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  Alice was no help either.

  She was so amazed—so very enchanted—she reached out and touched it.

  Jabbed it, really.

  She pressed a firm finger against a page and Oliver jolted in his seat, dropping the book in horror. Tim shook his head, sighed, and sneezed twice more into his handkerchief. But worst of all—worst of all—the book actually yelled at her.

  Oliver snatched the book off the floor—shooting Alice an admonishing look as he moved it out of her reach—and though he tried to turn the affronted page, the affronted page was refusing to turn.

  “Oh, be good,” Tim finally said, waving his handkerchief at the pocket. “No need to throw a fit,” he said. “She was only curious.”

  “I didn’t realize a pocket could be angry,” Alice said.

  “These pockets belong to actual people,” Oliver explained. “Some of them are attached to the clothes they’re still wearing. I believe the woman you just poked was sleeping,” Oliver said, fighting back a smile. But his search for Father’s pocket was taking a lot longer than Alice had expected, and it was making her anxious.

  “Is Father’s pocket attached to him, too?” she asked, hoping no one could hear the desperation in her voice.

  Oliver shook his head.

  Her heart sank.

  “Pockets,” Tim explained, “are usually catalogued only after they’ve been lost. Abandoned. Sometimes a person will want to index the contents of an important pocket they’re still wearing, but most others prefer privacy. A pocketbook is often the best place to search for things we’ve misplaced.” Tim clapped a hand on Oliver’s shoulder and smiled at Alice. “Very clever of your friend to go looking for it, don’t you think?”

  Alice didn’t know what to say.

  Oliver, seeing the blank look on her face, did his best to explain. “We have pocketbooks in Ferenwood, too,” he said. “And when I arrived in Furthermore my first order of business was to try and find one, because I hoped your father’s lost belongings had been catalogued.”

  Clever indeed, Alice thought. But she daren’t say it aloud. She didn’t want to admit this, but she was beginning to resent Oliver’s depth of knowledge and experience in Furthermore. She, too, wanted to be smart. She wanted to save the day. It was her father, after all. Where were all her good ideas?

  Why wasn’t she the hero of this story?

  “As all pockets are cross-referenced with the date, time, and location of discovery,” Oliver was saying, “I knew that even if I couldn’t access the contents of your father’s pocket, I would at least know where he’d lost it. Where he’d been. A little luck and a lot of persuasion helped a great deal in my quest. Ultimately, my discovery led me to Tim, who became a great friend. He’s taught me so much about Furthermore.”

  Again, Tim looked on like a proud parent.

  Alice felt herself go numb, feeling more useless by the moment. “Oh,” was all she said.

  Oliver turned another page in the book and then, finally, “Ah. Here we are.” He tapped (gently, very gently) the open page and the book groaned, but quietly this time. “This is it,” Oliver said. “This is the one.”

  And there it was.

  Father’s pocket.

  Alice recognized it instantly. It was the only pocket on his faded denim jacket; she remembered this because he was wearing it the last time she’d seen him, nearly three years ago.

  “Oliver,” she whispered, her two eyes on the book, and two hands clasped in her lap. “Please tell me what’s going on. What happened to Father after he was arrested? Did he manage to get free? Is he hiding somewhere?”

  Tim looked to Oliver.

  Oliver looked away.

  Alice bit her lip; emotion had drenched her heart and she was running out of ways to wring it dry. “What is it? What’s the problem?”

  “My dear girl,” Tim said gravely. “Your father is in prison.”

  Alice heard her breath hitch.

  “And his sentence is very long,” said Oliver.

  “Oh yes,” said Tim. “It was made up of many words.”

  Alice turned to Oliver, her eyes filling fast. “So when you said you knew where Father was, this was what you meant? You knew he’d been imprisoned?”

  Oliver nodded. “The last time I was here,” he said, “I tried to get him out the proper way. I thought if I followed the rules I’d be able to get him released.” He shook his head. “But now I know that the only way to get him out is to break him free.”

  Alice sniffed away her tears and tried to be brave. “So we have to do something illegal?”

