The orchard in itself was marvelous—truly, a wonder—but nothing could compare with what Dinah was smelling: home. Tarts. Tea. In the back of her mind, she knew that she was being led, and yet, the smell was everything she missed: Harris and Wardley and warm baths and the palace. Her palace. Lights flickered ahead of her in the orchard and she slowed her walk. A nagging voice inside ordered her to draw her dagger, and she obeyed, shielding her eyes from heart-shaped lanterns that seemed to float among the trees. Finally, she emerged from the trees into a small clearing. A long table, magnificently set with towering tea cups in every shade and adorned with buckets of flowers, stood before her. The table was covered with all of her favorite Wonderland tarts: raspberry and cream, whipped limes and butter roses, deep cocoa mixed with powdered jam. They rested alongside haphazardly piled plates and cups, candles and steaming glasses of hot tea.
A bright pink checkered tablecloth brushed against the tall grass, and in the middle sat a cake. It was a plain white cake with a simple design frosted on the top: a heart, a single red heart. Dinah’s own heart clenched, and she clutched her dagger as she began to back away from the table. A light stirred in the trees, and she watched as a tall figure dressed in an elaborate purple robe stepped forward and sat down at the table. His long fingers reached out and grasped a cup of tea before pulling it up to his thin lips. He blew on the steam and took a long sip.
“Mmm. Hello, Your Highness,” he said silkily, before setting the cup back down. “Won’t you have a cup of tea with me? Nothing would make me happier.”
Dinah felt the air whoosh out of her chest and saw the orchard spin around her. The man leaned back in his seat and gestured to the table. “Please sit. You wouldn’t want it to get cold.” Cheshire’s wicked grin seemed to stretch to the end of the valley. “Cat got your tongue?”
Chapter Eleven
Dinah was having trouble breathing. Her lungs pressed against her chest, her head against her shoulders—everything, everything was tucking itself into a wild panic and she couldn’t quite understand what was happening. There was a table full of food, lights in the trees, and then there was the man—THAT man—responsible for so much pain, for turning her father against her, for helping her father murder her brother and crown Vittiore. Cheshire, the cleverest man in Wonderland. He was right there, his impossibly long body stretched out on a wooden chair, sipping tea like he hadn’t a single care in the world. A peppered goatee had stretched across his rubbery face since she had last seen him, and his black hair and eyes glistened with malice in the flickering candlelight. A purple rope tied over a plum tunic cinched his waist, and as he took a lavish bite of one of the cocoa tarts, sugar dusted the tip of his brooch, which was adorned with jeweled symbols of the four cards. It symbolized that he controlled ALL of the Cards.
Dinah noticed the dagger that sat innocently in front of him—its handle turned inward—his weapon of choice, at the ready if she should attack him. Unmoved by her presence, he licked the tips of his fingers.
“Mmm… this one is delicious.” His voice jarred Dinah back from the dark paralyzed place in her mind, and her hand brushed the tip of her dagger. His eyes followed her fingers. “I wouldn’t throw that, Princess. I’m sure your skill has improved since arriving here, but if you do that you will get none of the answers you seek, and I believe you seek answers more than you seek revenge, at least at this moment. Trust me when I say I can give you both.”
Dinah narrowed her eyes and pulled her dagger out of its sheath. Her voice finally clawed its way up her throat. “Tell me one reason why I shouldn’t I kill you where you sit,” she hissed. “Tell me why I shouldn’t slit your throat open right here, and then dine on these tarts as your blood pools over the table. I’d do it happily.”
Cheshire’s eyes sparkled as he looked through her. “Because then you’ll hardly enjoy them. Tarts and blood are not complementary on the palate. Also, it’s bad manners, or so your mother should have taught you.” My mother. How dare he? Dinah was on him in a second, holding his neck and pressing the blade of the dagger against his main artery. She yanked his head back by his greasy black hair. Tarts spilled from their elaborately orchestrated places as his legs slammed against the corner of the table. He twisted suddenly, and Dinah loosened her grip on the dagger, wary of cutting into his thin neck skin. She did want answers—but she also wanted him to feel the fear that could overcome a person in seconds, like diving into icy water. He twisted quickly and furiously, and she pulled back her blade, and then suddenly he was behind her, pressing his body against hers, his hand not on his dagger but wrapped around her mouth. She had made a fatal mistake.
His mouth brushed her ear. “Does this feel familiar, Princess?” he hissed. Then he lowered his voice significantly and Dinah felt chills rush up her spine. “Perhaps from the night I saved your life and sent you running with a bag strapped across your shoulders? The night when I told you to GO NOW, and yet, like an idiot, you visited Charles’s chamber instead?” Dinah’s body went weak. Cheshire—he was the stranger who had saved her life? She stopped struggling and stood stunned in the clearing.