“I didn’t carry you for nine months just for you to turn out to be your father’s son…” Beck knows how it’s going to end before she even finishes the sentence. His mother is nothing if not consistent. 

His mother leers at him for a moment longer than usual. Typically, this conversation is succinct: She says her piece and Beck nods, mind already miles away. “Goodness, it’s like talking to a brick wall. Beck, you need to get your head out of the clouds. You’re almost eighteen and all of this playing pretend you do is going to give people the wrong idea. You know what happens to dreamers around here.” 

He doesn’t have anything to say. He never does, no matter how many times they go through this. She presses her lips together, her lipstick thinning until it’s just a crimson crease on her face. Reaching forward, she fixes his collar and tie. “Look, I’m aware you’re convinced your little conspiracy is real but people who talk like you do end up dead. Do you understand me?” 

Beck hums, settling his gaze on a crack in the wall. If he squints, it looks like the head of a bunny. 

His mother taps his chin twice and he redirects his gaze back to hers. His own face stares back at him through her cold eyes. “I rarely ask questions when you fuck off to who knows where on your little quests. But tonight, I’m asking… for you to be normal. For you to think about your future. I can’t have Headmistress Ambrose asking why you behave like a child again. Your father is already a big enough smudge on my reputation as is.”

The way she says your father sounds like a slur. It used to bother Beck when the wound felt fresh despite it being ages old. Now, it just feels habitual. Like everything in his life. He is constantly treading familiar territory. 

“Well?” She prompts. Beck pulls the sleeve of his suit coat down and wets his lips. It seems to be the wrong move when his mother grabs his hand and flips his ink covered palm towards him. “What the hell is this?” 

“I… didn’t have any paper. It was an important thought.” It seems stupid now, looking at the blue ink dotting the edge of his otherwise pristine white sleeve. 

His mother looks ready to blow smoke out of her ears. “You are not a child, Beck. You cannot live your life chasing a fantasy that you’ve convinced yourself is real. Go wash your hands. Then once you’ve composed yourself I expect you to speak to the Felicity girl about something other than dream magic and the old ways.” 

“Okay,” he says. 

She nods resolutely before leaving the coat closet they’re locked into. He’d made one too many comments about something she found crude on the drive to the charity gala and she’d snapped, making the poor coachman cringe. They’d barely made it through the door when she’d pulled him into one of the gaping coat closets—The final nail in the coffin had been telling the gardener he liked the roses in the front lawn. Apparently, his mother finds common courtesy tremendously offensive.  

Once she’s gone he gives himself a breath before making his way to the bathroom to wash his notes off. He can’t believe he forgot the reason why he never speaks to her. She doesn’t understand him and doesn’t have the time in her scrupulous schedule to figure out the way his mind ticks. She would much rather hide him away at school and only bring him out on necessary occasions than stomach more than three conversations a year. 

He makes quick work of scrubbing his hands until they're red and raw, not a trace of blue quillwork left. Just as the last of the ink washes down the drain, the bathroom door swings open. 

“I would hex my mother if she spoke to me like that.”

Beck always thinks Stellan looks ridiculous in his uniform. Nothing like the guy who knows his way around a card deck like no one else or who only wears odd stockings. 

Beck raises an eyebrow. “You don’t even have a mother.” 

Stellan laughs, his helmet muffling the noise. “Well, if I did she’d be getting hexed, you dick.” 

“So… you heard that then?” 

“I hear everything. Part of the job description.” Stellan finally pulls off his helmet, his floppy, dark hair unkempt underneath it. He trifles through the many pockets of his red waistcoat before tossing Beck a bundle of napkins.“Here. Got you something.” 

 It’s a stack of chocolate tarts. They’re a little deformed and there’s a piece of red lint on the top one but the intention warms him. “Stolen tarts. Gee, you really know how to woo a guy.” 

Stellan gives him an unimpressed look. “Just eat the pastries, Lovett. And don’t say I never did anything for you.” 

“I’m just saying it’s kind of messed up to steal from a charity event.” 

Before Stellan can reply, President Darlington floats into the room, a disembodied twinkling sound following her. Beck never could figure out where the twinkling came from. She bee-lines for the sink, pulling out a compact mirror to cover an imaginary blemish. 

