Queen of Hearts Complete Collection: Queen of Hearts; Blood of Wonderland; War of the Cards. Colleen Oakes
They walked in silence, the heavy steps of the Heart Cards clanking behind them.
“It’s a lovely day outside, is it not? I am glad to see that spring is finally here,” whispered Vittiore.
“I prefer winter,” Dinah replied curtly. “I relish the frozen air blowing in from the Todren.”
Vittiore’s curls gave a slight shudder as she pushed open the door to her apartments. The stone hallway opened up into a bright, beautiful room. Vittiore’s windows faced the Western Slope, which eventually reached the sea. Several small towns inside Wonderland proper could be seen from her window. Dinah quietly marveled at how different Vittiore’s room was from hers. Dinah’s apartment was filled from floor to ceiling with bookshelves. It was large and decorated with ancient treasures—globes and tiny ship models, but it would never be called lovely. It was designed for a man, for the heir her father once dreamed he would have.
Vittiore’s room was the very definition of lovely. It was airy and light, very different from when Dinah had seen it last, when everything was dark and draped with black fabric, a sign of mourning for her mother. Now, gossamer pastel fabrics draped the walls, moving slightly in the breeze. Every piece of furniture was painted a pale blue, and her upholstery was a swirl of bright, pretty colors. A white peacock strutted proudly across the room, pecking at Dinah’s feet. Vittiore scooped him up.
“This is Gryphon.” She petted the bird’s head. He gave a happy shiver. “My tea room is over here, by the window.”
Her rose tea table was tiny, Dinah noted. She barely had enough room to sit across from Vittiore without their elbows touching. She must always have tea alone, she thought, thankful that her own tea table was large enough to fit Harris and Emily alongside her. Palma and Nanda hovered over the table, watching Dinah’s every move with their meticulously painted eyes and dramatically arched brows.
Vittiore noticed Dinah’s frown as Palma set down a clear-glass teacup. “I think the princess and I will have tea privately. Leave us.”
“But, Your Grace, should the water run out, or the tarts need replenishing, how will we hear you? I really think it best we stay.”
Dinah could see from the interaction that Vittiore had little control over her maidservants—it was more the other way around. She seemed to fear them. Dinah wasn’t surprised. The Dee family was made up of relentless social climbers, their loyalty shifting with the wind.
Dinah snapped her fingers. “Leave us now. If you will not listen to the duchess, you will listen to me, your future queen. Make haste.”
Palma curtsied and left the room with a loud sigh.
“I’m sorry. They are very protective of me,” Vittiore apologized.
“It is not my concern.” Dinah shrugged.
There were a few moments of silence. Dinah looked at her cup. Since the steaming water had been poured over the prickly purple flower, one of its side petals had unfurled, filling half the cup with a strange glow. A tiny stream of red liquid now poured forth from the center of the flower, which tinted the cup and the water crimson.
“What is this? I’ve never seen this tea flower.”
Vittiore brought the cup to her lips and blew. “It’s called a blood thistle. It’s a wild shrub that grows out there, on the Western Slope.” She nodded her head to the window. “It makes the most wonderful tea.”
Dinah raised the cup to her lips. Please don’t be poison, she thought as she took a timid sip. The tea was delicious—a heavy citrus flavor danced across her tongue before it began to buzz with an earthy aftertaste.
“It is wonderful,” Dinah reluctantly agreed. She sipped the tea again with casual ease. “Do you know a woman who goes by the name Faina Baker?”
Vittiore choked on her tea and dropped her cup, which exploded against the plate. Bloodred tea splashed over the collar of her peach dress, the red spreading from fold to fold. Vittiore sputtered. “Oh, I’m so clumsy. I’m sorry. My hands have always had a shake.” She began to wipe up the tea on the table. Dinah added her napkin to the effort. “No, no. I’ve never heard that name. Why do you ask?”
Dinah decided to be shrewd. “It’s just a name I overheard.”
Vittiore’s already-pale skin had turned a pasty shade of white, but she seemed to have regained her composure. “It is a sadness. I pray for all those imprisoned in the Black Towers, especially women.”
Dinah arched her eyebrow. She had never mentioned the Black Towers or the fact that Faina was a prisoner there. Vittiore was obviously unhinged. Behind Dinah, a door shut as Nanda left the room. She had been quietly listening.
Dinah stirred some sugar into her tea. “Tell me again where you grew up? I don’t think we’ve ever actually spoken since your”—she paused—“arrival on our doorstep.”
Vittiore took a deep breath. Her eyes looked to the left. “I was born just inside the Twisted Wood, at the base of the Yurkei Mountains. I was born in the early autumn. Your father had camped at our village during his great battle with the Yurkei and met my mother. They fell into lust.”
“While he was still married. To my mother, the queen.”
Vittiore blinked. “Yes. I’m sorry, I forget that sometimes. It was not right of him to be unfaithful to your mother. I believe he was simply seeking emotional comfort in my mother’s arms, nothing more.”
“And your mother?” asked Dinah.
Vittiore’s eyes filled with tears. “She was a wonderful woman. Her body matched her nature—soft and tender. By the time I was brought here when I was fifteen, my mother was long dead.” Her voice caught in her throat. Dinah waited patiently for her to finish. “I am so blessed to have such a loving and gracious father, and so happy to be included in the Royal Line of Hearts. For even though my mother was common born, our father is a great king.”
“Indeed,” muttered Dinah, her mind churning. “Do you miss the Yurkei Mountains?”
“Sometimes. They were so large, a permanent shadow over our village. However, I am glad to be here now, in this lovely palace.” Her hand shook. “Although, to be honest, it can be lonely. I visit your brother often.”
Dinah couldn’t hide her shock. Quintrell and Lucy had never mentioned anything about Vittiore visiting. She brought her cup down with a clink—the saucer underneath it cracked. “I was not aware of that. What reason could you possibly have to visit my brother?”
“There is an innocence about Charles that puts me at ease. He’s mad, but he’s also genuine.” She gazed out the window. “He’s so unlike anyone else in this palace. Charles has no motives or politics. His world is one of wonder, something that being a part of the royal family doesn’t usually grant.”
You aren’t part of the royal family, thought Dinah. Not really.
“Do you miss your mother?” Vittiore inquired.
It seemed to Dinah that all the air was sucked out of the room at once. She was never asked about her mother. After the queen died, it was as if her mother had never existed. Only Harris mentioned her from time to time. Dinah found herself unable to produce a hateful reply, not about this. “I think about her smile. I think about the way she would smile to herself as she made her jeweled slippers. I remember how she would read stories to us, with different voices and accents. And how she would hold Charles—so fiercely, unlike everyone else, who held him as if he were made of glass.”
Tears gathered at the corners of Vittiore’s eyes. Her unflinching blue gaze unnerved Dinah, who found a fury rising inside. “Why would you ask about my mother? She was nothing to you, and she never even knew you existed. You should be thankful that she is dead, otherwise you would never have been allowed to come here, to be given everything from my father, simply out of pity