Charles held the carving up into the light as he made it swim through the air. “Sea birds, shimmering scales, black eyes. . . .”
He dashed away from her and began riffling through the fabrics, muttering to himself. Dinah had seen this a hundred times before. The inspiration for a hat had taken root in his mangled brain—a creative, aggressive root that was spreading its joy and poison through each and every secret path of his mind. Dinah descended the staircase to speak with the servants who were waiting patiently near the door.
“How is he doing this week?” she asked.
Lucy gave a deep bow. She was the gentlest woman Dinah had ever known, a grandmother of three with rosy cheeks and white hair that glowed a pale blue in the harsh winter light. Age lines rippled out from her eyes and down her neck into her modest white gown. On her head sat an enormous felt whale, embroidered with swirling pink blossoms. Charles loved her dearly, in his own way, and Lucy was his most devoted servant.
Quintrell was her assistant—a strapping lad who handled the physical labor involved with Charles’s care. He wrestled Charles into the swan-shaped tub once a week and scrubbed him down with hedgehog skins while the boy screamed and writhed. He was also the only one who could force Charles to eat when he was in one of his hat-making furies. Charles periodically went through long periods where he saw nothing but fabric and stitching—fits of wild, brilliant mania that would last for days. Dinah had no idea how Lucy and Quintrell dealt with Charles day in and day out, but they seemed content. Other than Dinah, they were the only ones who truly loved him.
Though he was her brother, Dinah felt that she floated in a strange emotional fog with Charles—she loved him dearly, but her love was always tinged with confusion. She couldn’t deal with him the way Lucy and Quintrell did. Charles recognized her most weeks, but when he didn’t, Dinah felt betrayed, even more alone than usual. Dinah watched in amazement as Lucy wrinkled her face, even more than it already was, as she sorted buttons. She cleared her throat, preparing to respond to Dinah’s question. “How is he doing, Your Highness? Well, he has created two hats in the last twenty days, which is fast for him—the fuchsia beret with swallow’s eggs, and the Gryphon top hat, which will be delivered to the Lord and Lady Clutessa next week. Both works were inspired by the birds that have nested just outside of the window.”
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.