The Wonderland Trials Read online

  Acclaim for

  The Wonderland Trials

  “The Wonderland Trials is a grown-up, grittier version of the beloved Alice in Wonderland classic where nothing is quite what it seems and seeing with one’s heart is the most important thing. Sara Ella has crafted a compelling tale full of whimsy, magic, love, and courage.”

  —C.J. Redwine, New York Times bestselling author of the Ravenspire series

  “Reminiscent of a terrifyingly beautiful dream, The Wonderland Trials is a reimagining certain to mesmerize with its quirky, yet familiar, cast of characters, whimsical world-building, and treacherous intrigue. Readers will tumble head over heels for this visionary fantasy and will be left searching for the Wonder in themselves.”

  —Lorie Langdon, author of Olivia Twist and the Disney Villains Happily Never After series

  “Full of intrigue and packed with ingenious nods to Lewis Carroll’s masterpiece, The Wonderland Trials is a triumph. Clues and questions, friendships and a budding romance, sent me racing down every flipped, upside down and backwards turn. The only bump in the road is that unless @MadTea blends Sara Ella a Flying Typist brew, I have to bide my time for book two.”

  —Katherine Reay, bestselling author of Dear Mr. Knightley and The London House

  “The Wonderland Trials is everything I want in an Alice retelling: magic and family and infuriatingly adorable romance, all bound together in a story that rejects—and even redefines—the impossible. Sara Ella has written an addicting concoction of courage, clues, and mysterious white-rabbit trails that will keep you guessing, keep you gulping your if-only-it-was-magical tea, and keep you turning pages through all topsy-turvy hours of the night.”

  —Nadine Brandes, award-winning author of Romanov, Fawkes, and the Out of Time series

  “The Wonderland Trials’ fresh, modern take on a classic beckoned me down the rabbit hole—and I never want to leave! With plenty of nods to the original story, Sara Ella has crafted a world where fantasy bleeds into reality, and one never knows where the game stops and real life begins. This is Alice reimagined, and I’m all in.”

  —Lindsay A. Franklin, award-winning author of The Story Peddler

  Books by Sara Ella

  The Unblemished Trilogy

  Unblemished

  Unraveling

  Unbreakable

  Coral

  The Curious Realities series

  The Wonderland Trials

  The Wonderland Trials

  Copyright © 2022 by Sara E. Carrington

  EPUB Edition

  Published by Enclave Publishing, an imprint of Oasis Family Media

  Phoenix, Arizona, USA.

  www.enclavepublishing.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, digitally stored, or transmitted in any form without written permission from Third Day Books, LLC.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-62184-214-9 (hardback)

  ISBN: 978-1-62184-215-6 (printed softcover)

  ISBN: 978-1-62184-216-3 (ebook)

  Cover design by Kirk DouPonce, www.DogEaredDesign.com

  Typesetting by Jamie Foley, www.JamieFoley.com

  Map by Hanna Sandvig, bcb.HannaSandvig.com

  Printed in the United States of America.

  For the Daddy who raised me—

  You have always believed I was capable of anything.

  Thank you for showing me that nothing is impossible.

  And in loving memory of the Man who brought me into this world—

  You showed me love comes in many forms.

  Thank you for loving me enough to let me go.

  And, finally, for the Father who gave me life—

  You are the King of Hearts.

  Thank you for saving mine.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Acclaim for The Wonderland Trials

  Half-Title

  Books by Sara Ella

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Map

  The Tulgey Wood

  Game One: Solitaire

  1: Curious

  2: Vanished

  3: Thief

  4: Bets

  5: Late

  6: Wait

  7: Lost

  8: Found

  9: News

  10: Play

  11: Pause

  12: Move

  13: Stop

  Game Two: Hearts

  14: Start

  15: Disappear

  16: Welcome

  17: Beginning

  18: Queen

  19: Riddles

  20: Training

  21: Parties

  22: Poison

  23: Mirrors

  24: Grief

  25: Secrets

  Game Three: War

  26: Lies

  27: Run

  28: Hide

  29: Truth

  30: Dare

  31: Together

  32: Apart

  33: Defeat

  34: Victory

  Epilogue: Chess

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Glossary

  About the Author

  The Tulgey Wood

  Only someone as mad as a hatter—as the saying goes—would risk her life to win a game.

  But this isn’t a game. Not anymore.

  Any Wonder who’s entered my life has managed to turn everything topsy-turvy, upside down, and backwards. I’m the girl in the looking glass. Mirrored. Off balance. Flipped.

  I inhale a clipped breath. Pain stabs my heart which beats, beats, beats in time with the second hand of the locket watch around my neck.

  Beat, beat, beat. Tick, tock, tick.

  My eyes close, and the dread kicks in. The same fear that always overtakes me when I’m about to enter a nightmare. The only difference is, this time, it’s real.

  I have to finish what I started.

  When I open my eyes, I step through.

  No, this isn’t a game anymore.

  This is my life.

  And if I don’t risk it?

  Then mine won’t be the only heart we lose tonight.