From over her head, Beck and Stellan make eye contact. Stellan has hardened upon her entrance, a practiced routine from a knight and his supervisor. 

Beck clears his throat when it’s evident Stellan won’t say anything. “President. Hello.”

“At ease. The both of you. Beck, how many times have I told you to call me Gwyneth?” Beck ducks his head in reply and she pats the rouge on her cheekbones. “You can continue your conversation. Don’t mind me.” 

“We were just finishing up.” 

Gwyneth closes her mirror and turns away from the sink. She winks at Beck before going up to Stellan and running the tips of her fingers through Stellan’s overgrown fringe. Stellan keeps his gaze level with the wall across from him. She says, “we must get you that haircut.” 

Beck likes Stellan’s hair longer. It makes him look less soldier-y, more like who he is when he thinks no one is watching. 

“Now get back to work. The criminal underworld could strike at any moment, darling, you must be on your top game. I saw Lady Mercer taking 4 finger sandwiches when it clearly says the maximum per person is 2.” 

Wordlessly, Stellan salutes her. He avoids Beck’s gaze as he slides his helmet back on and disappears from the restroom.

Gwyneth watches him go with an amused quirk of her pink lips. “So stiff that one. I worry about his blood-pressure.”

“He relaxes off-duty.” 

She makes a pleased noise before continuing on, “I saw your mother.” She begins washing her hands as if Stellan’s hair had dirtied them. “I told her I was quite pleased with your reported performances inside the classroom.”

“I’ll bet that shocked her.”

Gwyneth chuckles, a hummingbird’s wing pattern in the grand scheme of things. “Yes, she’s certainly straight-laced. You’d think she would loosen up a little bit, especially at a party.” 

“She’s paranoid about appearances.” 

“Your suspiciously clean hand makes sense then.” 

Beck pulls his sleeve over his reddened palms. “I have a bad habit of writing on my hands.” 

“Oh, I’m aware of your quirks, Mr. Lovett. Someone once told me that brilliant minds have messy outputs.” 

“My mother would certainly disagree with you there.” 

Gwyneth’s skirt oscillates tempestuously as she moves to dry her hands. “Who are you wagering on this evening?” Beck flounders. “Don’t worry. I know all about the betting system you school kids have set up.” 

“I don’t really join in. Usually I’m busy with studying and whatnot.” 

“Your theories about dream magic have really caused some ruffles in my assembly room.” Her tone seems amused but it still catapults his heart into his throat, his mother’s stern glare resurfacing in his mind.  

He coughs, keen on leaving this conversation completely. “They’re not really theories… I mean, I don’t have any full facts… I don’t—”

“My goodness, Mr. Lovett! Are you always this nervous? Curiosity is imperative in youth. Otherwise, we’d all lose our heads with conformity. Frankly, I find your theories fascinating. Stay curious, dear.” 

“Oh.. T-Thank you, president.” 

She pats his shoulder with a low dip of her head and a smile. “Well, it’s been a pleasure talking to you, Mr. Lovett. If you’ll excuse me, I have a gala to attend to. It’s about time for the main event.” 

Beck waves at her, the twinkling following her out and leaving a deafening silence. He gives his hands one more cursory swipe of soap that he doesn’t bother washing off before he finally works up the courage to leave the bathroom. 

He spares a quick glance around the lobby. In the distance, Stellan hovers by the door with the rest of the Wonderland guard, the ornate red of his coat is a splash of wine amongst the other traditional white uniforms. His dark eyes bore holes into Beck’s but he doesn’t acknowledge him otherwise. He has had his factory reset, then.  

He inches towards the staircase. The gala is a cesspool of glitter and general Christmas cheer. He doesn’t really know what ‘Christmas’ is but the palace insists they celebrate it. An evergreen that nearly reaches the ceiling overlooks the dance floor where at least a hundred guests flutter about in shades of jeweled greens and reds. President Darlington’s—Gwyneth’s, rather—castle is a beautiful erasure of the old times; angels are carved into the trim and portraits of people not from this century line the walls. It feels like a time machine to a new age where dream magic doesn’t exist at all. 

