She never told anyone about that day—not even Wardley. It was strange to think of it now, as she stepped over log after log, the muscles in her thighs clenching with the effort as she wove her way through the wood. A tiny stream crossed in front of them, and Dinah stopped to fill her waterskin. Morte lapped at the water and Dinah sat down on the muddy bank to rinse off her sore feet. The tinkling of the stream had a lulling power, and Dinah raised her face to take in the warm sun, resting for just a minute, just one more… one more memory….
Her mother had died on a winter afternoon, when huge mounds of pink snow were piled high against the iron gates outside the palace, and inside everyone was trying to stay warm. Her illness had been violent and sudden. One day, Dinah’s mother had been there—her face thin and worried, but alive—and the next she was lying in her bed, drenched with sweat so hot that it steamed in the cool air. Her lips, once the color of a ripe fig, were blue and withered, and her eyes were somehow gone already—they looked past Dinah, as if the Queen were seeing someone else. The White Fever had raged through Wonderland Proper that year—a quick illness that turned a person’s nails white before it swiftly delivered them to the grave, although it was curious that no one in the palace had gotten it, aside from her mother.
Dinah hadn’t been allowed to touch her mother, or even to go near her bedside. She stood sobbing in the doorway, Harris’s arms wrapped firmly around her, holding her back as she watched her mother’s body convulse and twist in pain. Charles was not allowed in the room, and the King was nowhere to be seen as Davianna took her last breath, her eyes trained on Dinah as she whispered her goodbyes, her body shaking with the effort.
“Dinah, oh my wild girl. You so are smart, just like him. Be gentle my dear, take heart. Be a good queen. Take care of your brother.”
Dinah wept, her fat tears dripping off of her chin. “I will Momma, I will. I love you. I love you.”
The hint of a smile brushed across Davianna’s face. “I love you too….”
The conversation had exhausted the Queen, and it wasn’t long after that she fell into a heavy sleep, never to wake again. The rising of her chest slowed until it ceased. The Queen was declared dead. Her father, her servants, Harris, everyone who had known her mother, wailed. Cheshire’s dark eyes filled with clever crocodile tears. The Cards came and went; a priest, wearing long red robes covered with hearts, rang a tiny silver bell outside her window. Another bell from somewhere down below rang in return. Suddenly, the entire kingdom was ringing their bells, and the sound of it rose up through the courtyard and in through the open window as a swirl of pink snow rested on her mother’s lips.
Dinah screamed and flailed in Harris’s arms as the thin ruby crown was removed from her mother’s head. The priest held it over open flames until the crown glowed a dim red, as if lit from within. She realized with a start that it was a precautionary measure, to cleanse it from the fever. He walked over to Dinah as he blew on the crown to cool it.
“The Queen is dead. Long live the future Queen of Wonderland.” He placed the crown on her head, the heat of it scorching the tips of her ears. Harris turned and carried her out of the room, and as he turned, Dinah was given one last glance at her mother’s face, her beauty siphoned away by death. As they covered her with a gray sheet, Dinah’s wails bounced off the stone walls. Taking a cue from her father, Dinah had built a wall around that memory, thick as stone and impregnable to wandering thoughts. But here, in the depths of the Twisted Wood, it had been so easy to remember. She could smell the putrid air of the bedchamber, could see the fear in Harris’s eyes as the hot crown was laid on her head.
Dinah wiped her eyes as she pushed her blistered feet into the cool stream. The relief was instant and it occurred to Dinah that she could possibly stay here forever, in this tiny lovely part of the wood, where all the trees were white and the huge dark-blue and deep-green veiny leaves stretched out over the ground. . But she couldn’t. Not yet. After a few moments, Dinah pulled her feet out of the stream, delicately wrapped them with the remaining strips of linen and pushed them back into her boots, now instruments of torture. She watched silently as a fiery red hawk danced and dipped over the horizon, such a thing of beauty. She looked hopefully over at Morte, wishing he would lift his leg and have mercy on her. He did not, but rather stared off into the distance, his massive black head tilted with interest.
“I guess we’ll be walking then,” groaned Dinah. It was nice to hear a voice—any voice, even if it was her own. They continued walking northeast. Her march to starvation, as Dinah had begun to think of it, dragged on.
The tracking hawk continued to circle lazily overhead.
Chapter Three