  Oliver nodded again.

  “Well,” said Alice, pulling herself together. “Go on then.” She looked from Oliver to Tim. “What is it? What do we have to do?”

  Neither of them had a quick answer.

  Tim finally leaned forward, studied the two children before him, and said, “Oliver, have you never told Alice what you need her for? Does she not know why she’s here?”

  “Of course I know why I’m here,” said Alice, interjecting. “I’m here to help find my father.”

  Tim raised an eyebrow. “I’m certain you are,” he said. “But did you not ask why Oliver needed your help? Your help, specifically?”

  “Well, yes, I did, but—” Alice stopped short to glance at Oliver, whose face had turned a fine shade of tomato. “Well,” she said hastily, “Oliver said that it was Father who asked for me. It was Father who told Oliver to find me. I’m not sure why Father asked for me, exactly,” she admitted, wringing her hands. “But it doesn’t matter, does it? Father wants me here. Father asked for my help.”

  Tim removed his glasses and sighed. Alice looked from him to Oliver and back again, growing more anxious by the moment.

  “Oliver,” said Tim, disappointment heavy in his voice. “I didn’t expect such scheming from you. You should’ve been honest with her about your hopes and expectations on this journey.”

  “What hopes?” said Alice, turning frantically to Oliver. “What expectations? What’s going on?”

  Oliver had turned maroon. He refused to make eye contact with Alice, no matter how hard she looked at him, and Alice was suddenly accosted by terror; she felt a fist of panic clench around her throat and, despite her efforts to shout angry things at Oliver, she struggled to speak.

  “Alice, dear,” Tim said to her as he replaced the glasses on his face. “Oliver has never met with your father. He’s never spoken a word to him.”

  Alice nearly fell out of her chair. “But—but he said—”

  “I’m afraid he lied to you.”

  “No,” Alice gasped, looking desperately at Oliver. “That’s not possible. You see I made an ever-binding p-promise—”

  Tim was shaking his head. “Oliver has never seen your father—at least not in Furthermore,” he said firmly. “He’s never made it that far.”

  Alice, poor thing, was beginning to hyperventilate.

  “Breaking your father out of prison is a fine idea,” Tim went on, “but the problem is no one knows exactly where the prisons are located. There are dozens and dozens of them; each an entire village unto itself, and all secured by intensely private entrances. They’re meant to be nearly impossible to access. Don’t you see? It’s not as simple as—Alice? Alice—?”

  Alice’s mind was spinning.

  Oliver had lied to her. Which meant Oliver had been lying to her. But for how long? How many lies had he told? And how had he managed to trick her? And how could she ever trust him now? How would she ev—

  Tim rapped the desk to get her attention.

  “Young lady,” Tim said sharply. “Are you listening at all? I said I need to see your visitor pamphlets. I do hope you have your visitor pamphlets,” he said with a frown. “You should’ve received them at Border Control. You did go through Border Control, didn’t y
ou? It would make matters infinitely worse if you were here without a ruler.”

  “No,” Alice managed to say. “I mean yes. Yes, I have my ruler. And the pamphlets.” She dug through her pockets, unearthed a stack of glossy brochures, and pushed them across the desk. She was dizzy with fear and couldn’t bring herself to look at Oliver anymore.

  Tim adjusted his glasses and picked up the first (and thinnest) of the bunch, which was titled

  — WHAT TO KNOW BEFORE YOU GO —

  A Quick and Easy Guide to Furthermore

  When Tim opened the slim pamphlet, it unfolded itself across the desk and onto the floor until it grew to be no shorter than ten feet in length, every inch of which was covered in cramped, spasmodically capital-lettered print, and was more than occasionally punctuated by overzealous exclamation points. Alice found the entire business overwhelming and was silently grateful she hadn’t bothered to peruse the other pamphlets—

  — FURTHERMORE PHRASEBOOK —

  How to Understand the Languages You Don’t Speak

  — DESTINATION GUIDE —

  The Top 10 Villages You Should Visit This Year

  and

  — SHOP LIKE A LOCAL —

  Insider Secrets to the Best Gifts in Town

  —because it all looked like information for tourists, and Alice didn’t consider herself a tourist. She considered herself the brave heroine of an unlikely tale.

