Читать книгу Queen of Hearts Complete Collection: Queen of Hearts; Blood of Wonderland; War of the Cards - Colleen Oakes, Colleen Oakes - Страница 18

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 also 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 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, gently shut her book, and balanced 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 on 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 do. 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! 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 shrank 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 could barely tolerate some days. 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 squat. 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 peaches 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 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.

“You cannot make my waist any smaller without killing me,” she snapped at Emily.

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 Highness.”

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 dusty 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 who 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 approached 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.

The Master of the Games sauntered up and handed Dinah a long wooden mallet shaped like a flamingo, the official palace bird. Dinah liked the heavy weight of the mallet in her palm. These mallets were carved from trees of the Twisted Wood. Crystallized and ancient, these trees took months to chop through, and because of that, only one was able to be felled per year. Its wood was sold at the highest prices in Wonderland proper, fetching a hundredfold more than normal wood. Soldiers wanted it for their sword hilts, farmers for their plows, women for their kitchen spoons. The only part of the tree that wasn’t sold was used for the croquet mallets for the royal family.

Dinah waited now, whacking the heavy mallet impatiently against her leg until she heard the trumpets roar for the second time. Biting her lip, Dinah gave an elaborate bow in anticipation of her father. As her eyes surveyed the ground, she heard an intake of breath from the crowd. Her black eyes wandered up, expecting to see her father in all his grandeur, but instead she saw a vision of sweeping beauty. A wave of disappointment passed through her. Vittiore had floated out onto the court. Her long gown was made of several hundred layers of chiffon in creamy, shimmering shades: peach, rose, and lemon all blended together into an exquisite loveliness. Her golden hair had been curled into plump ringlets that cascaded down her back. On her head was a Mad Hatter pillbox hat adorned with white coq feathers. They were attached with a large gemstone the size and color of a peach.

Hot rage boiled up inside of her, and Dinah’s mallet dropped from her hand. It was her mother’s brooch. Dinah had loved that brooch as a child, often pretending it was an actual peach as she toddled around her mother’s bedroom. Vittiore gave Dinah a polite bow and whispered her courtesies. “Your Highness. You look lovely in gray.”

Dinah took a menacing step toward Vittiore. “Is that a joke?” she asked through clenched teeth.

Vittiore looked bewildered. “No?”

With one sure step, Dinah thought, I could plant my ruby slippers into her pretty face.

“Ah, I see the princess is anxious to begin the game.” Cheshire, clothed in dazzling purple, slithered around Dinah and Vittiore, putting himself between them. “The Royal Croquet Game, Your Highness and Your Grace, must always be played with dignity. I should remind you both that the entire kingdom is watching.” While he quietly berated them, his black eyes lingered only on Dinah, who bit down on her lip until she felt a tiny drop of blood on her tongue.

She earnestly smiled up at him. “Of course, Sir Cheshire. One should never conduct oneself with anything other than honesty and charity. A man of virtue like you reminds us of that.”

Cheshire stared at her, his eyes darkening with anger, though the wide smile on his face betrayed nothing. Dinah felt a stab of fear. Vittiore gave Dinah an apologetic smile and took her mallet. “We will remember, Sir Cheshire. I have much looked forward to playing with my sister.” She raised her pale, slender arms and waved to the crowd, who gave wild roars of approval, followed by shouted marriage proposals. It was the sort of reception that Dinah had never received, not even once.

Cheshire put his thin hand on Dinah’s shoulder, squeezed it, and whispered in her ear. “Take comfort in the fact that she is probably quite cold in that thin dress. A queen should be wise above being beautiful.”

Then he was gone, back to standing beside her father’s Heart Cards, his arms tucked behind his back, his knowing expression resumed. Though she still hated Cheshire and remembered when he had locked her out of the palace, Dinah allowed herself to take comfort in the dimpled goose bumps that ran up Vittiore’s arms and bosom. She was indeed snug in her warm gray wool, even if she did look matronly compared to the radiant duchess. She looked to the crowd and spotted Wardley, standing in his Heart Card uniform at the edge of the lawn. He raised his hand in a silent hello, but his face held a mangled frown as he stared at Vittiore. Dinah was relieved that she wasn’t the only one to notice this public slight.

Finally, after several trumpet blasts, her father stomped out onto the court, his iron footsteps ricocheting off the marble sidewalk. His wavy blond hair was pushed back from his face by his heavy golden crown, and his cheeks were the ruddy red that comes with drink. Her father hated the Royal Croquet Game as much as she did. He much preferred hunting sports—killing deer or wild horses just outside the castle walls, or tracking down the large sea cats that prowled the Western Slope. He loved the chase, that intense moment when the animals fought for their lives, all for naught, for they were fated to be the royal dinner. The king cleared his throat.

“Give me my mallet!” he bellowed.

His gaze rested on Dinah as he waited. She kept her black eyes glued to the ground, but she could feel the searing heat of his gaze. The three players lined up and were handed a velvet bag containing their wooden balls, carved like hedgehogs. Dinah’s were red, the king’s black, and Vittiore’s white. The Master of Games sauntered to the center of the lawn and explained the rules. A drumroll began as the players walked onto the court. Her father gently took Vittiore’s arm and led her to stand next to him. A sharp jealousy swam through Dinah. She shot a pitiful look in Harris’s direction. He gave her a kind smile and nervously rubbed the lenses of his glasses with his handkerchief. She raised her head to take in the rapidly shifting clouds, to pretend she was anywhere but here. As the players reached their mark, a single horn blared out a triumphant sound and the crowd gave a roar of applause. Bobbing white lanterns bordering the lawn were lit, and the Royal Croquet Game began.

