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
Dinah dreamed she was floating through a black ink, weightless, without the confines of her body. Tiny sparks of white light pulsated on the sides of her vision. They circled and danced while she wavered between consciousness and slumber. Dinah was aware of something malevolent slowly swimming through the black mist toward her. It was just out of reach, but it was fearful and hungry. Dinah realized with a start that she was actually hanging upside down, her hair undulating in the bright stars.
The inky sky throbbed and turned into a silver liquid. Dinah spun in the air, clawing to upright herself. Clocks and various pieces of furniture drifted past, buoyed on an invisible river. The black gave a second shudder, and she was now floating in a mirror. The murderous pursuer was close; she could feel it now. It was almost on top of her. Icy-cold fingernails clutched at her stomach and breasts. Struggling, Dinah righted herself, rising up over her feet until the tip of her nose brushed the soft mirror. It parted like water. There was no one behind her. Her own arms clutched at her body. Her black eyes opened wide as she looked at her own reflection. She was the darkness.
Dinah lurched out of bed with a start. She was drenched with sweat, her arms flailing in the cold night air. Emily stood up from the rocking chair near the bed.
“Everything alright, Princess?”
“Yes, yes. Thank you, Emily. What time is it?”
Emily put down her knitting. “We should probably dress for the feast. Anything in mind, Lady?”