Faina smiled at Dinah, and for a moment, Dinah saw how stunningly beautiful she must have been, once upon a time. The blade came down with a whoosh, and Faina’s head dropped swiftly away from her body. A crimson waterfall now covered the block where her head had been seconds before. Dinah didn’t have time to react because of the movement on her right; Vittiore had pitched face first into the mud on the other side of Harris, landing with a violent thud.
Dinah watched in stunned silence until she realized what was happening, and then took a few steps and knelt beside her, attempting to turn her over. Her body flapped back against Dinah. The crowd gasped. Even though Vittiore was light, her dead weight was almost too much. With a groan, Dinah turned her over, sinking knee deep into the mud, Vittiore splayed dramatically across her lap, her white dress settling all around Dinah like swirling waves. Nanda and Palma were circling around her like dumb birds, crying and screaming but not actually doing anything.
Dinah looked down at the Duchess. Anger rushed through her at having Vittiore so near—a pale pink cheek against her forearm, blond curls crushed under her bosom, but she still held on. The royal family could not seem fractured, even when its foundation was cracked. Mud had somehow covered exactly half of Vittiore’s perfect face, which was porcelain white. Her normally coral lips were red with blood—she had been biting them. Dinah remembered then that Vittiore had never been to Execution Day, always claiming a sudden fever or an oncoming headache. She had never seen the heads roll, something Dinah had witnessed many times.
She noticed movement out of the corner of her eye: Wardley was rushing down upon her to aid Vittiore, and the rest of the Heart Cards were following his lead. Spectators and lords were raising their hands in concern for the Duchess, and the crowd watched them both with rapt fascination. This was a gruesome display, she thought. The bright rose of Wonderland being held by the dark thorn who would be Queen.
Dinah brought her open palm down hard across Vittiore’s face. “Wake up, bastard.”
Vittiore’s clear blue eyes opened with a gasp. “Dinah?” she stuttered, sounding even more pathetic than she looked. “He promised, he promised. . . .” Her eyes met Dinah’s with a direct gaze. “I will wear the crown to keep her head.”
Then she was out cold again. Dinah let her fall back into the mud with a thud. Suddenly, everyone was on top of them. Vittiore was yanked out of Dinah’s arms by Wardley, who cradled her like a child and carried her back to the castle, followed by Palma, Nanda, and a dozen Heart Cards.
Harris helped Dinah to her feet. “My Lady, that was most certainly brave and giving of you.”
Harris seemed delighted at Dinah’s unexpected comforting of Vittiore. He had always longed for them to be friends, an idea that Dinah had rejected so vehemently that he only brought it up once a year. Dinah looked down with disgust. The red gown that had been so lovely moments before was now covered in mud and stray blond hairs. She looked up at her father. He was staring at her. His blue eyes seemed to sear through her skin and bone, and she felt a seething hatred radiating out from the platform.
“Let us continue with the executions!” he declared. “You will have to excuse my daughter; she is a delicate and gentle flower, with a mind for those in need. Women by nature have weak and sensitive hearts, but your King shall never look away from justice!”
The feral cheering of the crowd swept over Dinah as she numbly watched in silence as her father ordered the sword brought down again and again on the remaining prisoners, until there was only a bloody block left, and a clear sky above to witness it. She longed to close her eyes, but kept them open, staring blankly at the proceedings, at the headless forms.
Later, she would return to the castle for the feast and ball that accompanied Execution Day. She would eat roasted birds decked with every imaginable spice, she would dance with Wonderland’s most eligible bachelors as her father looked on, and she would try to smile and be gracious as members of the court tried to gain her future favor with flattery. She talked of her upcoming coronation, of the King’s justice, of what the ladies of the court were wearing this month, of her brother’s latest hats. The conversations were hollow, dull, and easy to fake—she had learned long ago how to talk to an entire room without thinking once. But her mind never left the chopping block, her conscience whispering that she had caused an innocent woman to lose her head.