Splintered by A. G. Howard Read Free Book Online

normal people, because then we appear crazy.
We're not crazy. I should be relieved.
But something else is going on, something unbelievable.
If the voices are real, it still makes no sense that Alison insists on dressing like Alice. Why she clucks her tongue. Why she rages for no reason. Those things make her look crazier than anything else. There are so many questions I want to ask. I shove them aside, because one other question is most binding of all.
“Why our family?” I ask. “Why does this keep happening to us?”
Alison’s face sours. “It’s a curse.”
A curse? Is it possible? I think of the strange website I found when I searched for the moth. Are we cursed with mystical powers like those netherling things I read about? Is that why my grandmother Alicia attempted flight—she tried to test the theory?
“All right,” I say, making an effort to believe the impossible. Who am I to argue? I’ve been chatting it up with dandelions and doodlebugs for the past six years. Real magic must be better than being schizophrenic. “If it’s a curse, there’s a way to break it.”
“Yes.” Alison’s answer is a croak of misery.
The wind picks up, and her braid slaps around her like a whip.
“What is it, then?” I ask. “Why haven’t we already done it?”
Alison’s eyes glaze over. She’s withdrawn somewhere inside herself—a place she hides when she’s scared.
“Alison!” I bend over to grip her shoulders.
She refocuses. “Because we’d have to go down the rabbit hole.”
I don’t even ask if the rabbit hole is real. “Then I’ll find it. Maybe someone in your family can help?”
It’s a stretch. None of the British Liddells even know about us. One of Alice’s sons had a secret affair with some woman before he went off to World War I and died on the battlefield. The woman ended up pregnant and came to America to raise their love child. The boy grew up and had a daughter, my grandma, Alicia. We haven’t been in touch with any of them . . . ever.
“No.” Alison’s voice pinches. “Keep them out of this, Allie. They don't know any more than we do, or we wouldn’t still be in this mess.”
The determination behind her expression shuts down any questions her cryptic statement might raise. “Fine. We know the rabbit hole is in England, right? Is there a map? Some kind of written directions? Where do I look?”
“You don’t.”
I jump as she pulls down my sock to expose the birthmark above my swollen left ankle. She has an identical one on her inner wrist. The mark is like a maze made of sharply angled lines that you might see in a puzzle book.
“There’s so much more to the story than anyone knows,” she says. “The treasures will show you.”
“Treasures?”
She presses her birthmark to mine, and a warm sensation rushes between the points of contact. “Read between the lines,” she whispers. The same thing she said earlier about the photographs. “You can’t lose your head, Allie. Promise you’ll let this go.”
My eyes burn. “But I want you home . . .”
She jerks back from my ankle. “No! I didn’t do all of this for nothing—” Her voice cracks, and she looks so tiny and frail at my feet.
I ache to ask what she means, but even more, I just want to hug her. I lower myself to my knees, ignoring the wound behind Jeb’s bandana as I lean in. It’s heaven, feeling her arms around me. Smelling her shampoo as I bury my nose at her temple.
It doesn’t last. She stiffens and pushes me away. A familiar jab of rejection scrapes through my chest. Then I remember: Dad and the nurse will be back at any second.
“The moth,” I say. “It plays a part in this, right? I found a website. The picture of the black and blue moth led me to it.”
Overhead, clouds dim the sunlight to a grayish haze, and Alison’s skin reflects the change. Terror sharpens her gaze. “You’ve done it now.” She lifts trembling hands. “Now that you’ve gone looking for him, he won’t be breaking his word.