Copyright

First published in the USA by HarperCollins Publishers Inc. in 2017

Simultaneously published in Great Britain by

HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2017

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd,

1 London Bridge Street,

London, SE1 9GF

The HarperCollins website address is

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © 2017 by Colleen Oakes

Jacket art © 2017 by Ruben Ireland

Jacket design by Jenna Stempel

Colleen Oakes asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of the work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008175429

Ebook Edition © 2016 ISBN: 9780008175436

Version: 2016-12-01

Dedication

This book is for Ryan, forever the good king of my heart

Epigraph

The Cat only grinned when it saw Alice. It looked good-natured, she thought: still it had very long claws and a great many teeth, so she felt that it ought to be treated with respect.

—Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

The Black Towers

Acknowledgments

Keep Reading …

Books by Colleen Oakes

About the Publisher

The former Princess of Wonderland was lost. Leaves crunched loudly beneath Dinah’s feet as she made her way through the Twisted Wood, her exhausted body groaning, her eyes taking in the maze of living trees that breathed above her. Not living in that they spoke or walked or had faces, but that they saw her—of this Dinah had no doubt. It was strange and unnerving, these eyes without eyes.

The trees of the Twisted Wood were taller than the Black Towers, and sometimes just as wide. The night before, Dinah had found herself not so much walking as maneuvering through them. Dinah folded her hands over her stomach—empty and ravenous, as always—and looked at the trees. Each tree was so different—some had bountiful blossoms of pink that swirled through their branches and up their trunks, some had velvety ferns that draped from weeping branches, and some were barren, with only their branches to shelter them. There were trees that grew sideways—long and low. Others were spindly towers of wavy bark, their branches shooting straight into the heavens. Some trees looked as though they had been burned; they were as black as night and their trunks gave off a faint aroma of ash. They were alive and thriving, however, as evidenced by the black and white swirled flowers that danced on the tips of their branches. It was incredible—and terrifying.

As Dinah walked, she considered how the trees knew everything. They knew that she had once been the Princess of Wonderland Palace. They knew that her father, the brutal King of Hearts, had betrayed her mere days before her coronation. He had murdered her beloved brother, Charles—once the infamous Mad Hatter—by throwing him out a window. They knew of the stranger who had sent her on her way, fleeing the palace on Morte, the devil steed, a Hornhoov whose bloodthirstiness was legendary. They knew Wardley, the love of her life, had promised to come for her. And they knew that her father was probably tracking her now.

It wasn’t just Dinah’s history that these trees knew—she could feel their keen awareness in her bones. These trees of the Twisted Wood knew who drew the location of the stars night after night. They knew each Yurkei and Wonderlander, those who embraced the dark and those who chose the light. Yes, the colossal trees of the Twisted Wood were aware, and that fact had both frightened and comforted her as she trekked through the wood with Morte following her, always at a distance of at least twelve paces. Farther and farther they wove their way into the wood, as the trees, always knowing, groaned and cracked around them.

Her stomach gave a loud growl and Dinah reached for her bag as she knelt on the forest floor, but not before she settled Wardley’s sword close beside her. She untied the brown straps attached to the muslin and slowly laid out its contents, taking a full inventory of what she had: two white linen tunics, a belt, one black dress, eight full loaves of bread, twelve large pieces of dried bird meat, a bag of rapidly rotting berries, the remnants of her bloody nightgown, and a sharp dagger. She pulled the dagger out of the bag. It was obviously expensive, the hilt inlaid with dozens of amethysts interspersed with rich swirls of silver and gold. The black gown beside it was heavy and completely devoid of color—it was the kind of thing that Dinah would wear but Vittiore would never let drape her shoulders.

Vittiore.

Dinah ground her teeth together, gripping the dagger. No doubt Vittiore would soon be crowned queen, taking Dinah’s place on the throne next to her father. It was all so clear to Dinah now, how Vittiore had always been part of the plot, always waiting in the wings to get her hands on Dinah’s crown. She had long suspected that Vittiore wasn’t exactly the poor child found in a sack that she claimed to be. Vittiore had been in on the plot to frame Dinah from the start. She’d been in on the plot to kill her brother, Charles. The king could never have pulled off such a coup without her willing participation. Dinah angrily closed her fist around the dagger hilt before forcing herself to calm down. She turned the dagger over in the sunlight. Maybe I can exchange it to buy food, Dinah thought, before she realized how silly that sounded. She would be going to no villages, no towns. Her father and Cheshire expected her to be weak, to look for help among Wonderlanders. She wouldn’t. She would just disappear into the wood, forever.

