Dinah didn’t need to be told twice, or have time to consider the source of her advice. She quietly dismounted Morte and bid him to follow her into a densely leafy area of the trees, stumbling many times over things she could not see. Something slithered over her boot and she forced herself not to scream. It was a consuming darkness. The stars must be on the other side of the sky tonight, she thought, hiding from this terrible noise. She could see almost nothing, save the tips of the trees as they reached for the gray night sky. The sounds of the Cards were all around her; the violent breaking of tree branches, the clanking of a cup against a thigh, horses pawing the ground, and a singular sound that chilled her blood—the thundering sound of another Hornhoov crashing through the brush.
She stood still, considering how best to hide. And how did one hide Morte? She looked over at him in the darkness but was surprised that she could see almost nothing—the black of his coat blended effortlessly with the trees and night. I have to disappear, she thought. Disappear into the night. The dress. Moving as quickly as she dared, Dinah untied the flaps on her bag and rummaged through it, her hands feeling for the thick, heavy fabric. When it seemed she had touched everything in her bag except for what she needed, Dinah’s hand felt it—the heavy black dress. She pulled it out, unfurling it against the starless night. Dinah could barely see her hand in front of her face, let alone the pitch-black fabric of the dress. Dropping her sword to the ground, she pulled the dress over her head. It slipped over her easily, the ends of the dress brushing the ground. Reaching back, she felt that the dress collar was lined with a hood; Dinah pulled the thin black linen over her dark hair and face. It was long enough to cover everything, and the fabric dusted her chin. She pulled her hands into the sleeves so that they would not show and inched up next to a particularly wide tree, leaning into the trunk.
The voices were almost on top of her now—they would be on her in seconds, with their swords and horses and torches. She looked over at Morte, who stood as still as she was, white steam hissing out of his nostrils. It was taking every inch of his control not to leap into the fight. Dinah reached out and felt for his nostrils. She gently and carefully laid her hand over his muzzle. Her voice shaking, she murmured, “Still…, still….” The steam stopped and Morte knelt on the ground, becoming one with the thick foliage around him. Perhaps the animal knew he could not win this fight, not tonight, not while he was still partially wounded from the bear. Either way, Dinah could no longer see him; she pressed her face and body up against the tree and waited for them to come. Quivers of fear crawled up from her legs and infested her chest. Her knees felt weak. She clutched at her heart.
“Don’t move,” hissed the same voice from before. Was it above her? “Don’t move, don’t breathe and the Cards shouldn’t see you.” Dinah froze, a black statue in the woods. Don’t breathe. Don’t think. She closed her eyes as the Cards swarmed around them. Several of them trampled right past her—one almost tripping over Morte before he suddenly changed direction and veered to the right. He should be thankful to be alive, she thought, as that would have ended in his very gruesome death. Two brushed past the tree she was leaning against and Dinah clenched her hands inside the sleeves to keep from fainting. Unable to raise her head for fear of being seen, Dinah kept her eyes glued to the ground. She could see nothing except the occasional flash of a torch as it was waved in the darkness, the woods swallowing the light in their vast space. She could hear them scrambling, hear the swords being drawn and the arrows being cocked, the sounds of weathered breathing and water canteens and flags flapping in the wind, as loud as a trumpet’s blast.
The voices of the Cards rose up from the trees. “She was here!” “I heard her, Your Majesty!” “She’s over there!” The cacophony of sounds bouncing through the woods made it very hard to tell where each man was—and she could see that the Cards were disoriented and scattered. They were unaccustomed to the trees, to the starless night. To Dinah’s horror, she felt the Earth shake beneath her feet and heard the singular plodding with which she had grown so familiar. She dared to raise her face a few inches. The white Hornhoov carrying her father had entered the trees, with Cheshire following behind him. Her father sat proud and furious atop a female half the height of Morte, but still gigantic. He carried a torch, so clearly visible in the darkness that surrounded the rest of the Cards. He wore his red armor, a black heart slashed boldly across the chest. The gold of his crown glinted in the firelight, his eyes lit up like flames. He held the reins on the Hornhoov in one hand and his Heartsword in the other, ready to kill. He seemed to stare right at Dinah, right through her. Beside him, Cheshire sat with his dagger clutched loosely as he scanned the wood, his black, catlike eyes searching each tree, his purple cloak draped over the flank of his steed.