She landed on a beach of gray sand beneath a sunless sky. Three figures sat on rocks by a motionless tide. They were old—older than stone, older than the Queen of Hearts’ last beheading. Their hair was cobweb-fine, their shawls woven from twilight. And they were passing something between them: a single, milky-white eyeball.
The first sister held up a single yellowed fang. “You want to go home? Then you must act . Not tumble. Not cry. Act . But the only door is at the bottom of the Cinder Lake, and the lake is guarded by the Jabberwock’s cousin.”
“Lend it to me,” Alice said. “Just until I reach the door. You can see through it still—I’ll carry it in my palm. You’ll watch everything I do. If I lie or falter, you’ll know. And you can take your tooth back as well—I’ll bite through any rope or chain I find.”
Alice nodded. She tucked the eye into her coat pocket—where it immediately rolled to face forward—and slipped the tooth between her teeth. It fit like it had always been there.
“You’ll what ?”
She turned toward the Cinder Lake. The path was not a path but a spiral of broken clocks, dead roses, and mirrors that showed not her reflection but every Alice she had ever failed to be.
“Left, now,” croaked the first.
The three sisters stopped.
The fall this time was short and soft. She landed on her neighbor’s rug, the borrowed book still clutched in her hand. Outside, rain tapped the window. Everything was ordinary.
“Child,” said the youngest Graia, “if you lose them, we will find you. Not in a year. Not in a century. Eventually .”
At the lake’s bottom was a door no larger than a rabbit hole. Alice knelt.
