Food. Dinah was suddenly aware of a gnawing emptiness in her stomach, a hunger stronger than she had ever experienced. Legs trembling beneath her, she pushed herself to her feet, and walked very slowly toward her bag. She untied the strings, letting it fall open before her, her hands searching wildly for food. It wasn’t long until she found a second bag inside the first, filled with dried bird meat, small loaves of bread, and fresh berries. Dinah ripped into the bread, chewing quickly and swallowing large chunks. She was convinced that nothing had ever tasted as good as this plain bread, and she followed it with a handful of berries. There was a small waterskin inside the bag, which she filled with water from the creek. The liquid was brown and muddy, but it still flowed down her throat like sweet nectar, and Dinah drank until she felt that she might be sick.
Her stomach full but unsettled, Dinah finally felt her mind begin to clear as she stared in shock at Morte, his mane tousled wildly in the wind. The truth played over her mind in waves. Her father had killed her brother. The stranger had warned her, packed this bag, and sent her on her way. If she had followed his instructions, there would have been no chase. She would have slipped away quietly into the night, heading in whatever direction best suited her. But she had to see Charles, had to see his broken body, had to see Lucy and Quintrell piled on top of each other like old dresses in the closet. She had to see Wardley. Wardley, her love. Wardley had saved her and she had stabbed him in return. What would happen to him? How would he possibly find her again? Would her father spare his life because of his liking for the boy or would he take his head because of his loyalty to Dinah? Hopefully the King would see the very-real stab wound she had given him and be convinced, but he was generally untrusting. What would become of Harris and Emily? A tear rolled down her cheek as she thought of her kindly guardian waking up, finding her gone. Would he believe that she had done it? That she had knocked him unconscious and killed her own brother? Dinah shook her head. Never. Harris knew her true self, but hopefully he had the good sense to hide his loyalty from the King.
The Twisted Wood gave a loud groan behind her, followed by the creaking of the trees consciously shifting their wide branches. Every time Dinah blinked she could see her father, the rage on his face, the Heartsword raised above his head, the bloody look in his eyes. He would have killed her if he had caught her, and he would kill her now if he caught up with her. Dinah quickly got to her feet, her thighs aching and raw from clenching them around Morte’s neck. The King of Hearts would be coming back, with horses and Cards and trackers. Several of the Spades were trained in tracking, and they would find her easily out here.
Dinah took a look around to fully understand her situation. They were on the edge of the Twisted Wood, only three hundred feet of field before the trees—giant colossal trees that looked angry and unwelcoming. The clearing was lovely, a hilly field that hid a small creek bed, its rocky ground covered in spotted purple wildflowers and yellow shrubs. As Morte munched on wild grasses, the scene was almost picturesque—a rural fantasy, something she would paint in her art lessons. The raw beauty of the moment mingled with Dinah’s lingering terror and she clutched at her chest. The King would return; in fact, he was probably already on his way. She had to think, had to move. She didn’t have time to linger on what had happened—this was not the time to grieve. Dinah scurried over to the bag. The stranger had packed clothing, along with a few tools and food—two white linen tunics, brown wool pants, a belt, one heavy black dress, and deep-red riding boots—the boots of Heart Cards, she noted. Looking around sheepishly, Dinah pulled the thin white nightgown off over her head and shivered in the cool spring air as the breeze caressed her bare body. She pulled on the brown pants and a white tunic, and shoved her feet into the red riding boots. They fit perfectly. Moving quickly, she rolled up the nightgown and her wool cloak and shoved them back into the bag, both hands stinging with the effort.
I have to think differently now, she thought. I can use these things later; look how I needed them for my hand. She gingerly unwrapped the linen from her palm. The wound was ugly: a thick black and bloody slash that ran the length of her hand. She rewrapped the cut before splashing a palm full of creek water on her face. The sun was paused high in the sky, and the warmth on her skin made her sleepy. I have to focus, thought Dinah, as the wind blew her hair around her face. I have to be smart or they will find me all too easily. I can’t think about things like sleep right now.