Ensnared
Page 39
Your loyal footman,
Morpheus
His sentiments wind around me, sensual and silky. I drape the lacy underthings on the porthole’s ledge and trace the golden overlay, trying to place where I’ve seen it before. Then it hits me: Morpheus’s prom costume had a white cottony shirt and a doublet overlaid in gold lace with hook-and-eye closures, just like on the back of the bra. My lingerie is pieced together from the layers of his clothes. He had to sew them by hand since he doesn’t have any powers, which would’ve taken time. That means he already had them made for me, waiting.
Handwritten love notes, handmade gifts. In the absence of his magic, he’s making me more confused than ever. The sharp jolt in my heart revives. It’s becoming increasingly familiar and acute—as if there’s a seam down the middle and it’s stretching beyond its limits.
I rub my sternum to alleviate the sensation, then drag my arms out of Jeb’s shirt and slip the lingerie on underneath.
My blush burns hotter to find each item fits perfectly . . . that Morpheus knows my body without ever having run his fingers over it; even more, he knows how I’ve been craving pretty things since I left the asylum. He knows me.
Buttoning Jeb’s shirt across my torso, I climb into bed and let the canopy curtains drop, grateful they’re heavy enough to eclipse the lighthouse’s beam. In the darkness, beneath the covers, I hug myself tight, surrounded by Jeb’s scent and Morpheus’s homespun lingerie.
I dream I’m a paper doll, a creation of paint and imagination brought to life by Jeb’s hand. I rip myself in two, at last relieving the tearing pain of my heart. One half of me plays leapfrog atop mushroom caps, wraps myself inside Morpheus’s black wings, and dances with him in the sky beside a full moon . . . The other half skateboards in Underland, rides a motorcycle with Jeb, and steals starlit kisses with him underneath our willow tree. And in spite of the parallels and contrasts—or maybe because of them—it’s the most at peace I’ve been in ages. Both Jeb and Morpheus are happy, and Wonderland and the human realm are thriving.
I jerk awake, wishing I really were that paper doll, so I could split myself right down the middle and give everyone their happy ending, just like in my beautiful dream.
Voices from the kitchen nudge me awake a second time. I pull on Jeb’s sweatpants and my plastic boots and head downstairs. Jeb and Dad have been there awhile, judging by the empty mugs and the plate spotted with honeycomb-flower crumbs.
I’m thrown off by the distorted sense of time here. Since Jeb painted the ocean as a night scene, it’s still dark out, but it must be morning because Dad looks rested.
Jeb, however, doesn’t.
The circles under his eyes are more defined, exaggerated by the bright glow within his irises. He’s in holey jeans and a white T-shirt smeared with red paint. One look at the matching smudges on his hands, and I know he’s been creating something new. I wonder what it might be.
As I take the last step down, Jeb stands and rakes aside some hair that’s fallen across his forehead. The action borders on shy and self-conscious, but it doesn’t take long for his impassive façade to drop back into place. “Now that you’re up, let’s get you two some clothes.” He offers an apple and a bottle of water from our duffel bag of supplies. Looks like his sea-horse patrol was successful.
“Breakfast,” he says, waiting for me to take the food.
I pause. “How did you get here? We have the boat.”
“I walked across the ocean,” he answers, not missing a beat.
His declaration last night, that he’s a god, hits me full force. “You did?”
The flirty tilt to his mouth is as unexpected and lovely as an eclipse. “Actually, I painted more than one boat.”
“Oh, right.” Grinning, I take the fruit and water he’s holding. Our fingers touch. A muscle in his jaw ticks, then he turns to Dad and gestures for us to follow.
I fall into line, munching on the apple, hopeful. Yesterday I thought Jeb was lost to me. But if he still has his sense of humor, I can reach through the barrier of anger.
Once we’ve crossed the ocean, he leads us back to the greenhouse studio. Overhead, white and black moths cloak most of the glass roof. They pile up and creep across one another, forming a living blanket that looks like a midnight sky specked with stars. The result dims the room to shadows. A sheet of soft daylight filters from the only glass panel left bared—creating the disorienting illusion of night and day all at once.
