The Crown (7 page)

Dinah nodded. Working for Charles had turned both Lucy and Quintrell into hatters as well—they were as skilled and knowledgeable as any milliner in town could ever be.

“They sound beautiful. But, I was asking about Charles. Has he been well?” Quintrell fidgeted nervously. Dinah smiled. “Well, out with it.”

“Your Grace, three nights past, I woke up to loud giggling coming from the atrium.” Quintrell glanced nervously at Lucy. She placed her withered hand on his arm and nodded for him to continue. “When I came out into the room, Charles was up on one of the staircases. He . . . ,” Quintrell’s voice caught in his throat.

Lucy stepped forward. “Charles had one of the stitching needles dug into his arm. He was squeezing the blood out and letting it drip onto the mulberry silk.”

A painful gasp escaped from Dinah’s lips. “Why, why would he DO that?”

Lucy refused to meet her eyes. “He said the dye wasn’t the right shade of red. He was
fixing
it. We tried to get the needle away from him, but he was on the edge of the staircase, so. . . .”

“So you let him do it, rather than risk him falling.”

They both nodded. Dinah was tempted to rage at them the way she had raged at the Spade, but it was no use. She knew Charles, and she knew that he couldn’t be controlled, bottled, or taught. His mind worked a different way—short flashes of brilliance followed by dark plunges into his macabre imaginary world.

“Did you take away all of his sewing needles?”

“Yes, Your Highness. We only let him use the small needles now, which have actually led to the production of some very detailed, elaborate work.”

Dinah looked over at Charles, who was gleefully slashing apple-green taffeta into thin ribbons with his long fingernails. She walked over and kissed him on the side of the head. His dirty hair, ever matted and wild, always smelled a bit like her mother.

“I have to go now, but I’ll be back in a few days,” she told him.

Charles whipped his head around to stare at animals on the ceiling and began singing. “Days and nights, the King sings. Tusks and musks and wooble fire. He sings with a black tongue, fire in his lungs, his lungs.”

“Where did the seahorse go?” Dinah asked.

Charles opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, stroking it slowly. “Down, down, down the rabbit hole!” he crowed.

Dinah shut her eyes.

“Not to worry, Your Highness; we’ll find it,” Lucy promised, before she returned to sorting buttons.

Charles was still singing when Dinah walked out of the atrium, her heart compressing with each step as the song, so lovely and mad, followed her down the marble hallways as she walked back to her chambers.

Lying in front of her door was an elaborately folded invitation—her summons to the Royal Croquet Game. It had already been opened, the seal of the King broken. With a sigh, she untied the seven pink ribbons that held the card in place. Something was leaking through the envelope—ink? Dinah pulled the card out and tilted the elaborate calligraphy into the light.

Your presence for the Royal Croquet Game is requested. The Princess will play in the final game, her opponents, the Duchess and the King of Hearts.

Dinah felt the air whoosh out of her lungs. She had never played against her father before, ever. She was always set against a lady of the court—someone she could easily beat, and the King was always paired with Xavier Juflee, The Knave of Hearts.

The black liquid dripped again, this time landing on her shoe. Dinah turned the envelope upside down with a shake. The head of a white mouse, severed at the neck, fell out of the envelope and bounced on the floor. Dinah leapt back with a shriek. Shaking, she turned the invitation over, but there was nothing on it. Kneeling, she touched the mouse head with the end of a trembling finger. A new feeling shot through her, and she felt wide awake as she stared at the tiny lips of the mouse, pulled back in a macabre smile. Dinah was both fascinated and afraid, devastated that there was even more reason to dread tomorrow.

Chapter Five

Dinah spooned plum pudding over her flat fig biscuits as Harris hopped back and forth in front of her, wine dashing out from his large goblet. “You are going to be late, late, late for the Royal Croquet Game. We cannot be late, Your Highness.” Harris shuffled around the table, his long checkered robe flapping after him.

“I would rather get run over by Hornhooves than play croquet with Vittiore today,” grumbled Dinah, draining a glass of juice. The mouse head still weighed heavily on her mind, and she couldn’t shake the image of it bouncing across the stone floor.

“That may be the case, Princess, but you still must go. It is the precursor to All Tea’s Day, and it is expected of the royal family to not only be in attendance, but to play after all the townspeople have finished their games. This tradition goes back hundreds and hundreds of years. . . .”

