Dinah raised her mallet. There was an intake of breath and she looked at the crowd, their anxious faces yearning for their King’s victory. They feared him without knowing him, worshipped him without any proof of his divinity. She understood at once what it took to be a leader—one had to be willing to be a figurehead without any trace of intimacy. One had to be the projection of even the lowest born’s hopes and fears. She understood. This crowd needed her father to win.
She brought the flamingo’s beak down hard against her red ball. It sailed across the yard and bounced off the edge of the peg. The crowd erupted into glorious cheering. The ladies were weeping and the men were saluting her father—tracing the shape of a heart over their own—and letting out bold yells. The King raised his mallet above his head in a sign of victory.
Vittiore rushed to him, her dress floating across the short green grass. “Father! Congratulations.”
He swept her up in a warm embrace. Dinah dropped her mallet on the lawn and walked off the green. Harris followed behind her, his head hung in mutual disappointment. Harris had long ago learned to read Dinah’s moods and knew when to reprimand . . . and when to stay silent. Dinah walked through the palace quickly, making her way through the twisty stone halls to her bedchamber. She pulled off her gray wool gown, reeking of sour sweat, and fell onto her down mattress. A surge of self-pity washed over her and she turned her face into the pillow. A soft hand, withered and thin skinned with time, trailed through her hair and over her forehead. She felt Harris sit beside her.
“I know you missed that shot on purpose. And someday, you will be a better ruler than your father because of it. A leader’s pride should never come before the good of his people, something that your father has never realized. The crowds only cheer for him because they fear him, not because they love him.”
Dinah stayed silent.
“I’ll let you rest until the feast tonight,” Harris murmured, leaning over to give her a kiss on her forehead. Angry sleep took her violently.
Chapter Six
Dinah dreamed she was floating through a black ink, weightless, without the confines of her body. Tiny sparks of white light pulsated on the sides of her vision. They circled and danced while she wavered between consciousness and slumber. Dinah was aware of something malevolent slowly swimming through the black mist toward her. It was just out of reach, but it was fearful and hungry. Dinah realized with a start that she was actually hanging upside down, her hair undulating in the bright stars.
The inky sky throbbed and turned into a silver liquid. Dinah spun in the air, clawing to upright herself. Clocks and various pieces of furniture drifted past, buoyed on an invisible river. The black gave a second shudder, and she was now floating in a mirror. The murderous pursuer was close; she could feel it now. It was almost on top of her. Icy-cold fingernails clutched at her stomach and breasts. Struggling, Dinah righted herself, rising up over her feet until the tip of her nose brushed the soft mirror. It parted like water. There was no one behind her. Her own arms clutched at her body. Her black eyes opened wide as she looked at her own reflection. She was the darkness.
Dinah lurched out of bed with a start. She was drenched with sweat, her arms flailing in the cold night air. Emily stood up from the rocking chair near the bed.
“Everything alright, Princess?”
“Yes, yes. Thank you, Emily. What time is it?”
Emily put down her knitting. “We should probably dress for the feast. Anything in mind, Lady?”
Dinah stared out the window at the shifting Wonderland stars, her mind lingering on the dream. “Something light. Absolutely no wool.”
Dinah usually disliked feasts. After the endless and mind-numbing pageantry that was the seating of the lords and ladies, the highborn Cards, the squires, and the advisors, the royal family was finally seated behind the King’s Table, which was no ordinary piece of stone. The ends of the thick obsidian table curled at the tips, its razor-sharp points the source of more than a few bloodied limbs. The King of Hearts was seated on a raised platform near the middle of the table, his crown resting beside his enormous goblet. His blond mustache was already stained with cherry wine, giving him the look of a crazed cannibal. Dinah sat at his left, Vittiore on his right, looking luminous as always in a form-fitting gown the color of ripe blueberries. Her bright-blue eyes radiated out from her petite face, striking dead the heart of every man in Wonderland. Nary a Card could walk by her without being entranced by her ethereal presence.
The King sat back in his chair and gave a loud burp. “More wine!” he demanded.
