And since when did her cards become my problem?
Condescending ostrich.
The Queen of Hearts glared at me. “What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Why don’t you have another tart?’ ” I thrust the plate under her nose while fanning the aroma towards her nostrils. “They’re irresistible.”
Her pudgy little fingers snatched up another tart. Now she had one in each hand.
I would have been disgusted if I wasn’t growing so impatient for her to eat the poisonous pastry.
So much for being more lock-like.
Patience can go to hell.
“They’re cranberry,” I cooed.
That was a sure sign that I was desperate—I absolutely detest cooing. It’s so . . . so . . . pigeon-like . . . so birdlike . . . so . . .
In the distance, I heard Ellie—the eighth and half Duchess of Bedford—cackle.
“I hate cranberries!” the queen objected, tossing both of the tarts onto the plate.
I could feel a red-spell coming on.
“But I made these especially for you,” I said through gritted teeth.
The rage was building, and building fast.
“I . . . am . . . not . . . eating . . . cranberry . . . tarts!” the Queen of Hearts shrieked at me.
Her entire court—that had gathered nearby—froze in place; nobody moved a muscle.
Tippery once told me that watching a red-spell take possession of my faculties was very much like watching a griffin go into a full-blown conniption.
I will have to take his word for it because once it starts, and really gets going, there’s no stopping it for me—I’m just along for the ride.
I grabbed the Queen of Hearts by her long neck and began stuffing fistfuls of tarts down her narrow throat.
“YOU ARE GOING TO EAT THESE BLOODY TARTS!” I screamed. “YOU BULBOUS, OSTRICH-LIKE FREAK! I MADE THESE FOR YOU AND YOU ARE GOING TO EAT EVERY LAST ONE!”
For a long moment, all I saw were streaks of puce and her beady eyes bulging out at me.
Then, just as quickly as it had started, it was over.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
In the distance, I heard another pin drop.
I released the Queen of Hearts, and she fell to the ground, dead, with clumps of the cranberry tarts still stuffed in her open mouth. Her face was a ghoulish shade of white.
That did not go quite as planned.
It was apparent from the panicked expression etched across her face that she had died from suffocation by pastry rather than by their poisonous filling.
Eh. Six of one, half a dozen of the other.
I giggled out loud to myself. I’ve always loved that expression. I mean, other has so many possibilities, don’t you think?
I looked down upon the many faces of the late queen’s subjects. “Look on the bright side,” I began, “and there is most definitely a bright side here to be had—at least no one will have to paint any more roses red, spade cards or otherwise.”
“You killed the Queen of Hearts!” a voice amongst the late queen’s subjects called out.
“Well, obviously.” I rolled my eyes.
“Off with her head! The Queen is dead!” a card-guard—the six of hearts, to be precise—yelled out.
“There’s no reason to remove her head; she’s already dead.” What was wrong with these courtiers? Did they not understand what had just transpired?
I was triumphant!
I waited for confetti to fall from the sky.
“Not off with her head!” the four of hearts countered before turning to me, “off with your head! Our Queen is dead!”
“You can always get another Queen!” I protested as I began to step away from the still-bulbous, but ever more rigid, corpse of the Queen of Hearts. “I am quite partial to my head, thank you very much, and I intend to keep it!”
The entire suit of hearts lowered their spears at me while the other suits in the deck looked on.
“I am the Queen of Spades!” I declared. “Where are your loyalties?”
The suits of spades, diamonds, and clubs simply shrugged.
“I can tell who wears the pants around here!” I couldn’t believe it. After all, I had just freed them from a most wretched tyrant, and this was how they repaid me?
Ungrateful tree pulp.
“Off with her head! The Queen is dead!” the heart cards began to chant.
They were closing in . . . fast.
“Off with her head! The Queen is dead!”
I was left with the only option that any reasonable person would do when faced with the possibility of certain death.
I ran.
Running in Wellies is not the easiest nor the most graceful of movements, but modesty be damned; I absolutely was not going to be losing my head to this sorry lot of miscreants.
My less than elegant scamper was fortunately balanced by the fact that I was substantially taller than my attackers and hence able to stay a reasonable distance ahead of the gaggle of spears that were headed in my general direction.
Yes, spears can gaggle.
Believe me, I was living it.
Spears move in gaggles.
I zigzagged around a couple of rosebushes, hoping to thwart the ever-persistent card-guards, but they were smarter than they looked.
“Stop her!”
Several spears pierced through the rosebush, narrowly missing my hip.
Had this been another set of circumstances, I would have been mildly impressed.
“Do not let her get away!”
“Queen of Spades, Your Majesty, over here!” Spice, the spotted dog-chef barked.
Sugar, the orange tabby, was holding open the kitchen door that I had entered earlier from the garden and was waving me in.
I had never been so happy to see them in all of my life.
Never mind that we had only just met, but my love for them was growing by leaps and bounds.
Speaking of bounds, that is exactly what I did. I took off in a dead run with my dress bunched up around my waist, letting my green Wellies carry me away as fast as they could.
I ducked inside, and Sugar and Spice quickly shut the door behind me.