A palette of various colors waits atop the table. The familiar scent of the paint comforts me. I don’t even question where he’s getting his ingredients to make it. Even though it smells normal, its origins are probably magic.
The studio appears bigger this morning in the absence of Jeb’s landscape masterpieces and easels. The only canvas that remains is a sheet along a wall, draped from ceiling to floor. There’s a cheval mirror on one side of the room, and Japanese screens obscure two of the corners. The red cranes embossed atop the panels move as if alive. A moth drops from its place on the ceiling, lands on the farthest screen, and is gobbled up by one of the painted birds with a squishy crunch.
Dad takes it all in with a disturbed frown.
As for me, I’m mesmerized. Last night I was leery of Jeb’s handiwork, but today a tickle stirs inside my blood—the resurgence of my madness. Jeb’s aberrant creations, their wildness and macabre functions, seem to feed my netherling side.
“First,” Jeb says, talking to Dad as he lines his brushes and mechanical pencils along the table, “we have to draw your shadow.”
He has Dad take off his shirt and shoes and roll his pants to his knees. Then he poses him in front of the canvas and snaps on a lamp. Bright light imprints Dad’s form on the sheet.
“Hold still,” Jeb says as he sketches the image. I’ve missed watching him as he works. And to witness the power brewing beneath his skin as he breathes real life into his creations . . . it adds a dimension we never could’ve shared in the human realm.
Like he said last night, he understands the allure of magic now, the passion and the freedom that goes along with giving our masterpieces the ability to interact with the world. The darkness in me swells with fascination while the human in me nudges a warning—tiny yet powerful . . . demanding to be heard.
Part of accepting power is acknowledging how intoxicating it can be. Jeb’s becoming an addict, just like his dad. I’ve been drunk on magic and madness myself. The only way to find sobriety is to balance it with the best parts of being human. But it won’t be easy to remind someone of humanity’s virtues when they’ve been crushed as many times as Jeb.
Morpheus
His sentiments wind around me, sensual and silky. I drape the lacy underthings on the porthole’s ledge and trace the golden overlay, trying to place where I’ve seen it before. Then it hits me: Morpheus’s prom costume had a white cottony shirt and a doublet overlaid in gold lace with hook-and-eye closures, just like on the back of the bra. My lingerie is pieced together from the layers of his clothes. He had to sew them by hand since he doesn’t have any powers, which would’ve taken time. That means he already had them made for me, waiting.
Handwritten love notes, handmade gifts. In the absence of his magic, he’s making me more confused than ever. The sharp jolt in my heart revives. It’s becoming increasingly familiar and acute—as if there’s a seam down the middle and it’s stretching beyond its limits.
I rub my sternum to alleviate the sensation, then drag my arms out of Jeb’s shirt and slip the lingerie on underneath.
My blush burns hotter to find each item fits perfectly . . . that Morpheus knows my body without ever having run his fingers over it; even more, he knows how I’ve been craving pretty things since I left the asylum. He knows me.
Buttoning Jeb’s shirt across my torso, I climb into bed and let the canopy curtains drop, grateful they’re heavy enough to eclipse the lighthouse’s beam. In the darkness, beneath the covers, I hug myself tight, surrounded by Jeb’s scent and Morpheus’s homespun lingerie.
I dream I’m a paper doll, a creation of paint and imagination brought to life by Jeb’s hand. I rip myself in two, at last relieving the tearing pain of my heart. One half of me plays leapfrog atop mushroom caps, wraps myself inside Morpheus’s black wings, and dances with him in the sky beside a full moon . . . The other half skateboards in Underland, rides a motorcycle with Jeb, and steals starlit kisses with him underneath our willow tree. And in spite of the parallels and contrasts—or maybe because of them—it’s the most at peace I’ve been in ages. Both Jeb and Morpheus are happy, and Wonderland and the human realm are thriving.
