The Crown (8 page)

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, 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.
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.

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