Dinah gave a groan and interrupted Harris’s rambling. “Starting with the Seventh King of Hearts, Doylan the Great, the Royal Croquet Game has established the game’s rules and etiquette. It has made the Royal Family of Hearts synonymous with croquet, forever entwined in its grand traditions and all it stands for,” Dinah said and smiled coyly. “You give me the same speech every year. I remember. Contrary to what you believe, I listen to you. Now, may I please read in peace?”

One of her largest history texts,
The Great Crane
, sat open in front of her, a large silver book with worn pages. It was a rare book, and a fascinating fictional history of the Yurkei religion. Harris flung wide the doors to the courtyard, letting a swirl of pink snow into the room.

“Please close that, I’m freezing,” mumbled Dinah.

The old man ignored her. “Croquet!” he boomed. “The very name conjures a vision of Wonderland excellence, aristocracy, and grace.”

Dinah let out a sigh and gently shut her book, balancing her face on the palms of her hands.

“The Royal Croquet Game sets the tone of the next year’s fashion, manners, teas, and style. It is an opportunity for the Royal Family of Hearts to show their unity, their athletic prowess. . . .”

Dinah’s head jerked up with her laugh, a smudge of plum pudding across her upper lip. “Athletic prowess? Harris, we are hitting balls with sticks. Unity? My father HATES me, and Vittiore—”

“Is a lovely, innocent girl,” finished Harris.

Dinah shot him a nasty look, “—is a venomous wench snake,” she replied. “The very sight of her makes me ill. She may be my sister by my father’s unfaithful blood, but she is NOT my sibling. Only Charles is my true sibling. Who, may I remind you, is never invited to the Royal Croquet Game!”

Harris adjusted his spectacles. “Dinah, you know very well why Charles is never invited.”

“Because he’s an embarrassment to my father?”

“Because he cannot be controlled, and the Line of Hearts must appear strong and unbroken. The history of the Royal Croquet Game is filled with political pandering and glorious grandeur, and it’s no place for someone who is mad.”

Dinah brought her knife down through the biscuits onto the table.

“He may be mad, but he is my BROTHER. And he’s the son of the King. If he wasn’t mad, he would be the rightful heir of Wonderland and every Card would bow before him.”

Harris reached down and wiped Dinah’s lip with his white handkerchief, a tiny heart embroidered on the corner. “That is certainly true, Princess. No one grieves the loss of the prince’s mind more than I. I was there when he was born, as I was with you. I held his red squirming body in my hands, wrapped him up in fur and blessed him in the name of the Wonderland gods. I love Charles, but even I know that he cannot be included in royal events. He makes the crown look weak, and it draws attention to the fractures in your family.”

Dinah stabbed her plate angrily. “When I am Queen, Charles will not be hidden away in some grand atrium, throwing hats out of windows. He will join me where I go, mad or not.”

Harris pulled the chair out from under her and Dinah jumped to her feet. “That is my greatest wish, Princess. Now, it is time to get dressed! We are late, late, late! Emily, bring her croquet gowns!”

There were few things as awful, Dinah mused, as being strapped into a corset as if she were being bound to her own torso. She stood, arms outstretched, as Emily dressed her. Emily was grunting as Dinah’s strong ribs and square hips shrunk gradually into a curvy, maidenly form, made perfect by thick ribbons.

As the pressure slowly increased, Dinah studied herself in a long, heart-shaped mirror. Shiny black hair fell straight from her temple to shoulders. The hair was incredibly thick and heavy, a burden that Dinah some days could barely tolerate. Her face was soft cream, made even dewier by her deep-red lips. They formed a perfect pout—a little heart on a strong face. Her black-brown eyes were huge and fringed with long lashes—arguably her best asset.
Yes, strong
, she thought, twisting her body around.
Strong, like my father, and dark, like my mother.

Dinah was a bit leaner than the average Wonderland woman. She had firm, square shoulders, like a man. Her middle was solid, her legs lean and muscular. There was no curve from her bust to her waist—she was one solid square, topped with an ample bosom, more small melons than the ripe figs described in Emily’s tawdry novels. Tarts had added a bit of softness to her chin as of late, but Dinah was still attractive, or at least that’s what she told herself. Not pretty or delicate like Vittiore, but perhaps handsome.