I will learn to survive, she thought. I will wait for Wardley and then we will find a boat and sail to the Other Worlds. The thought made her weary and morose. Heavy despair seemed to hover around her, waiting for the perfect opportunity to overwhelm. If Dinah didn’t keep moving, it would come for her swiftly. Her legs were sore when she pushed herself onto her feet and strapped the sword firmly across her back. Morte had fallen asleep beside her, and Dinah thought it best not to wake him. He no doubt needed the rest as much as she did, and waking an angry Hornhoov might lead to being crushed to death.

Making note of the path behind her, Dinah began wandering through the trees as she snacked on some berries. The wood seemed to go on forever in every direction. Tiny clusters of flowers brushed her face as she pushed past a tree that spiraled in on itself, its trunk circling into the sky. The tree was weeping a frosty milk that dripped down its branches and formed a white moat around the base of the trunk. Dinah knelt beside the tree and peered into the milky substance. Tiny pink insects with gossamer wings skated over the surface, dipping their long noses into the liquid. The milk was sucked up into their bodies and distributed into their veiny, transparent wings. The white substance then gave their wings a crumbly texture, like toasted bread. At this transformation, the insects tucked their wings back and walked away, looking more like tiny lizards than the butterflies they had resembled at the start. They looked at Dinah with indifference as they strolled away into the forest.

“Incredible,” murmured Dinah. She stood. The sun flashed on an unnatural shape in the distance as Dinah raised her eyes. It was tall and metallic—and not of the forest. She leaped backward, stumbled on a wide root, and fell. She scrambled for her weapon in the damp leaves as she struggled back to her feet. I am no warrior, she thought as her heart hammered in her ears. The metal continued to flash in the sun. Dinah advanced slowly, making her way through the trees, her sword leading the way. Trembling, Dinah clawed her way up a small embankment parallel to the flashing light to gain a better view.

The hill rose up next to a deep groove in the forest, and Dinah perched on the edge, preparing to see a battalion of soldiers waiting for her. Instead she found herself looking down into a valley … of heads? Dinah quickly counted dozens of them as she carefully made her way down the hill. Dirt rose when her boots hit the ground with a thud. The forest floor had changed—all around this particular valley, the foliage was thick and dense, with ankle-high ferns and roots tangling the ground. Here were only soft grasses that danced in the wind, their seeded tops brushing the carved heads. The heads were massive in size, most larger than Dinah’s ridiculously large bed back at the palace. Some of them were propped upright, which made it appear as if the rest of their bodies were buried underground and they were simply popping up for a look around. Some of the heads lay on their sides, their lips brushed with the burnt yellow grass. One head lay completely upside down, the blunt cut of its square neck facing the sun. That head was wearing a crown, the sharp tips of the crown anchoring the head into the soil. There was something familiar about it … Dinah ventured closer, making her way through the heads. She bent to look at the face and crown, her black hair brushing the dirt.

A wave of dizziness rushed over her as she realized she was looking at her father, the King of Hearts. She could tell by the crown, the same crown that encircled her father’s head now, and by his heavy cheeks. Though he was made entirely of shiny bronze metal, it looked so much like her father—the same unbending will etched across his brow, the same bloodlust running through his eyes, the same hint of an ironic smile that never quite blossomed. The upside-down head stared at Dinah, its hard eyes piercing her chest. Her heart thudding, she turned away to take in the others. They were all kings and queens of some sort. She recognized several members of the royal family—her grandfathers and grandmothers, dating all the way back to those who had been present at the building of the palace.

There was Queen Millay, famous for her gracious hospitality and striking beauty. Her head lay on its side, the pearl crown on top of it covered with a creeping, soft, green moss. Next to her lay her king, King Royce. He was famous for not being faithful to his diligent queen, and for making his mistress the Queen of Hearts after Millay had died. Dinah did not see the mistress’s head anywhere.