  “Ah,” said Tim, tapping a bit of text on the page. “Here—do you see? Under the Permitted and Prohibited Items list. It’s been recently updated, you know.” He glanced at Alice and scooted closer, making room so she could get a better look.

  Time is permitted until it is prohibited, that is, until it has expired, which is to say: until it is no longer valid under the terms and conditions it was originally acquired (said terms and conditions having been agreed to upon the receipt of 1 [ONE] Furthermore Standard Issue Ruler, the procurement of which is required for all visitors as of sixty-and-two years hence [see section 172-5.42]), and as such, the illegal acquisition of Time shall be punishable by The Law of All Lands, and the punishment shall be no fewer than five years Enslaved Imprisonment in Isolation, (hereafter referred to as EII), a sentence bound by The Laws of Exile, the duration of which may vary. Amended to add: In an effort to emphasize the severity of Time Thievery, EII shall be henceforth effectuated by The Laws of Complex Color.

  Alice sat back and collapsed in her chair. She was sure her bones had come loose; in fact, for a moment she thought she could hear them—elbows knocking against wrists cracking against knuckles—but it wasn’t that at all. It was Tim; Tim who was rapping the desk again, trying to get her attention.

  Alice jerked in her seat.

  “Alice? Alice,” Tim was saying. “Do you understand what you’ve just read?”

  “I do.” Alice’s voice was steady, but she couldn’t make herself look at Tim. “Father has been enslaved for wasting time.”

  “Yes, my dear, but it’s more complicated than that. Furthermore has been reinforcing all prison sentences with The Law of Complex Color.”

  Alice blinked.

  Tim leaned in. “Do you know what that is?”

  Alice glanced at Oliver one final, awful time in an effort to make him speak, but Oliver was determined to look at the floor.

  The coward, she thought.

  It made her hate him, to know that he’d known all this and never told her. She’d thought they’d moved past these obstacles; she’d thought they were equals now, that he would’ve shared all truths with her. Instead he’d tricked her into trusting him and had lied to her the moment he was able. She felt more foolish than ever. He’d pretended to be her friend, and it was all a lie, wasn’t it? (No, it wasn’t, but we’ll get to that.) Alice was angry and hurt and heartbroken and she would stand for this no longer. Her pride wouldn’t bear it.

  “Alice?” Tim again.

  “No,” Alice finally said, a little angrier than she meant it. “I don’t know what The Law of Complex Color is. Should I? It didn’t sound as awful as everything else I just read.”

  “But it is,” said Tim. His glasses had slid down the bridge of his nose again; he pushed them back up. “It’s terrifying. Don’t you see? They’ve stripped him of his color.”

  “What?” Alice startled. She felt Oliver flinch.

  “His color, my dear. His color.”

  “But I don’t understand,” she said. “How could they—”

  “You should understand better than anyone, coming from Ferenwood as you do,” Tim said. “The laws work the same in Furthermore: Living off the land gives us our color; it’s the magic we consume that makes us bright. Without it—well,” Tim said, gesturing to her face. “I’m sure you know better than anyone the effects of having little magic.”

  Alice felt she’d been slapped in the face.

  She’d always known what people thought of her; she’d heard the whispers around town. Ferenwood folk had skin and hair and eyes as rich and bright as the land itself; it was the magic in the fruits and plants they ate that gave the people their hue. Being colorful was the mark of being magical, and Alice, having no color, was presumed to have no magic, either. And after her recent display at her Surrender, Alice was sure she’d finally proven true all their false suspicions. She hung her head in shame. She didn’t even try to refute Tim’s point.

  “So Father looks like me, now?” she said quietly. “He has no color at all?”