Vittiore was the first striker. Her opening turn with the mallet sent her white ball hurtling through two wickets, but her second shot didn’t get her close to the outside wicket. Dinah was next. She had never been skilled at croquet, despite weekly lessons that she despised. Her red ball went through the first gate but got caught on the second wicket. Her second shot left her ball in her father’s way. The King of Hearts took the next turn. His ball sailed through the gates on the first try, whacking Dinah’s ball out toward the course boundaries.

Vittiore gave a triumphant giggle. “Excellent hit, Father!”

He took his extra strokes to send his black sphere hurtling toward the third wicket. Vittiore took her second turn, the gentle nudge of her mallet sending her white ball through the obstacle. Dinah got her red ball headed back in the right direction, but she hadn’t even taken a single turn before one of her father’s black balls was targeting her red ones. Dinah recognized his strategy immediately. Isolate the opponent. Attack with relentless fury. Dominate. Eliminate.

As she watched her father smile encouragingly at Vittiore sending one of her white balls into a bush, Dinah felt the black fury rising inside of her, making the tips of her fingers tingle. Two could play this game, she thought—she wouldn’t let herself be humiliated by his misplaced doting. When her turn came again, she swung her mallet hard, unladylike. Her red ball sailed through the wicket, and with a smack, it sent Vittiore’s ball completely off the course in a perfect roquet. The crowd gave a murmur of disapproval. Poor Vittiore. Dinah didn’t care.

Another horn blasted, and the game advanced in complexity once the birds were let loose. A dozen birds ran wild over the course—flamingoes, dodos, pale white swans, and ducks. They got in the way of the balls or blocked stakes or pecked at players’ heels. It was chaos. A dodo sank its beak into Vittiore’s smooth calf, and she let out a scream, which made Dinah’s heart leap with joy. Yet even with the whimsy of the birds and the lighthearted mood of the crowd, both Dinah and her father seemed to sense a turn in the purpose of the game as they attacked each other with relish. Red and black balls cracked against one another continuously as their mallets swung higher and higher. Vittiore was almost forgotten, but just when she would draw close to the eleventh wicket, Dinah would send a red ball her way and she would be pushed backward.

Time seemed to stretch on forever as the three wound their way through hoop after hoop. The crowd grew silent and tense as they sensed the enmity between Dinah and her father. Dark circles of sweat had formed under the king’s arms and across Dinah’s brow. Her heavy wool dress was swampy inside, and Dinah dreamed of casting it off into the crowd. Her thin ruby crown lay uncomfortably on her head, its sharp points pulling her hair out strand by strand as she bent and twisted, beyond caring how she looked.

After an hour had passed, Cheshire strode out to the middle of the lawn and signaled for the bird catchers. The birds were gathered and removed for the final round, signaling the end of the game. Vittiore had three hoops left and would not win. She forfeited with an easy smile to the crowd and a wave of her hand. They gave a great cheer as she retired, her blond curls untouched by any of the physical strain that Dinah and her father were suffering. Cheshire led her to the edge of the lawn, where she collapsed into a large heart-shaped chair. She was so charming in that self-effacing way: a toss of her hair, a twinkle in her blue eyes. It made Dinah feel dismal and jealous at the same time.

It was Dinah’s turn. Her emotions tangled inside of her, and she brought her mallet down with vengeance upon her red ball. It sailed across the lawn with a loud crack and slammed into her father’s last black ball, which rolled out of bounds and rested against the foot of a mortified Heart Card. He stepped back, and wisely so, for the next sound Dinah heard was her father’s rushing cry of rage. He took three steps toward Dinah and violently pulled her close. Both Harris and Cheshire stepped toward the lawn, ready to intervene. The king’s huge fingers sank into Dinah’s shoulder as a cruel look stretched over his face. To the crowd, it looked like a funny moment between father and daughter. But Dinah could see the enraged indignation in his eyes and could smell the wine as his breath washed over her face.

“Princess, you will let me win this game. You will not humiliate me in front of my kingdom any more than your mere existence already does. The King of Hearts will not lose to his pathetic daughter, or you will find yourself a new mentor, and Harris will find himself suddenly a Spade.”

Hot tears welled in Dinah’s eyes as he shook her loose. She tried to summon the same boldness that dwelled in her when she had whacked his ball off the lawn, but it was not there. It was replaced by a gnawing hunger for her father’s love, so powerful and real that it made her gasp.

“I will,” she whispered. “I will do whatever you ask, Father. I’m sorry.”

“Do not forget your place again. I am your king and Vittiore is your sister, and you will honor us both. After the game, you will bow before her so all Wonderland can see that you have accepted her as your blood sibling and equal.”

A shocked sob escaped from her clenched lips. He smiled and gestured to the crowd. “She takes the game so seriously!” he announced. “My sweet daughter.”

He released her. Dinah stepped back, her knees threatening to buckle underneath her. The Master of Games walked to the center of the lawn and spoke into a large silver horn. “The final play of the Royal Croquet Game will now commence. Please stand for your king.”

The crowd rose to its feet. The king had the final stroke. He unclasped the four-Card brooches that fastened his cloak and flung it toward Wardley. Wardley scooped it off the field and strode quickly back to his place on the border, but not before he shot Dinah a sympathetic look. The king’s ball rolled easily through the last wicket and struck the final stake. All eyes turned to her, including her father’s. His face was a distorted tangle of pride and fear, like a bear in a cage. He belonged on a battlefield, not a croquet lawn. Or a throne.

Dinah raised her eyes to take in this macbre scene only to catch Wardley staring at her, his face a mix of admiration and fear. Their eyes met, and he gave Dinah a small, secret smile that warmed her heart. 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 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. 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 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 head. She would have fallen asleep angry had it not been for the memory of Wardley’s honeyed smile, the passionate look on his face as he had gazed at her. Instead, his beauty carried her softly into a place of silence, where her hungry fears lay waiting.