it. There was nothing buried there. So what could she mean?

Another line of text appears onscreen. If you wish to save your mother, use the key.

I shove back from the computer, heart pounding and palms sweating in my gloves. I didn’t imagine it. The words are staring back at me, blinking.

How is someone talking to me?

How would they know about Alison, and how did they find me?

I look around the empty store.

I should tell someone. Dad’s out of the question; he’d sign me up for shock treatments, for sure. Jenara will think it’s just one of my tormentors from school playing a sick joke.

But Jeb. Despite the weirdness between us, I know he’ll always be there for me. I’ll show him the website. Just the thought of his reassuring smile—the one that says he gets me in a way no one else does—coaxes me from the brink of terror.

At the sound of the doorbell, I glance up. Taelor’s face looks back and I nearly groan aloud. Her chic, shoulder-length hair glimmers gold in the sun. The words Glitz and Flash and Everything Panache are written in shimmery letters across the bag she carries.

I turn again to the computer. The screen’s gone blank and an error message flashes.

“Hey, Alyssa.” Taelor peruses the jewelry rack on her way to the counter. “Any good sales today?” She holds up a skull rhinestone brooch with glittery crossbone dangles. “Preferably something that doesn’t smell like a funeral home.”

Ignoring her, I search for the URL. The error message returns. I jiggle the mouse. If I can’t find the site again, I’ll never be able to convince Jeb what I saw was real.

Taelor strolls closer. One of the straps on her designer purse slips off a sun-bronzed shoulder. “Guess it doesn’t matter. People like you don’t care who’s been wearing this stuff or how dead they are.”

After pausing to crinkle her nose at a shirt, she plops her shopping bag and purse on the opposite side of the counter, lithe arms propped on the edge. She was once a force on the te

The extra four inches of my boots set me almost eye level with her. “Don’t you have a prom to get ready for?” I ask, hoping she’ll leave.

Her gaze gets all round and i

I don’t even ask what she could possibly be getting Jeb from a jewelry store.

“What’s this?” She thrusts a hand across the counter and pulls my notes toward her. I try to grab them away, but she’s too fast. “Wonderland, huh? So you’re doing some research on the family rabbits.”

“Good-bye, Taelor.” I wrestle my notes back, accidentally knocking her purse to the floor in front of the counter.

She doesn’t bother to pick it up. Instead, her expression hardens. “No good-bye yet. First we’re going to talk.”

That flittering presence in my brain taunts me to fight back. A surge of adrenaline kick-starts my tongue. “Thanks, but I’d rather talk to a dung beetle.”

Taelor’s eyes widen, as if she’s surprised by the insult. I smile. It feels good having the upper hand for once.

She takes a few seconds to work up a comeback. “You talk to beetles, huh? Glad to know you’ll have someone to play with once Jeb’s gone. And don’t be thinking you can pull your wounded-friend crap to keep him from moving to London with me next month.”

“With you?” My upper hand just got amputated. I feel like I did when I fell skateboarding—like I have a miner’s cap spotlight on me.

“He hasn’t told you yet?” Taelor’s practically beaming. “I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s always so worried about your fragile state of mind.” She leans across the counter so her face is inches from mine. Her expensive perfume stings my nose. “I’m spending senior year at a prep school in London. I’ve been offered a modeling contract there. My dad’s renting Jeb a flat. It’s win-win all around. Jeb can make co

My chest constricts.

She eases back. There’s panic behind her expression. Why? She’s a

“Wow. You really thought you had a chance, huh?” Taelor taunts. “Just because he asked you to pose for a few sketches, that doesn’t mean he’s hot for you.”

My jaw drops. Jeb’s never asked me to pose for anything. There were times he had his pencil and sketchbook out while we were together, but I never would’ve guessed he was drawing me.

“His art is all about death and tragedy, so of course he likes your mortician style. It’s not a compliment. Don’t delude yourself that it is.”

I’m too stu

“We both care about him.” Her voice softens, and it’s apparent that for once she’s being sincere. “But do you care enough to let him do what’s best for him? He has way too much talent to get stuck babysitting you for the rest of his life like your poor dad. Don’t you think that would be a colossal tragedy?”