Queen of Hearts (The Crown)

by Colleen Oakes

  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.

  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 coque 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 towards 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 her and Vittiore, putting himself between them. “The Royal Croquet Game, Your Highnesses, must always be played with grace and dignity. I should remind you both that the entire kingdom is watching.” While he quietly berated both of 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 convey 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 lewd 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. He looked incredibly displeased for Dinah’s sake, as if some food had disagreed with him.

  Finally, after several trumpet blasts, her father stomped out onto the court, his iron footsteps ricocheting off of 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 Game of Croquet 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 King’s 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 drum roll 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 jealously 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 Game of Croquet began.

  Vittiore was the first striker. Her first turn with the mallet sent her white ball hurtling through the first two wickets, but her next shots didn’t get her close to her next 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 towards 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 as she sent one of her white balls into a bush, Dinah felt her shame at this spectacle turn into anger. The black fury was 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, 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 backwards.

  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 her turn. Her emotions tangled inside of her and she brought her mallet down upon her red ball with vengeance, which 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, re
ady 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. He was her father, how could he do this to her? She tried to summon the same boldness that dwelt 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 of 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.