Queen of Hearts: The Crown (Queen of Hearts Saga #1)(15)
Quintrell was her assistant—a strapping lad who handled the physical labor involved with Charles’s care. He wrestled Charles into the swan-shaped tub once a week and scrubbed him down with hedgehog skins while the boy screamed and writhed. He was also the only one who could force Charles to eat when he was in one of his hat-making furies. Charles periodically went through long periods where he saw nothing but fabric and stitching—fits of wild, brilliant mania that would last for days. Dinah had no idea how Lucy and Quintrell dealt with Charles day in and day out, but they seemed content. Other than Dinah, they were the only ones who truly loved him.
Though he was her brother, Dinah felt that she floated in a strange emotional fog with Charles—she loved him dearly, but her love was always tinged with confusion. She couldn’t deal with him the way Lucy and Quintrell did. Charles recognized her most weeks, but when he didn’t, Dinah felt betrayed, even more alone than usual. Dinah watched in amazement as Lucy wrinkled her face, even more than it already was, as she sorted buttons. She cleared her throat, preparing to respond to Dinah’s question. “How is he doing, Your Highness? Well, he has created two hats in the last twenty days, which is fast for him—the fuchsia beret with swallow’s eggs, and the Gryphon top hat, which will be delivered to the Lord and Lady Clutessa next week. Both works were inspired by the birds that have nested just outside of the window.”
Dinah nodded. Working for Charles had turned both Lucy and Quintrell into hatters as well—they were as skilled and knowledgeable as any milliner in town could ever be.
“They sound beautiful. But, I was asking about Charles. Has he been well?” Quintrell fidgeted nervously. Dinah smiled. “Well, out with it.”
“Your Grace, three nights past, I woke up to loud giggling coming from the atrium.” Quintrell glanced nervously at Lucy. She placed her withered hand on his arm and nodded for him to continue. “When I came out into the room, Charles was up on one of the staircases. He . . . ,” Quintrell’s voice caught in his throat.
Lucy stepped forward. “Charles had one of the stitching needles dug into his arm. He was squeezing the blood out and letting it drip onto the mulberry silk.”
A painful gasp escaped from Dinah’s lips. “Why, why would he DO that?”
Lucy refused to meet her eyes. “He said the dye wasn’t the right shade of red. He was fixing it. We tried to get the needle away from him, but he was on the edge of the staircase, so. . . .”
“So you let him do it, rather than risk him falling.”
They both nodded. Dinah was tempted to rage at them the way she had raged at the Spade, but it was no use. She knew Charles, and she knew that he couldn’t be controlled, bottled, or taught. His mind worked a different way—short flashes of brilliance followed by dark plunges into his macabre imaginary world.
“Did you take away all of his sewing needles?”
“Yes, Your Highness. We only let him use the small needles now, which have actually led to the production of some very detailed, elaborate work.”
Dinah looked over at Charles, who was gleefully slashing apple-green taffeta into thin ribbons with his long fingernails. She walked over and kissed him on the side of the head. His dirty hair, ever matted and wild, always smelled a bit like her mother.
“I have to go now, but I’ll be back in a few days,” she told him.
Charles whipped his head around to stare at animals on the ceiling and began singing. “Days and nights, the King sings. Tusks and musks and wooble fire. He sings with a black tongue, fire in his lungs, his lungs.”
“Where did the seahorse go?” Dinah asked.
Charles opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, stroking it slowly. “Down, down, down the rabbit hole!” he crowed.
Dinah shut her eyes.
“Not to worry, Your Highness; we’ll find it,” Lucy promised, before she returned to sorting buttons.
Charles was still singing when Dinah walked out of the atrium, her heart compressing with each step as the song, so lovely and mad, followed her down the marble hallways as she walked back to her chambers.
Lying in front of her door was an elaborately folded invitation—her summons to the Royal Croquet Game. It had already been opened, the seal of the King broken. With a sigh, she untied the seven pink ribbons that held the card in place. Something was leaking through the envelope—ink? Dinah pulled the card out and tilted the elaborate calligraphy into the light.
Your presence for the Royal Croquet Game is requested. The Princess will play in the final game, her opponents, the Duchess and the King of Hearts.
Dinah felt the air whoosh out of her lungs. She had never played against her father before, ever. She was always set against a lady of the court—someone she could easily beat, and the King was always paired with Xavier Juflee, The Knave of Hearts.
The black liquid dripped again, this time landing on her shoe. Dinah turned the envelope upside down with a shake. The head of a white mouse, severed at the neck, fell out of the envelope and bounced on the floor. Dinah leapt back with a shriek. Shaking, she turned the invitation over, but there was nothing on it. Kneeling, she touched the mouse head with the end of a trembling finger. A new feeling shot through her, and she felt wide awake as she stared at the tiny lips of the mouse, pulled back in a macabre smile. Dinah was both fascinated and afraid, devastated that there was even more reason to dread tomorrow.