Twenty or so heads of what Dinah guessed to be Yurkei chiefs were here as well—strong, solid heads of handsome warriors carved from stone, crowned not with a piece of gold or silver, but with feathers or elaborate fabric swirls that dangled down and framed their bright, glowing eyes made of blue gemstones. Dinah found these the most haunting. The eyes of the Yurkei heads made her feel as if they were watching her as she walked along, as she touched each face and marveled at its size and beauty.

Sunlight reflected through the low clouds and sent a rippling shadow over the heads, making them look for a minute as if they were engaged in conversation—a never-ending dialogue of politics, land, and legend. Dinah was fascinated. Who made these, and why? When? How had they transported such massive sculptures into the forest without removing the trees that surrounded them? Dinah let her fingers run over the face of the current Yurkei chief, Mundoo, her father’s enemy. The metal was warm, perpetually kissed by the sun, and it felt soothing against her cut palm. The valley was utterly unnerving and yet, somehow, also strangely beautiful.

I will take Wardley here one day, she thought, if I can find it again. She wasn’t convinced that she could—she and Morte had twisted and wound their way through the wood not unlike the black snakes with silver eyes that she had seen in several trees so far. Together they had spiraled themselves into the deepest parts of the Twisted Wood, hoping to make their trail confusing and untraceable. How could she find her way back here, to this valley of her ancestors, who ruled when she would not? Had she been queen, would her head have one day graced this clearing? Now it would be Vittiore’s. She felt the blind fury rising up inside of her, that black hunger that clawed up her stomach and wrapped its arms around her heart when she was least expecting it. How dare they take her crown away? With a cry, Dinah flung her sword blade across the nearest tree, hacking and jabbing until the trunk was battered and flaking. She felt the tremors vibrate up the blade and into her arm, a jarring sensation that was more cathartic than painful. Both of her hands throbbed with pain, but she didn’t care.

“You killed him!” She sobbed, tears covering her face as she brought the blade of the sword down again and again against the rough trunk. “That was my crown! It was mine!” In wide arcs, she slammed her blade against the tree, the metal cutting into the wood deeper with each swipe. This wasn’t swordplay, this was something else, something she had never known before. It felt glorious and dangerous at the same time, intoxicating.

Dinah continued until her arms shook with exhaustion. She angrily flung the sword away to wipe the tears off her face. Taking ragged breaths, she leaned her head against the tree, her salty tears soaking into the now-exposed virgin white wood. From its towering height, the top of the tree let out a deep groan, and Dinah watched as the bark rippled up the tree like water. Several trunks twisted accusingly in her direction.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, forgive me.” She rested her now-bleeding hand against the raw wood, feeling the scars and notches she had left. “I’m sorry. They killed him. They took everything.” Sniffling, Dinah found herself looking again at the head of her father, the way his crown was dug into the ground, the way his neck bore the blunt cut of a sword. There was an aggressiveness to this statue that the others did not share. While the other heads were resting, his position was a punishment.

An unwelcome whisper was beginning to creep up her spine, a familiar, surreal feeling. It was the same feeling that she had awakened to that night in the palace, when a stranger in black was standing over her bed. She was being watched. Was it the heads? Dinah stared at the statues, her eyes jumping from face to face, but she saw no movement. They were not living things, only stone and metal. Dinah slowly picked up her sword from the base of the tree and held it in front of her, both sore hands clutched firmly around the hilt.

“Come out!” she screamed. “I know you’re there!” There was only silence in return as the heads stared back at her, unmoving, and the long grass waved in concentric circles around their necks. Dinah was backing up slowly, past one head, then another. There was something here—she could feel it. Had her father found her? Dinah spun around and her eye caught a glimpse of white moving swiftly through the high green grass. She would never make it to Morte in time. It was time to fight, time to die.