Cheshire leaned over her father, hovering as always. He was whispering in her father’s ear, aiding as the King’s eyes darted around the room, taking in friends, foes, and fools. The squires poured more wine into his massive goblet and he downed it greedily with one hand, the other hand always resting on his Heartsword. Her father saw enemies in many places, in every house, in every distant and seemingly absurd lineage leading to the throne. Yurkei assassins were everywhere, he believed, each one trying to steal his crown. Emily had spilled to Dinah that rumors abounded about her father’s paranoia. That he slept with his Heartsword. That six guards stood watch while he slept. That he only truly trusted Cheshire.
Dinah pushed the oily emu breast around her plate, covering it with seeds and sprouts. She wasn’t hungry in the least, and by her count she would have to sit here for another four hours, a frozen smile plastered across her face. Vittiore gave a tinkling laugh at something her father said, and Dinah leaned over to give her a reprimanding look. Cheshire rewarded her with a pointed smile from above her father’s head. Dinah fought the urge to fling her plate at him as bile filled her throat. Her father had always hated her, since the day she was born, and Dinah was convinced that Cheshire’s poisonous tongue had more than a little to do with it. She could remember being very young—before her mother died—and seeing Cheshire for the first time. With black hair and eyebrows, Cheshire had been young, but just as devious looking. His hand had rested on the King’s shoulder, had squeezed hard as Dinah approached them both, toddling on little legs. She looked up into the King’s face with happy anticipation and saw nothing but simmering anger. He scared her; wasn’t this her father? The man who loved her mother? His blue eyes ran over her, searching for something he did not find. His mouth contorted first with confusion and then disgust. He pushed her back roughly.
“Remove her from my sight. Don’t bring her around anymore,” he said to Harris, and two Cards gently pulled her away from him. Dinah gave a scream and kicked the first one in the shin. The second Heart Card grabbed for her and she twisted away from him too.
Crying, she screamed for her father into empty air as Harris wrapped his arms around her waist to restrain her. “Dada! DADA! DADA!”
The King of Hearts walked past her without a second look, his black cloak brushing over her face as he passed from her, beyond her. Cheshire followed behind him, his head bowed. Dinah was short enough to see the satisfied smile stretched across his long face. Even as a young child, she suspected that somehow this clever sliver of a man had turned her father‘s mind against her, his child, the one he was supposed to love but never did. She smiled up at Cheshire, while vowing in her heart that the first thing she would do as Queen after her father passed away or she married would be to send Cheshire to the Black Towers forever. Of course, he had helped her the day Vittiore arrived by showing her the tunnels, but that was for his own purposes. With Cheshire, one could be sure of it. He was not a man to underestimate.
The hours ticked by slowly as the crowd became more intoxicated with drink and the lights slowly dimmed. Gay laughter and the delicious scent of tarts wrapped like lovers around those who sat and enjoyed the feast. Dinah was bored. She glanced over at her father, who was roaring with laughter along with Xavier Juflee, the Knave of Hearts and commander of the Heart Cards. The King of Hearts did not notice Dinah staring, nor did he notice Vittiore gazing sadly off into the distance, looking at
something Dinah could not see. She followed Vittiore’s gaze to the back of the room, but there was only the trace of a shadow, no one. Vittiore cast her eyes down, blushing. There was some movement in the periphery of her vision, and Dinah jerked out of her trance and looked down at the table.
Her plate was gone, and in its place was a steaming slice of berry loaf on a delicately thin plate. She blinked in shock. She had not seen the extra plate put down in front of her, and that was alarming in itself. Scrawled in lovely looping letters, someone had written “Eat Me” in raspberry jam on the side of the plate. Bewildered, she looked around, but there was no one acting suspicious, no one looking mischievous in the corner. There were only hundreds of people eating, dancing, and boasting with excitement about their own croquet games of that afternoon. Wardley was making his way to the other side of the room, drinking heavily out of a gigantic silver stein; Harris was talking with the Master of Music; and Charles would never be let anywhere near the royal feast.