  Curious

  “And thus the United Kingdom was no more, ushering in a kingdom quite divided indeed, following the conquest of the late—”

  I groan at the advert droning on through my soundbuds—an unusual find, courtesy of the most intolerable human I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting. The advert’s not his fault, though. I’ve heard the historical propaganda more times than I care to count. Let’s just say history is not my cup of tea.

  The sound glitches in and out, and I flick the side of the right earpiece, which emits static in return. I mute the ad, unplug my soundbuds, then plug them back in. After thirty seconds pass, I tap the volume icon on my cracked, three-decades-old pocketscreen, changing the colour from red to green. Any second now. Wait for it . . .

  A rush of orchestral intro music swells and fades. Finally. The sound isn’t high quality, but the episode I downloaded the moment I stepped foot off campus flows clearly through both earpieces now. I turn the volume up a little more as the podcast host begins.

  “How do you do, and welcome to episode one hundred and seventeen of Common Nonsense. I’m your hostess, Madi Hatter, and I’ll be interrupting your regular daily dose of sensibility to discuss the predictable topic out of the hat, otherwise referred to as this year’s annual Wonderland Trials.”

  Her American accent never fails to fascinate me. Not because it’s anything special, but because it’s rare. After the Divide, the queen closed all of England’s borders and forbade international travel, cutting all ties with the United Kingdom and severing former peace treaties with neighbouring nations. Most foreigners were immediately sent back to their respective homes. But foreign Wonders? Denied passports if they refused to Register. It was either conform or go into hiding.

  There’s no question as to which route Madi’s parents chose. If I had to make such a decision, would I be as fearless?

  My pulse quickens. Rather than ponder the disappointing answer, I slide my thumb across the palm-sized screen, cranking up the volume as I make my trek to the Oxford railway station, checking over my shoulder every so often. I keep the hood of my pullover up, careful to conceal my rare form of mobile tech as I walk west down Park End Street, stealing a glance at the ditch that was once Castle Mill Stream. Most people only have ancient antenna radios at home, just good enough for boring old news. At school, they block most signals entirely. One must have an approved permit stamped with the queen’s seal to use authorised tech. If the wrong person were to catch me with an unsanctioned pocketscreen and soundbuds?

  They wouldn’t think twice before turning me over to the authorities.

  Either that or they’d slit my throat to get their grubby hands on what I possess.

  I don’t know whether I ought to thank Chess or curse him for the inevitable sentence he’s bestowed upon my head.

  After I cross Pacey’s Bridge, I make a sharp right to go north on Upper Fisher Row, following the familiar footpath along the dry bank. Funny how they kept some of the old names from before the Divide—our city, our streets—but did away with most everything else.

  “For those of you listeners who might be joining our
little party for the first time, welcome! I’d shake hands with you if I could, but alas, we are restricted to this form of archaic—and rather illegal, depending on who you are—connection.”

  I laugh out loud at that. Tech wouldn’t have to be archaic or illegal for most if our monarch wasn’t so afraid of the Wonders who invented it.

  “And to my faithful followers who are mad enough to return,” Madi continues, “grab a clean cup of your favourite drink. Settle in. Because today’s episode is sure to be our best yet!”

  For two years I’ve listened to this snarky American girl ramble on about everything from Wonder fashion to why treacle ought to be used to sweeten practically everything. I almost feel as if I know her. And if we met . . . perhaps we might become friends. I’m not supposed to have access to her podcast, but there’s always a way into restricted and off-limits places. If one knows where to look.

  Or whom to ask.

  “It’s been a while since we’ve brought up last year’s results, so let’s have a quick review.” A drumroll sound bite ensues. “First runner-up was Team Spade, led by the elusive Chess Shire, losing by a mere point.”

  A sour taste fills my mouth. Chess Shire. Wonderland’s poster boy. Infamous for frequenting the underground—a.k.a. Wonderground—card tournaments I attend. Dependable as ever when it comes to pestering me at said card tournaments. If he didn’t peddle the most hard-to-come-by items, I’d ignore him entirely. Born into an established Wonder family, Chess has had everything handed to him on a silver platter, plus some pudding on the side. Girls swoon. Lads line up for his autograph—or so he’s told me countless times. He’s perfect, his skills matched by none.

  Except by the one who beat him.

  I smirk as Madi adds, “Of course you all remember that it was my very own big brother and Team Diamond King—Stark—who took the lead in the end.” A round of applause fills my ears. “We Hatters are no strangers to the Trials, of course. Ten years ago, at the ripe age of sixteen, my oldest brother Raving played for Team Club as an Ace. Raving now works as a Trial consultant in the Club Quarter, where he happily advises the Lord of Clubs himself on Wonderland Trial matters.”

  Team King. Ace. Game consultant. Madi’s family history alone makes her a shoo-in for the Trials this year. She’s sixteen. I’m actually shocked she hasn’t been invited yet. While it’s rumoured players much younger were once permitted to compete, a tragic accident many years ago drove Trial officials to raise the age requirement to thirteen.