I jerk awake, wishing I really were that paper doll, so I could split myself right down the middle and give everyone their happy ending, just like in my beautiful dream.
Voices from the kitchen nudge me awake a second time. I pull on Jeb’s sweatpants and my plastic boots and head downstairs. Jeb and Dad have been there awhile, judging by the empty mugs and the plate spotted with honeycomb-flower crumbs.
I’m thrown off by the distorted sense of time here. Since Jeb painted the ocean as a night scene, it’s still dark out, but it must be morning because Dad looks rested.
Jeb, however, doesn’t.
The circles under his eyes are more defined, exaggerated by the bright glow within his irises. He’s in holey jeans and a white T-shirt smeared with red paint. One look at the matching smudges on his hands, and I know he’s been creating something new. I wonder what it might be.
As I take the last step down, Jeb stands and rakes aside some hair that’s fallen across his forehead. The action borders on shy and self-conscious, but it doesn’t take long for his impassive façade to drop back into place. “Now that you’re up, let’s get you two some clothes.” He offers an apple and a bottle of water from our duffel bag of supplies. Looks like his sea-horse patrol was successful.
“Breakfast,” he says, waiting for me to take the food.
I pause. “How did you get here? We have the boat.”
“I walked across the ocean,” he answers, not missing a beat.
His declaration last night, that he’s a god, hits me full force. “You did?”
The flirty tilt to his mouth is as unexpected and lovely as an eclipse. “Actually, I painted more than one boat.”
“Oh, right.” Grinning, I take the fruit and water he’s holding. Our fingers touch. A muscle in his jaw ticks, then he turns to Dad and gestures for us to follow.
I fall into line, munching on the apple, hopeful. Yesterday I thought Jeb was lost to me. But if he still has his sense of humor, I can reach through the barrier of anger.
Once we’ve crossed the ocean, he leads us back to the greenhouse studio. Overhead, white and black moths cloak most of the glass roof. They pile up and creep across one another, forming a living blanket that looks like a midnight sky specked with stars. The result dims the room to shadows. A sheet of soft daylight filters from the only glass panel left bared—creating the disorienting illusion of night and day all at once.
A palette of various colors waits atop the table. The familiar scent of the paint comforts me. I don’t even question where he’s getting his ingredients to make it. Even though it smells normal, its origins are probably magic.
The studio appears bigger this morning in the absence of Jeb’s landscape masterpieces and easels. The only canvas that remains is a sheet along a wall, draped from ceiling to floor. There’s a cheval mirror on one side of the room, and Japanese screens obscure two of the corners. The red cranes embossed atop the panels move as if alive. A moth drops from its place on the ceiling, lands on the farthest screen, and is gobbled up by one of the painted birds with a squishy crunch.
Dad takes it all in with a disturbed frown.
As for me, I’m mesmerized. Last night I was leery of Jeb’s handiwork, but today a tickle stirs inside my blood—the resurgence of my madness. Jeb’s aberrant creations, their wildness and macabre functions, seem to feed my netherling side.
“First,” Jeb says, talking to Dad as he lines his brushes and mechanical pencils along the table, “we have to draw your shadow.”
He has Dad take off his shirt and shoes and roll his pants to his knees. Then he poses him in front of the canvas and snaps on a lamp. Bright light imprints Dad’s form on the sheet.
“Hold still,” Jeb says as he sketches the image. I’ve missed watching him as he works. And to witness the power brewing beneath his skin as he breathes real life into his creations . . . it adds a dimension we never could’ve shared in the human realm.
Like he said last night, he understands the allure of magic now, the passion and the freedom that goes along with giving our masterpieces the ability to interact with the world. The darkness in me swells with fascination while the human in me nudges a warning—tiny yet powerful . . . demanding to be heard.
Part of accepting power is acknowledging how intoxicating it can be. Jeb’s becoming an addict, just like his dad. I’ve been drunk on magic and madness myself. The only way to find sobriety is to balance it with the best parts of being human. But it won’t be easy to remind someone of humanity’s virtues when they’ve been crushed as many times as Jeb.