She returned her eyes to the message on her plate: “Eat Me.” Was this an insult? A threat? Poison? Dinah quickly smeared the words with her silver spoon. Her every breath bursting with curiosity, she raised her fork and brought it down into the loaf. She heard the clink of metal on glass, and found a miniscule glass vial, smaller than a spool of thread. Hands trembling, she picked up the vial, keeping her hands low over her plate. The cork came out easily and a tiny piece of paper slid into her waiting fingertips. She looked around again.
The party continued to escalate. Fat white birds were running up and down the tables, being fed by amused guests. As always, no one cared about the King’s strange, black-haired daughter. Her hands shook as she unrolled the paper, wondering from whom this could possibly be. Five words, written in a lilting script, graced the square of parchment: Faina Baker, the Black Towers. Scribbled next to the words was a tiny picture of a triangle with a wave underneath it. The symbol was vaguely familiar, although Dinah couldn’t quite put her finger on it and didn’t have time to think about it at this moment. She turned the paper over. Nothing. The thudding of her heart was so loud that she was sure the entire room could hear it, yet no one even looked in her direction. Dinah closed her eyes, committing the name, the symbol, and the words to memory. Then she did as her plate instructed and ate the words, the paper pasty and tasteless on her tongue.
Chapter Seven
The stars were scattered that evening—sprinkled north over the Todren and also to the south, where they hung in vertical lines over the Darklands. Dinah stood alone on her balcony, wrapped in a thick sheepskin blanket.
“Your Grace, you’ll freeze out there!” nagged Emily from her chambers. Dinah rolled her eyes and silenced her with an upraised hand.
“Emily, I’m fine! I am warm enough, the winter is almost over.”
Emily made a face and silently retreated. Dinah turned her head back to the sky.
“Faina Baker, the Black Towers.” She murmured the words to herself, again and again. She couldn’t imagine what those words meant, only that she felt—no, she knew—that they were something of great meaning and consequence. She had been waiting for that tiny scroll all her life, without knowing it. The unspoken thread of unease that followed her every step in this palace, it had origins. It was present at the croquet game, at the feast, in the whispers of Cards and the court, especially since Vittiore had arrived. Was this tiny paper perhaps her answer, something to put her one step ahead?
Who was Faina Baker? What did she know? And most importantly, why was she in the Black Towers? Dinah bit at her lip, a nervous habit. Contrary to what she had told Emily, there was quite a bitter chill in the late-winter air; it ripped through her blankets as though they were thin as linen. She gave a shiver. It was time. Dinah pulled a long, burgundy scarf, embroidered with tiny pink flowers, out from beneath her blanket. She reached over the edge of the balcony and looped it around a tiny iron rung on the bottom of the railing. The scarf unfurled itself in the whipping wind, a red ribbon against the black sky.
She went inside, took her tea and bath in silence, and watched the steam gather in her dressing room. Harris and Emily retired for the night to their separate sleeping quarters, and Dinah paced back and forth in front of her windows. Patience had never been her virtue, and when she could wait no longer, she walked out to the balcony and stuck her head over the edge. She squinted until she saw it: Wardley’s scalloped silver shield, bearing a kneeling Corning, propped up against a water trough outside the armory.
Dinah’s skin gave a happy ripple—Wardley was coming! They had communicated in this manner since she was a little girl. Wardley was always outside by the stables, while Dinah was confined by lessons in her Royal Apartment, so they arranged the simplest form of the message: a shield or a scarf meant, “I need to see you.” The other would then put up their reply, and the message was complete. Dinah pulled a simple plum nightgown over her thin tunic and fastened her cloak over it. Pressing her ear to the door, she listened for the Heart Cards to make their way down to the end of the wing. Their metal footsteps grew fainter until they disappeared completely. Dinah knew it was a matter of minutes before they came back around. Stepping quietly, she slipped out the door and ran down the hall, the marble freezing cold on her bare feet. She made her way down the stone servant steps at the end of the wing, and from there began winding her way through different hallways toward the Heart Chapel.
