Page 45 of Locked in Wonderland

The door closed a second later.

Chapter Sixteen

The journey back to central Wonderland was uneventful. No rats. No gangs. Just the same endless celebration. People danced in the streets, shouted over music, and staggered between buildings with drinks in hand. Whether they were the same people from last night or an entirely different crowd, I couldn’t tell. Another boat must have come and gone, but who’d arrived and who’d left was anyone’s guess.

I felt better in my borrowed clothes. Far fewer people paid me attention now that I wasn’t wrapped head-to-toe in leather. In all the drama of Donovan practically throwing me out, the old outfit had remained on his bedroom floor. Good riddance. He could do whatever he wanted with it. Sell it, turn it into dusters, or hand it to the next waif and stray who stumbled over his threshold.

A woman bumped into me.

“Sorry,” I said automatically.

Despite the collision having been entirely her fault, she staggered away in a drunken zigzag without responding. When I looked up, I found myself standing in front of the Black Teapot Supper Club.

Its wrought-iron sign hung above a narrow doorway, made up of a simple teapot silhouette against a cream oval bordered in brass. Painted steam curled upward from the spout to form the words BLACK TEAPOT, while SUPPER CLUB arched beneath.

Compared to everything else I’d seen in Wonderland, it looked strangely old-fashioned. And oddly welcoming, which was a dangerous thought. I needed to stop trusting things so easily. I slid a hand into the pocket of my borrowed jeans, curling my fingers around the coin I’d transferred from the old outfit. Having money reassured me. As did remembering that Donovan had demanded nothing of me. Things might have ended on something of a bitter note, but that didn’t change the fact that he’d been genuinely kind. If there was one good person here, then there were likely more. I just needed to find them.

There was nobody entering or exiting the supper club. In fact, there seemed to be a curious space in front of it, almost as if people unconsciously avoided getting too close.

That should have worried me.

Instead, it felt entirely normal by Wonderland standards.

I paused at the door. For a moment, I half expected the crowds behind me to have vanished when I looked back. They hadn’t. I laughed at myself for my overactive imagination as I turned back, pushed open the door, and stepped inside. I’d slept now, so there was no excuse for thinking I’d passed through a magic portal.

A man stood just inside. So close that I jumped. His black trousers, white shirt, and expressionless face marked him as staff.

“Good evening, sir,” he said. “You’ll need a mask to enter.”

“A mask?”

“To preserve your anonymity.”

Right. Because why would anything here be simple?

“If you don’t own one, we can provide one for you.”

He didn’t wait for me to confirm that I didn’t travel everywhere with a mask, striding over to a counter and returning with a tray. On it were six masks. I immediately discounted the two full-face ones. One was a little too Phantom of the Opera for my liking, and the other made me think of Batman. I also rejected anything with sequins and feathers, which was most of them. I eventually settled on a plain gold one that would just cover my eyes.

When I went to walk away, he cleared his throat. “You need to wear it now, and you mustn’t remove it while you’re in the supper club.”

“Why not?”

He frowned. “To preserve your anonymity.”

“Why do I—?” I gave up. I could stand here all day and argue with him, or I could just do what he said. I settled it in place, relieved to discover that it was fairly comfortable. His gaze drifted over me, and I got the distinct impression that he would have been much happier if I still wore leather. Was he about to tell me I contravened some sort of dress code?

Instead, he waved a hand at the door in invitation. “I hope you have a wonderful time. Do remember what the motto of this place is.”

“It has a motto?”

The man gave me a strange look. “If you know anything, tell at least three people.”

Right. A little odd. “And what if you know nothing?”

“Then talk to people until you do, and then pass it on.” He said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Nodding, I pushed the door open and walked in. The room was dark, its black-painted walls creating a cocooned feeling. Brass sconces holding flickering candles provided the only light, leaving much of the room in shadow. One wall featured floor-to-ceiling teapots—ceramic, cast iron, porcelain—while circular wooden tables dotted the floor. Some tables had people, while others were empty.