I could hear the sounds of cards smacking into the wood and piling up upon one another on the other side.
“Drink this!” Sugar thrust a glass bottle into my hand.
“What’s this?” I eyed it suspiciously.
“It will make you small.” Spice pointed to a teeny, tiny door on the opposite wall. “Small enough to fit through there.”
“That’s a door for a mouse!” I exclaimed. “And I am no mouse. I . . . I . . . am . . . the Hat—”
They should know, shouldn’t they? I mean, after all, they were trying to save my life.
“We know! You are the Queen of Spades, and you are about to be a dead Queen if you don’t drink that potion!” Spice ran over to the other door and locked it.
The time for confessions would have to wait.
I uncorked the top and smelled it.
It smelled like cinnamon.
I arched an eyebrow at Sugar.
“What? Cinnamon has lots of uses!” She went and unlatched the tiny door and opened it.
I crouched down.
Nothing. Pitch-black, nothing.
Collectively we jumped as the guards began banging on the other kitchen door that led into the castle.
“I need to find my husband, Tippery, at the tea party.” I raised the bottle to my lips. “Do you know where that is?”
Spice and Sugar pressed themselves against the kitchen door in an effort to keep the guards from breaking through.
“We might,” Sugar replied.
“We may,” Spice added. “You’ll have to go through the mouse door to find out!”
I was out of options.
It was a do-or-die moment.
That kitchen door wasn’t going to hold forever.
I held up the potion. “For Tippery,” I toasted, “my o
ne and only love.”
I drank the lot of it.
In a flash, the room began to grow and grow as I shrank and shrank until I was no bigger than a mouse—Wellies and all.
“Shoo! Get going!” Sugar motioned to the tiny doorway that looked like it led into a black abyss.
“Good luck, Queen of Spades!” Spice called out. “You’re going to need it.”
“Thank you, thank you, both!” I squeaked out through what was a wisp of my former voice.
Marvelous.
Now, I even sounded like a mouse.
Running as fast as my itty-bitty feet would carry me, I leapt through the doorway just as the guards burst into the kitchen.
It was only then that I realized I had lost sight of the other hare.
My mental notes to self weren’t what they used to be.
I sighed as I was whisked away into a whirlwind of blackness.
The Queen of Hearts was dead.
I was triumphant.
Well, half-triumphant.
I’m coming for you, Tippery. Don’t give up on me, because I haven’t given up on you.
I am not a proponent of small.
Small comes with a whole host of problems that large does not usually encounter. The chances of being stepped on or eaten by a creature of substantial size are just two immediate threats that come to mind.
Perhaps because, at present, I was dealing with both.
The doorway out of the castle’s kitchen eventually transported me into what I can only describe as the Wilds of Wonderland.
I will revisit my disdain for even thinking that . . . that name . . . at another time.
Staying alive was taking precedence.
I was in a forest of sorts.
A gargantuan-sized forest.
To my tiny frame, everything was oversized, overwhelming, and shockingly, came with teeth.
Far be it from me to deny a plant its meal—I mean, I am not that cruel—however, me being the main course, second course, or heaven forbid, a side course was not about to become an option on the menu.
I found refuge underneath an enormous leaf, hoping that my hiding spot would stay hidden.
No such luck.
The face of a Cheshire cat popped into view right in front of me.
Startled, I fell over my own dress and landed bottom-first on the ground.
“Here you are,” the cat said smoothly. “You have made quite the mess of things.”
I stood up, brushing myself off. “It’s not nice to barge in on someone, uninvited. Where are your manners?”
“I left them over there.” The rest of the cat’s body materialized. He pointed with his paw to a neighboring leaf.
“What are they doing over there?” I huffed, upset that my dress was no longer clean. “They’re needed here.”
“I would bring them over if I thought it would help,” the cat said as he looked from the leaf to me and then back again, “but I fear it wouldn’t make any difference at all in your case.”
“I beg to differ; even the slightest bit of difference would help me. Won’t you go get them, please?” Pleading was not in my general nature, but when faced with a hovering cat with sharp teeth and equally sharp claws, I was beginning to realize that prudence may be a better course of action.
“Fine,” the cat relented, “since you asked nicely. I will be right back.” His body disappeared, followed by his face, and then lastly, his insanely wide smile of white, sharp teeth.
In his absence, I checked my pocket. Miraculously, the gold box was still where I had left it. I took it out and lifted the lid, peeking inside. The gold pocket watch was alert.
“Is it time yet?” the watch asked anxiously.
“No, it’s not time yet,” I whispered, worried that someone or something would overhear me.
“You will let me know when it’s time?” the watch spun his second hand excitedly.
“I will, I will. Now go back to sleep.”
“Harrumph!” the watched mumbled but complied and closed his eyes.
“Who are you talking to?” The Cheshire cat had reappeared in front of me.
Hastily I shoved the gold box into my pocket. “No one. I wasn’t talking to anyone.”
“You most certainly were. I heard you.” The cat was not giving up.
“I like the sound of my own voice,” I admitted.