When his reign first began, her father had ordered the construction of a tiny alcove that overlooked the Heart Chapel. While most found it bewildering that he would make any changes to this ancient room, one that beamed with light and whimsical architecture, the King of Hearts pressed on, though the construction included the destruction of a magnificent, old lute that had been sealed into the outer wall. The alcove was nicknamed “The Box.” Its purpose was to enlighten and change the hearts of peasants by blessing them with the gift of worshipping inside the chapel, while still keeping them away from members of the court and the royal family. The King believed that granting peasants, undesirables, and orphans audience with royalty would someday inspire great things in a person of low standing.
Every Sunday, peasants were rounded up by the Cards and brought to The Box. They were forced to participate in the service at the Heart Chapel and then given bread and soup, and sent on their way. After their departure, The Box would receive a thorough cleaning, so that it might be cleared for the next group of woodworkers, butchers, ladies of the night, or fishmongers. Dinah thought it the most terribly condescending idea—did the townspeople really desire to be yanked from their work to worship with those who were gifted with so much? Still, she was grateful that her father had provided a private place for Wardley to meet her inside the castle.
As a princess, Dinah was never alone for very long, and she was rarely able to go anywhere in the palace anymore without dozens of people noticing. Just in the last few weeks, Heart Cards had begun accompanying her in places she usually occupied alone: the library, the kitchens, the atrium. Harris said it was because her coronation was drawing near and thus her father had ordered extra protection around her. To Dinah, it was a nuisance she had to learn to tolerate.
Her breath catching in her throat, Dinah pulled open the huge doors to the Heart Chapel. She was lucky tonight—normally there was a watch, but they must have been away on rounds. She slipped inside. There was something eerie about the vast, shadowy space, empty as a tomb and just as cold. Mosaic walls glittered in the darkness, and she could make out the forms of shrouded stone figures fighting, embracing, and ruling: the Wonderland gods. The chapel’s grandeur made her feel small and exposed. Her footsteps bounced across the floor like cannon blasts as they ricocheted off the columns and walls. Dinah stopped to catch her breath and found herself staring up at the red, heart-shaped window that graced the back of the chapel. Fine gold cranes were strung end to end before the heart so that it swallowed them whole, their wings only a spot on its mass.
Dinah stood alone in
the darkness, feeling not unlike the cranes—swallowed whole by this room, by the throne, by her father, and the palace. She longed to rule—to take the seat next to her father, and she, the Queen of Hearts, would rule over them with strength and courage—but she feared what it would take to get there. It was her right to sit on the throne. When she married, her father would not easily give up his throne to her husband. Her black eyes narrowed as she stared up at the brilliant red window, red light cast on her face. The altar seemed to pulse with crimson. When I am Queen, she told herself, all my doubts will disappear, and my father will embrace me again. He will see that I was born to be a Queen, and I will be a better Queen than he was a King.
Dinah heard the soft padding of footsteps, and something changed in the air. A soft ripple moved the banners and tapestries that draped the wall, and Dinah was suddenly filled with the dreadful sense that someone was watching her. She turned, but there was only darkness around her—an empty, holy space, and only the eyes of the gods were upon her. She gave a sniff. The air smelled strange—a heady mix of earth and brawn. Behind her, a door clicked and she heard sauntering footsteps echoing through the chapel. Wardley. She sighed with relief and reluctantly turned her back to the altar and walked the long length of the aisle until she was parallel to the door. With only the moonlight that filtered in from the red heart window, her strong hands found the wooden ladder that led up to The Box. Dinah gave a soft groan and lifted herself up onto the bottom rung. Wardley poked his face out from the top of the ladder.
“Hurry up! You are slower than a moss-eating bug.”
Dinah shot him an angry look and continued to carefully climb, splinters driving into her bare feet. Once she reached the top, she was greeted with the hint of a foul stench: waste, oil, and rotting vegetables—the smells of poverty. Whoever was supposed to clean The Box after the last event, didn’t. Standing, she brushed her fingers through her tangled hair and straightened her cloak. Wardley stood in front of her, dressed in his practice clothes—a loose white linen shirt, dark-red pants, and black riding boots. His shirt was opened across the chest, and Dinah could see the gleam of his sweaty skin in the moonlight. Her heart knocked tricky in her chest and she forced herself to look away.
Queen of Hearts (The Crown) Page 7