Beck mindlessly trails his fingers along the riveted, white column leading into the ballroom. In moments of quiet, the disembodied voices like to get loud. As he wanders his fingers around the column, he can make out three distinct ones. They take turns pulsating into the forefront of his eardrums, calling and beckoning him in some warped language he can never distinguish. It’s like being inside of a telegraph that has a faulty signal, only catching clipped words and static. 

He’s heard the voices since he was a little boy. It was the first thing that made his mother wary of him. After he told her that the voices said that dreams were dying, she locked him up in their house and made him promise to never speak of this with anyone. He understood better then. Tonight, the voices are angry and eager alike. He doesn’t know why he hears them. 

Once he reaches the end of the staircase, he hobbles his way to the punch bowl without being spotted. His mother wanted him to speak to various partygoers tonight in order to save face or boost her public image. Beck would rather hang himself off of the grandiose chandelier in the middle of the ballroom than speak to the particular grade of numbskull that attend these parties. 

The card in front of the punch bowl reads mulled wine and Beck scrutinizes it. He’s never heard of mulled wine. Usually, jabber juice is served. 

“Mr. Lovett,” someone says sweetly just as Beck skeptically pours himself a generous glass of mulled wine. He takes a sip for good luck and turns around to see Mrs. Felicity and her daughter, Vanessa, looking at him with twin expressions of saccharine mirth. 

“Oh, hello,” he replies, clearing his throat. 

In all of her silver haired glory, Mrs. Felicity taps her daughter’s shoulder. “Vanessa was just talking about you.” 

Beck swallows another generous sip. It seems there’s no way out of this conversation. 

“Mother, don’t expose me like that.” 

“Oh, Vanessa. Beck’s a clever boy, I’m sure he knows all about your little crush.” 

“Crush is hyperbolic. I’d say fascination is more accurate. Beck, tell my mother about your magic theories.” Vanessa peers at him through half-lidded eyes and discomfort immediately pools in his stomach. Or maybe it’s the mulled wine making him queasy. 

“I’m afraid I’m not allowed to talk about them tonight,” he offers feebly. If he starts talking about his ideas, he won’t even have to hang himself from the chandelier, his mother will do it for him. 

“Why not? We’re asking, honey.” Mrs. Felicity moves her hand from Vanessa’s shoulder and grips his wrist until her knuckles have gone white. 

“At this rate, I’ll get on board anything if it means that this sickness will stop. My only qualm about your theory is… well, I just don’t love the idea of letting the dream kids run wild. You’re so young so you probably have no idea the damage they’ve caused. There is a reason that they’re shut away in that school of theirs. My goodness, they’re like wild animals. It’s better if they’re locked up.” With her three tiered brown dress and the three braids curled towards the ceiling, Mrs. Felicity looks like some sort of cornucopia. Meanwhile, the dream kids have to survive with hand-me-downs almost a decade old. 

Beck bites the side of his cheek as he weighs down his options for a reply. His mother will rain Hell down upon him if he chews her out but he can’t, in good faith, allow her to speak like that. His next words are out of his mouth before he can really register what he’s saying, “Wonderland is built off of dream kids. Keeping them locked away is a complete erasure of the very thing that makes our lands special.” 

Mrs. Felicity and Vanessa both purse their lips in unison. He clears his throat at their stunned stares. “Sorry, I can get passionate about my studies. Pardon my lack of manners.”

Mrs. Felicity hums flatly, her eyes straining as she turns away. “No worries, honey. I was the one who asked. Vanessa did tell me how eclectic you are. We’ll leave you be.” 

They hurry away from him as if he’s ill. Beck takes another sip of mulled wine and decides he doesn’t like it. He misses jabber juice.  

Beck had never meant for his theories to gain so much controversy. Honestly, he’d never even expected anyone to listen to them, barring Stellan who Beck often subjected to his ramblings. The other boy remained carefully neutral due to his affiliation with the president but, after a grueling shift, he’d let his agreement slip. 

His initial theory is quite simple, really: Trying to tame the dream magic is the exact reason it’s dying. Locking up the dream kids isn’t helping contain the dream sickness from spreading but rather, making it spread faster. Beck thinks it’s an obvious thought to have but when he’d mentioned it to one of his professors it had earned him a one way trip to Principal Ambrose’s office and a cheeky smack across the face from his mother. Apparently, independent thinking is a form of heresy. 