  “It’s a bit different than that,” said Tim. “Once an inmate is placed in solitary confinement, he is stripped of all rich color and left only as a grayscale version of himself. He carries not a single bit of brightness, not in his eyes, not in his cheeks. But you, Alice, you exist in full-color, not grayscale,” Tim explained. “The bit of brown in your eyes—or maybe the soft pink in your cheeks—these are full and real colors, despite their limited presence.

  “But prisons in Furthermore are built only in scales of gray. Currently, your father possesses no full-color of any kind, which makes him incompatible with the real world. If he tried to go home as he is now, the physical demands of a full-color existence would crush him. It’s a security measure that makes it impossible for him to escape.”

  A single sob escaped Alice’s lips before she clapped a hand over her mouth. There was such a sudden influx of awful news to contend with that Alice didn’t even know where to begin.

  At least she finally understood why Oliver so desperately needed her. He wanted to solve his task by using her talent. The talent Alice hadn’t shared with anyone. The one she should have surrendered, and had not.

  The talent she hated.

  Oh, she could kill him for it. For lying to her. For deceiving her. For making her think he actually cared about her or Father or any of the pain she’d suffered in Father’s absence. Oliver didn’t care about her, Alice thought. He cared only about completing his task.

  Oh, how could she ever trust him again?

  She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

  “Alice?” It was Tim again. Tim, the only person willing to tell her the whole, ugly truth. “Do you understand? Do you now understand why you’re so desperately needed?”

  “I do,” she said softly. “But there’s still one thing I don’t understand.”

  “Yes?”

  Alice didn’t know how to put this delicately. “Why didn’t they just eat him?” she asked. “Why put him in prison?”

  Tim was suddenly and visibly uncomfortable. “Well,” he said airily. “You mustn’t see us all through the same lens, Ms. Queensmeadow. We don’t all approve of eating visitors, you know. In fact,” he said, holding up a finger, “in fact, just the other day I initiated a petition to spare the young ones, you know, whose magic is most pure, and thus most coveted—”

  “All the same,” Alice said steadily. “Why is he still alive?�
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  Tim cleared his throat. “Well, you see, it’s the law that requires it. The law says that prisoners must be made as useful as possible before they’re . . . sold off to the highest bidder.”

  “Right.” Alice nodded. “So, just to be clear: You enslave us, work us nearly to death, sell us, and only then do you eat us.”

  “Why, Ms. Queensmeadow, when you put it like that it sounds almost inhumane—”

  Alice stood up carefully, collected her pamphlets, her dignity, and her broken heart, shoved them in her pockets, and turned to Oliver. “Our deal is done, Oliver Newbanks. You may return home now. I will find Father on my own.”

  And with that, she turned on her heel, stormed out the door and down the stairs and through the hall and back outside, and left in her wake a stunned Oliver and a disheartened Tim, and did not cry but six tears before she sniffed the rest away.

  And then she ran.

  She ran as far as she could get from Tim’s red door, ran directly into and through the forest Oliver had told her to stay away from (Alice didn’t care a whit what Oliver thought anymore) until she reached the edge of the woods and could go no farther. It was there, in the middle of nowhere (not to be confused with Nowhere), that Alice fell to her knees and hugged herself through a crush of heartache.

  Father was in Enslaved Imprisonment.

  This was a truth Alice’s young heart could not handle. Three long years Alice had been lost and tortured, hoping and wishing that Father would come home. She’d always prayed he was okay, that she would one day know what had happened to him, but now that that day had arrived, she was sorry for it. Her heart seized, her lungs squeezed, and Alice fought through the pain for a gasp of air. She felt infinitely powerless in the face of Father’s enslavement, but being angry gave her something to do, so she took hold of it with both hands and refused to let it go. Oh, there was so much to be angry about.

  Speaking of which: Oliver was a liar.

  This, another truth that broke Alice’s heart. She’d trusted him, befriended him, and Oliver had lied. He’d manipulated her. He’d withheld information from Alice over and over and he’d kept secret the most critical details of her father’s imprisonment. He should’ve told Alice exactly what he needed from her; he should’ve secured her voluntary participation in all parts of his plan. He’d made a series of increasingly stupid, shortsighted decisions.