The Wonder (Queen of Hearts Saga #2)(5)

After a while, Morte had eaten his fill of the bear and lay down in the grasses, nuzzling his wounded flank. Now hesitant to leave his side, Dinah raced to fetch her bag and returned quickly to the Valley of Heads. Inside, she found her old bloody nightgown. The birds in the trees began singing their shrill cries once again as she ripped it into several long pieces. Head bowed, she gingerly approached the Hornhoov. He gave a soft nicker as she grew near, and Dinah took this as a good sign. Using her waterskin, she poured her remaining water over the deep cuts in Morte’s flank and chest. His giant head jerked in pain, but he did not move as she cleaned the wounds using the water and her hands. As gently as she could, Dinah laid the pieces of cloth over the bloody scrapes and used her hands to press them down until the blood dried against the cloth, until they would stay.

She stood and walked toward the dead bear, its chest and head nothing more than ground meat. This would take a strong stomach, she told herself, but it must be done. It was imperative to her survival that Morte trust her, understanding that she knew what he was. He wasn’t a pet. He wasn’t hers. Brandishing the dagger she had pulled from her bag, Dinah leaned over the bear, took a deep breath, and began cutting the bear’s pelt away from its body. It was grueling work—by the time Dinah was done, the sun was setting low in the east and she could see that the night would be lit by a single visible star.

Blood was smeared to her elbows, her hair matted and sweaty, both of her hands trembling with pain. Her two broken fingers throbbed, and the cut in her hand seemed to have opened again, its blood mingling with the bear’s. But finally she had it, she had the pelt. It was thick and soft, the size of a small blanket, shaped into a jagged square. In a nearby creek, Dinah rinsed out the blood.

Cradling the wet pelt in her arms, Dinah brought it before Morte. The Hornhoov sniffed at the pelt and raised his onyx head to look at Dinah. She held her breath as she laid it across his wide back, the trophy from his kill. Hand trembling, she reached forward and placed it just for a minute on his side. She let it linger there until Morte nipped at her arm. Her body weary in a way that Dinah hadn’t previously known existed, she cleaned off the dagger, forced herself to swallow a piece of bird meat, packed up her bag, and took a long look back at the Valley of Heads. The setting sun lay heavy over the misty grasses, and the whole area simmered in a warm glow. The insect that resembled toast strutted proudly past Dinah, no doubt on its way back to the milky tree that gave it life. Dinah bit her lip and began walking east as the forest descended into darkness. She took only a few paces before she heard Morte’s thudding hooves behind her, cracking branches as he walked. Soon, he was barely an arm’s length away. The stench of death was all around him, but to Dinah, he was still a welcome smell.





Chapter Two


The days stretched into a week, or so Dinah guessed by watching the rising and setting of the Wonderland sun, west to east, west to east. She would rise in the morning and take stock of her supplies in the bag—mentally repeating them to herself in an effort to maintain her sanity. Five loaves of bread, ten pieces of bird meat. Three loaves of bread, seven pieces of bird meat. One loaf of bread, three pieces of bird meat. Then it was time to find water, which, thank the Wonderland gods, had not been difficult. The Twisted Wood was full of tiny creeks crookedly spreading their fingers into little pools of water, perfect for filling her waterskin or providing Morte with a well-deserved drink. He often almost drained the pools, leaving behind a black puddle full of weeds and muck. Taking their time, they both rested and ate, slowly making their way deeper into the wood.

Since they had fled the stables, Morte was actually gaining weight on Wonderland’s bountiful grasses and plant life. His inky coat glistened in the sun, his muscles hard and ready. He looked healthy and strong, even with his healing wounds. Dinah was not faring as well. As she ripped into her bird meat and bread every morning, she was painfully aware that she was starving, and that each meal meant that her provisions were dwindling. What would she do when the food ran out? She had been diligent about plucking any available fruit from the trees—a Julla Tree, with its sharp and fuzzy black melons, a pink peach tree, a handful of berries. Dinah would shovel them into her mouth, her lips dark with their ripe juices. Stepping over plants and overturned logs, she walked through countless trees stretching on forever. At night, when she settled into a thick nest of leaves or particularly soft dirt, she would set out to eat only a half loaf of her bread, and always ended up eating the entire thing.

This raw hunger was something she had never experienced—a constant jab of emptiness, an endless imagining of all the plates of food that had been available to her in the palace. She thought again and again of all the tarts she had thrown out, all the food left on her plate when she was done eating, of the banquets and balls where trays of food had been piled high above her head. Lavish displays of exotic bird breasts, creatively carved pies, bubbling wine glasses, and rich fruits. All that food, wasted; all the food she had taken for granted. This was what she thought about when she walked, when the hunger pains became so intense that she gasped out loud and Morte jerked his head up, alarmed. She thought about food, and what she would do when the food ran out. All the time, she walked. Her brown boots, once a deep, regal red but now covered to the tip with brown mud, crunched over dead tree branches, thick foliage, and exotic orchids.

Since the bear attack, Dinah had been more aware of how much noise she made. Hammering the tree with her sword in a moment of frenzy had no doubt attracted him. Her breathing was silent, and she tried to step softly, even when her legs felt as if they were made of iron. She tried to heighten her senses—what did she hear, what could she smell? She should have seen the bear—he was bright white, for gods’ sake—and yet, her eyes had betrayed her. She had come within an inch of her life because she hadn’t been paying attention. It wouldn’t happen again.