  “As for Stark,” Madi goes on, “he’s been so busy with his new internship at Diamond Manor, I haven’t seen him in months. The Wonderland Trials are about more than fame and fortune, people—although there is a hefty sum involved for the winners—they’re about opportunity for the next generation. And finding where you’re truly meant to be. Why, Stark has been offered a position as Team Diamond Trainer this year.” Madi squeals, and another sound bite of applause carries through my headphones.

  Though I’ve never seen a photo of Madi, when I close my eyes, I imagine what she looks like when she speaks of her brother. Smug expression. Immeasurably proud. And, of course, determined to one-up him when her time comes.

  The idea of sibling rivalry is not foreign to me. Charlotte and I have had our fair share of spats. She thinks because she’s a decade older she can boss me around whenever she pleases. Always saying, “Mind your manners, Alice,” or “That is quite enough, Alice,” with not even a hint of a smile drawing the dimpled corner of her lips. So serious. Forever a pain in my neck.

  Another advert commences as I approach the train station—this one a reminder that curfew-breakers will face dire consequences. A Wonder podcast shouldn’t have adverts. But for all the tech hacks and ways around the rules, the insufferable messages remain.

  I lower the volume again, concealing my pocketscreen, double-checking that my soundbuds and nuisance cord are hidden by my pullover, and aim for the walk-up eatery window, which sits nestled between two pillars on the platform. A vintage sign that reads “Mary Ann’s” arches over the quick-serve restaurant in bold iron letters. The scent of fish and chips wafts towards me.

  Instead, I order the least expensive option—a half ham sandwich and a bag of crisps. Who needs fish and chips? Someday, full buffets with all-I-can-eat everything will be on the daily menu.

  The advert ends, and Madi returns, finally getting to the part of this episode I’ve been waiting for. She released it days ago and, as usual, I’m behind.

  “If you happen to be one of many hopefuls itching to enter the Trials this year,” she says, “a few reminders. First, all entrants must be at least thirteen years of age and no older than nineteen. Rules are rules, and this one’s unbreakable.”

  Check. I’m well over the minimum age requirement. I recently turned sixteen. I think. Since I only know the general time of year I was born, and not the actual date, Charlotte had to guess one for my legal papers. Seventeen March. An Irish holiday from the previous era, now a day that marks another year passing. Another year I’m stuck here. Either way, I’m over thirteen. And each year, I get closer to aging out. If I’m not invited this year, I only have three chances left.

  “Second, the Trials are by invitation only. Each season’s curious invites are a bit different. And each quarter likes to put their own spin on it. Last year, several Wildflower contestants invited by the Club Quarter were given a password which they had to decode before the entry window closed. The previous year saw a number of forfeited entries, due to a particularly difficult task set forth by the Spades that involved pepper and a teacup pig.”

  I tap “pause.” Ah, yes. Fans discussed the incident for months inside incognito chat rooms and encrypted groups on the internet’s clandestine social network. Another rule of the many I’ve broken. One post claimed the contestant ended up in the hospital after a severe allergy caused her to sneeze nonstop for two weeks straight.

  When my order is ready, I take the brown paper sack and find a vacant bench. I’ve only eaten a few crisps when the unmistakable sound of a train approaching has me shoving my dinner out of sight.

  A rush of air sends my hood backwards. I yank it back up, whipping my head left and right. My pulse hastens as a security guard marches straight towards me.

  He saw my soundbuds. He must have. This is not good. I have to get out of here. I have to—

  But he strides past me, not bothering to pay me a second glance.

  To say my sigh of relief affects my entire body would be an understatement. Even my toes, which were clenched tight inside my Mary Jane shoes, relax.

  When the train comes to a complete stop and the conductor steps down onto the yellow-lined platform, I rise and take a step forwards. Close my eyes to shield them from the wind.

  When I open them again, my vision blurs. The all-too-familiar sensation of vertigo makes me feel as if I’m shifting on an invisible wave to my right. Music swells. The same haunting melody that accompanies my nightmares.

  “’Ey, kid, you okay?” the conductor asks.

  I rub at my left temple with two fingers. Blink. The moment my sight clears, I shudder. Clutch the concealed device in my pocket. No noise passes through my soundbuds. Where was that music coming from? No matter how often I try to place its source, to help myself feel a bit less mad, nothing comes of it.

  “Kid,” the man says again. “You’d better board if that’s what you’re after. Otherwise, step behind the yellow line.” His particular dialect tells me he’s from up north, but there’s a bit of Londoner in there too.

  And, as if it never happened, the sensation is gone. The melody dissolves. I blink again. Adjust my square-framed glasses. And nod. “Fine,” I say to the conductor, focusing on my target. My arm brushes his as I pass by.

  He startles.

  I stumble. This, however, is not a result of my momentary lack of balance—or sanity.

  “Wotcher!” he says, a nasty look wrinkling the already prominent lines on his forehead and around his mouth.

  “Pardon, sir.” I offer my apology, distracting him with eye contact and my schoolgirl clumsiness.

  He sniffs, turns a cold shoulder, and proceeds ignoring me.

  When I board, out of his sight and mind, I open the billfold I swiped from his back pocket and remove a few fivers and a tenner. A smart thief never takes everything. They snatch enough to make the con worth it, but not so much it’s obvious something was stolen. Not right away, at least.