The silence that falls over the ballroom draws Beck from his thoughts. Curiously, he puts his glass down and wades his way through the throng of people. A couple of them look at him strangely but the vast majority let him through to the front. 

“Yes, yes, settle down, everyone,” Gwyneth commands. She’s onstage in the center of the room, glittering and radiant underneath the terracotta chandelier light. “Thank you for attending my annual Wonderland Doctrine gala. As I’m sure you know, this year is especially important as it is the tenth anniversary of the Wonderland Doctrine. Just think, ten years of sending brave students into the throes of the Badlands in order to fix what is broken. We’ve come so far from our savage ways.” 

Savage echoes around Beck’s mind, buoying back and forth. In every year that he’s attended this gala, the president has given some form of this speech; however, she’s usually more understated in her blatant dislike of Wonderland before her family came into power. History is still history even if it doesn’t suit the narrative you’re trying to spin. Beck thinks it’s ridiculous to insult someone’s way of life simply because it’s different. 

A hand slithers around his bicep and squeezes hard enough that he loses his circulation. He quells his flinch and musters up indifference. Here we go again. 

Anger looks most natural on his mother’s face. Truthfully, it’s been years since he saw anything but anger against her pallid features. It contorts her face into a villainous alternative. Even now though, he thinks she’s beautiful, glaring at him with every fiber of her being. 

“Heard about your little stunt with the Felicities,” she hisses. 

Beck digs the toe of his loafer into the black and white tile of the ball room floor. “I wasn’t the one who—”

“One thing, Beck, one thing. That’s all I asked. And you do the exact opposite.” 

Gwyneth’s voice cuts through his mother’s rage. It has pitched up into a quieter, sympathetic tone. “We’ve lost forty souls—forty strong, beautiful children who fiercely fought for us—to the Badlands. I do not take that number lightly. However, justice will only be served once the dream magic has been eradicated from Wonderland.” 

Beck can barely wrap his head around the thought before his mother is spitting out, “You foolish, foolish boy. I know you’re not stupid so it must be sheer defiance that makes you behave like this.” 

He doesn’t bother arguing with her. He might be stupid but doesn’t dwell on it. Not when Gwyneth is stepping to the side and announcing, “It is with my pleasure to introduce the winner of the people’s choice, Miss Cleo Costa.” 

Cleo Costa is nothing short of magical. Standing next to Gwyneth, she should look homely. In her cropped purple dress, chiffon layers eaten away by moon moths, and beaten mauve boots, she’s every virtuous speck of stardust ground into a person. In the light, her curls look like spun gold. 

“Cleo Costa? What happened to Hestia Reddy?” someone to Beck’s right says.

Another person hums in agreement. “I didn’t vote for Cleo Costa.” 

Beck doesn’t keep up with the options for the public vote. He didn’t even go to the annual showcase where they demonstrate the magical abilities all dream kids have. Instead, he’d holed up in the library, taking advantage of the fact that no one was around to pester him. Beck almost forgets his mother, watching Cleo carefully creep to the front of the stage as the crowd goes wild. 

“Are you even listening to me?” His mother’s cheeks hollow into an off-put pout when he doesn’t respond to her, too wrapped up with Cleo glittering on stage. “You are just like your father. It’s a miracle you’re not already rotting away somewhere.” 

It’s this moment that the voices choose to get violent. A cruel, angry voice slithers through his entire body, chanting revolution like it can instill it into Beck. Immediately, he presses his hands to his ears to try and quiet them. It doesn’t soften the next avalanche of noise, all of the voices furious and demanding justice. He stumbles backwards when one of them shouts bloody murder and the sound bites at his organs. Vaguely, he registers his mother calling out to him in concern but it’s muddled by the onslaught of colorful yelling. 

It’s all too much. Beck thinks he might be shouting now too, cramming his palms over his ears until his nails dig into the soft skin above them. Turn it off. 

Blearily, Cleo’s face crowds into his darkening vision. Then, everything goes black. 

About the Author

Jaeda Hutchinson is a first year creative writing and screenwriting double major from Minneapolis, Minnesota. When she's not writing, she can be found watching tv shows or getting coffee with friends!

Instagram: @jaeda.hutch

Cover design made using Canva design tools.