“Don’t we all,” the cat readily agreed.
It was a white lie, but if you are going to lie, a white is the best way to go. Half-truths are better than no truths at all.
Remember this.
Do you need to make a list?
Go ahead. I’ll wait.
“Why are you here? If you don’t mind me asking?” I was eager to change the subject.
“I don’t mind at all,” the cat mused. His body came back into view, and he crossed his paws one over the other. “Though, it’s not every day I get to meet the person who killed the Queen of Hearts.”
“You’re not angry about that?” I glanced to the left and then to the right, fully expecting the card-guards to pounce on me at any moment, or at the very least, step on me, to be more accurate.
“On the contrary”—the cat’s smile grew wider, if that was even possible— “it’s a wonderful turn of events to happen here in Wonderland.”
I was pleased that he was pleased, which was altogether pleasing.
“If I may ask . . .” I decided to test my luck.
Testing luck is tricky at best and must be handled with the utmost delicacy.
“Ask if you must,” the cat replied.
“Do you know where I can find the Hatter?”
I held my breath.
Without the other hare, I was at a loss as to where I should to start looking for Tippery. Due to my current size, it was already going to be a dismally slow-going affair.
“If you go that way”—the Cheshire cat pointed to the left— “you will find the Hatter. If you go this way”—he pointed to the right— “it will take you back to the castle. But I wouldn’t go back there if I were you.”
“There’s no sense in me going back the way I came”—I looked nervously to the right— “when that way will suffice over this way.”
“Indeed, Maddie, indeed.” The cat nodded.
“How did you know it was me?” I was stunned.
“You mean, how did I know that you were you?” The cat folded his paws over one another again. “The Hatter hasn’t stopped talking about you for eons. He’s quite smitten, you know. I would recognize you anywhere.”
“Tippery,” I said out loud, and my heart skipped a beat.
“He’s mad, you know, quite mad,” the cat stated, “though I think you already knew that.”
“I wouldn’t have him any other way.” Cautiously I began walking that left way, in the direction of my true love.
“Mind the mushrooms. They are terrible this time of year,” the cat warned as he began to disappear again.
“Aren’t you coming with me? I would so enjoy the company.” Truth be told, I didn’t want to get eaten by a plant, and an enormous cat with big, sharp teeth seemed to be the perfect deterrent against such a travesty.
“I owed Sugar a favor. I told her I would check up on you, so now it has been repaid. We felines must stick together.”
“She thinks that I am the Queen of Spades,” I said hurriedly, not wanting him to leave me to my own devices.
It’s so much more comforting to be surrounded by someone else’s devices rather than just your own.
“I know,” the cat said knowingly. “It’s quite the quandary; for you could be the Queen of Spades, if you really wanted to. In the end, only you can decide if you want to be the Queen of Spades or just the Hatter’s wife.”
And then he was gone.
With all my might, I tried to channel my inner mouse.
Truthfully, I didn’t even know if I had an inner mouse, but I was about to find out.
Cautiously, and as quietly as
I could manage, I traversed the forest terrain, noticing that as I went, the landscape grew thicker and mossier.
Soon, I was surrounded by nothing more than moss, mud, and mushrooms.
“Mind the mushrooms, mind the mushrooms,” I muttered under my breath.
Never mutter over your breath; the chances of being overheard increase exponentially.
“Do you mind?”
I whirled around in every direction. “Who said that?”
“I never said that. You said that,” the voice replied smoothly. “I only asked, ‘Do you mind?’”
Above me, a flicker of bluish-green caught my eye. Leaning over the top of a vast red mushroom cap was a caterpillar with a monocle placed over his left eye.
“Your monocle is over the wrong eye,” I noted.
The caterpillar slid down farther to me. “How would you know? Have you ever worn one?”
“No, I can’t say that I have,” I retorted.
“Then you could not possibly know which eye is correct.” He slid back up to the ledge of the mushroom cap. “You are changing the subject. I asked you, ‘Do you mind?’ ”
“Do I mind what?” This caterpillar and I were not off to the best of starts.
The caterpillar rolled his eyes as if to suggest I should already know the answer. “You are very loud—stomping around the mosses—and you have interrupted my quiet time. Therefore, I ask you a third time, do you mind?”
It is rare that I become speechless, but the caterpillar truly had me at a quandary. I paused, not knowing what answer he wanted to hear.
Small had more disadvantages than advantages.
It irked me.
I was irked.
Would a caterpillar eat a shrunken woman?
“I’m not sure how to answer that. Do I mind interrupting your quiet time, or do I mind minding in general?”
The caterpillar held his tiny hands up as if to shrug. “Either answer will suffice, for they are one and the same.”
“Then, I must say that I don’t mind.” I confidently stood my ground, which wasn’t very commanding from my viewpoint, but there you have it. “I don’t mind at all. In fact, you were in my way.”
Ha! Take that, you nosy larva.
He slid down closer to me again.
I wished he would make up his mind.
“I figured you would say as much,” he took his time finishing his thought. “After all, it is something that a Queen would say – very fitting.”
The Hatter's Wife Page 4
