Queen of Hearts: The Crown (Queen of Hearts Saga #1)(58)
“What do you want?” she pleaded angrily. “Let me sleep!”
Morte stared at her blankly until it occurred to her: he wanted her to ride him. The thought made her glad, but she was unsure how to get onto him. She sometimes had a hard time mounting Speckle, and Morte was twice his height and had no saddle. Using his mane to get up seemed a sure way to die a painful death, plus she could never muster the energy to pull herself up. Morte lifted his hoof again and held it aloft, then brought it down with a resounding thud.
Oh. Her body trembling with exhaustion, Dinah laid her hand against Morte’s side. She could feel the monstrous heaving of his ribs, the pounding of his strong heart. He lifted his hoof. She gently placed her boot on the end of the spikes, balancing ever so carefully, aware that the spikes could easily impale her foot if the weight wasn’t distributed right. Eyes closed, she mumbled a tiny prayer and stepped up. The spikes pushed deep into her boot as Morte lifted his leg. Dinah flew up, up, up until she was at the right height to pull herself onto Morte’s back. His expansive back was comfortingly warm. The muscles of her legs gave a painful throb as they resumed their position straddling Morte’s thick neck, but she could not have been more grateful to be sitting. Dinah raised her voice to command him and then thought better of it. She sat quietly until Morte broke into a quick trot back in the direction they came. It was not the mad sprinting that had brought them here, but it was three times faster than Dinah would have gone if she had been able to sprint the entire way. The motion cradled her, and Dinah closed her eyes, resting her body against his large head. She fell asleep quickly.
The striped Wonderland moon was high in the sky when the ceasing of Morte’s trotting woke her. She looked around and let out a happy sigh when she recognized the field, the creek bed where they had originally begun. How quickly this had come to seem like a safe place, this tiny valley. She slid down Morte’s side, unsure of how else she would get down from his towering height. Her leg brushed one of the bone spikes, which left a thin scrape down the length of her shin. Morte took deep gulps from the creek and Dinah filled her waterskin for the second time. She found her sword lying on some mottled leaves and strapped it over her bag, which was hiding behind a leafy bush. Dinah heaved both onto her shoulders. It was time to move; her father was probably closing in on them. She had walked too far, but hopefully it was enough, enough to throw off the trackers, enough to fool Cheshire. She said a silent prayer that they would take the bait.
Dinah began limping toward the woods, relieved to hear Morte’s heavy footsteps following her. Several of the colossal trees guarding the edge of the wood twisted their trunks slightly in her direction as she walked past. Dinah let her hands play across her sword hilt, reassured by its presence. I will not be afraid of this wood, she told herself, because my fight to live does not begin now. I have been fighting all my life, I just didn’t know it. My fight began when I was born to my father, who feared the day I would assume the throne, and I am safer in these woods than I ever was in his palace. I did not die today, so I will not fear death tomorrow. The thought gave her courage, though she doubted that her courage would remain. She looked back at Morte, following several hundred yards behind, his ears pressed flat against his head. Even the deadly Hornhooves feared the Twisted Wood. Fear churned the insides of her stomach. Dinah drew her sword, and with that, the former Princess of Wonderland and her black devil steed disappeared into the Twisted Wood, leaving nothing behind but a false trail and the distant whiff of a crown.
Enjoy a Sneak Peek of the Rest of the Queen of Hearts Trilogy:
The white roses were painted red. That was the first thing Dinah noticed as she strolled proudly toward the execution platform, her crowned head held high. The white garden roses, the ones she had lovingly planted with her mother so long ago, were spotted and slashed with deep ruby. Blood was splattered across the white-and-black cobblestones, a deep crimson arching across the palace’s sidewalks and gardens. The roses had gotten the worst of it, as evidenced by the many bodies that lay curled against the vines, as if these men were merely taking a nap in their fragrant blooms…
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to the wondrous people who made this novel possible:
Ryan Oakes: for his endless feedback, support, and the sheer power of his belief in this novel, which propelled it from a vague idea into a tangible reality. Thank you for your unflagging love, your creative thinking, and your amusing knowledge about fantasy and fight training. Thank you for giving me the strength to stay true to my instincts and story.
For Maine: you are a wonder.
For Ron McCulley and Tricia McCulley, who are a model of patience, support, and just the right amount of parental devotion: thank you.
My elegant sister, Cynthia McCulley: thanks for always putting a smile on my face, and for agreeing to be a horse. Your shared love for dramatic music helped write this novel’s most exciting scenes. The next one is for you.
Beloved friends who helped this process by just being their superb selves as the story unfolded—Kimberly Stein, Sarah Glover, Emily Kiebel, Cassandra Splittgerber, Elizabeth Wagner, Jordan Powers, Terri Miller, Nicole London, Katie Hall, and Karen Groves: thanks for listening when I described something in my head for hours.
My intimidating test readers, Michelle Rehme, Erika Bates, Jen Lehmann, Denise McCulley, Patty and Sarah Jones, Deb Sjulstad, Angela Turner, Holly Cameron, and Stefanie Feustel: thank you for helping sculpt this novel into something I am very proud of.