A Card had once called her handsome, and Dinah had cried for days, but now she could see it. Her mother had been broad but voluptuous, and for this reason her hourglass figure still graced many a painting. Her long black hair had reached the ground, and she carried her crown with a great ease and beauty. Davianna had been so elegant in gowns and crowns, whereas Dinah always felt more like one of the ridiculous birds that Charles so frequently pinned onto hats.

“Are you done YET?” she snapped at Emily. “You cannot make my waist any smaller without killing me.”

Emily laid her slipper against Dinah’s back to brace herself and gave a final tug. The bone ribbing ripped into Dinah’s side and she let out a gasp of pain.

“There,” said Emily, with a self-satisfied smile. “Now I’m done, Your Majesty.”

She fetched Dinah’s gown and draped it carefully over her head. The thick gray wool fell around Dinah like a curtain, hanging heavily over every inch of her. The gown was lovely in a severe way, with hundreds of gray fabrics mingling together in an elaborate tweed. A large red heart arched over her shoulders and down the back of the dress, its top folds meeting at her collarbone. White ribbons ran up and down the heart in delicate ruffles. Bright-raspberry hearts dotted the full hem of the dress.

Emily buttoned the dress up the back and began working on Dinah’s hair. She swept it away from Dinah’s face, twisting and twisting until a voluminous bun decorated the back of her head. Long, silver heart pins were stuck into the bun, which was then covered with a red, jeweled hair net. Harris came over, carrying a crystal box.

“No.” said Dinah. “No, no, no.”

Harris ignored her and opened the box, pulling out a long purple brush. With a smile, he began brushing a thin, white powder over her face with the long-handled bristle brush. Dinah sneezed, and they were enveloped in a musky cloud.

“A princess should NOT struggle so,” reprimanded Harris. “You should be thrilled to be a part of this honorable tradition. What a gift it would be to play on the Royal Court.” He stepped back with a sigh and summoned Emily to his side. “Bring the crown.”

Emily slowly settled Dinah’s thin crown onto her head. The unbroken line of red ruby hearts shimmered like fire upon her dark hair and powdered white skin. Harris gave a deep bow, though Dinah saw his legs quake with the effort. He was growing older, and it saddened her so.

“My future Queen. You are so beautiful. It brings me such pride to see you as a woman.”

Dinah caught his hand and pulled him up, taking in his kind round face. “My dearest friend. Someday I will be Queen and you will never have to bow again. You will spend your days eating tarts and leaning on pillows while other servants see to your every need.”

Harris gave a sly smile. “Your reign will be wonderful, I’m sure, but I would hope that Your Highness could find better uses for me than lounging on pillows. Perhaps an advisory position on the council.”

“Perhaps.”

Dinah heard the brassy blare of a single trumpet, from outside her balcony. The royal family was being summoned for the game.

The Croquet Lawn was in the very center of the palace yard—a perfectly coiffed square of bright green surrounded by the impassive towers of Wonderland Palace. Looming piles of pink snow had been shoveled into giant mountains that bordered the sides of the green, and the lawn itself looked as lush as it would on a hot summer day instead of the end of winter. Sturdy wooden steps on three sides of the lawn provided ample seating for the hundreds of lords and ladies of the court. On lower wooden stands, thousands of townspeople gazed down on the players. From there they could admire, gossip, and pass judgment on everyone—a favorite pastime during the Royal Croquet Game.

Dinah waited on one side of the lawn, flanked by Harris and twelve Heart Cards that stood at the ready to assist her. The Master of the Games bowed before Dinah and then beckoned her forward. Dinah took a deep breath and murmured a silent prayer that this would be over quickly. Musicians, shoved on top of each other in an elaborately decorated box, raised their long trumpets and blasted out a three-note greeting. Dinah lifted her strong chin and walked out onto the field. There was a polite wave of clapping as she walked out to the green, her gray dress brushing the sharp blades of grass.

When she got to the middle of the lawn, she looked around with surprise. If she was to play Vittiore she should have been already waiting, in the correct order of hierarchy. Dinah felt a bolt of joy rush through her; perhaps this meant Vittiore would not be joining them! It would be Dinah and her father, playing singles. Her heart gave a weak flutter of hope. Perhaps her father would see that she was a worthy daughter, his strong heir. She would play her best, Dinah told herself, without any whining or boasting. She would be a picture-perfect vision of the future Queen.