She saw the pelt of white emerge from the trees, and at first her mind wondered if her father was wearing a costume. Then she saw the claws, the black eyes, the red mouth that inspired the nightmares of Wonderland children. She heard the hungry gnashing of teeth and the licking of a fat, bloody tongue. It was a bear, and he was charging at her, letting out a roar that echoed off the metal heads and out into the wood. Dinah stood paralyzed with fear. She felt like she was in a dream, unmoving, watching death race swiftly toward her. I need to move, she told herself. Move, Dinah! Finally, her feet obeyed and Dinah sprinted toward the nearest head—an upright Yurkei chief, whose fabric crown circled lazily around his head and then looped down onto the ground. Without thinking, Dinah sheathed her sword and started her ascent, placing one foot onto his lips and pushing off the ground, grabbing hold of the chief’s long nose. The eyes didn’t provide anywhere to grasp, so Dinah moved sideways and pulled herself onto the man’s ear by holding the tip of the large feathers that rested against his temples. A spasm of pain ripped through her hands as she heaved herself up and over the heavy swath of fabric and beads that circled his head. She leaped off the tip of his fabric crown and tumbled onto the man’s head.

A roar came from below, so loud and terrifying that Dinah feared her nerves would rip apart. The bear had reached the head now. Dinah peeked cautiously over the edge. The bear was gigantic. He began pacing around the base of it, irately sniffing the ground where she had stood and pawing jagged trenches in the earth. Rising up on his hind legs, the bear’s shoulders were level to the chief’s eyes, just below Dinah’s face. He opened his mouth and let out a bloodcurdling roar. Dinah felt a rush of hot, rancid air blow over her face and she gagged as she smelled his potent breath—a mix of decaying meat and death. It reminded her of the Black Towers.

The bear raked his huge paws down the statue’s face and the terrible screech of bone meeting stone filled the air. He was a daunting creature, tall enough that his skull would brush the ceiling in her bathroom. His coat was two distinct shades of white—most of his fur was the shade of dirty cream, but the stripes that ran up from his stomach area to his visible spine were a bright, unspoiled, pure white, whiter than any garment or paint she had ever seen. His jaws snapped shut loudly as his milky eyes took in her face. Besides his massive mouth full of teeth, he also had two large fangs that rose up from the underside of his jaw. The head gave a tremor as the bear began rocking his weight against the statue. He means to knock it over, she thought with terror. The statue gave another tremble as the bear slammed his paws against the base and began digging in the mud around the chief’s neck.

Dinah had read about the white bears of the Twisted Wood. They were sometimes passed off as myth, and many theorized that there were only a handful left. They were hard to kill, which was a shame since their pelts were worth a small fortune. Her entire body trembled as she stared down at him. The bear slammed his huge body up against the head, and it gave a violent lurch. He huffed, frustrated, and continued digging around the base before rocking the head again and again, alternating one activity for the other. Sprays of dirt flew into the air. Dinah frantically looked around for some form of escape. The trees weren’t within reach; besides, she was certain the bear could climb anything that wasn’t stone. She could jump and run for it, but she was entirely sure the bear was faster. She would be dead in a matter of seconds. Perhaps if she could entice the bear higher, she could stab its face with the end of her sword, or perhaps blind it. That would give her the best chance.

Dinah leaned over the edge of the statue, her face low, the sword raised above her head. “I’m here!” she screamed. “Come and get me!” The bear gave her a confused look, its milky eyes focusing on her. Its jaws opened, and it let out a loud roar before charging the bottom of the statue. It hadn’t taken the bait, and Dinah braced herself for impact. The statue gave another violent lurch when the bear’s bulky body rammed against it. There was a moment when she thought the statue would stay upright, when it teetered on the edge of falling, but then Dinah was flying through the air and the sword dropped from her hand. She landed hard on her side and rolled into the deep grasses. She barely had time to look up before the bear was charging again. There was nothing she could do. She closed her eyes and waited for the attack.

It didn’t come.

Dinah opened her eyes. The bear was only about ten feet away from her, but it was crouched and still, the fur on its back raised up into a straight line. A thud echoed behind her, and Dinah turned her head. There stood Morte, his huge spiked hooves pawing the ground lustily. The bear began to pace back and forth as he eyed Morte’s ten thousand pounds of delicious horse meat, but also the bone spikes that protruded from his hooves. Even a white bear would think twice before attacking Morte. Dinah slowly crawled backward until Morte stood between her and the bear, which did not seem to notice her anymore.

The air stopped moving and for a second the valley of heads lay perfectly still, its grasses bent lazily over their stems. Dinah saw the sunlight glinting off her sword hilt. It lay next to the bear, who was swiping the ground in front of the blade with a fluid sideways motion, creating a small cloud of dirt. Morte let a long hiss of steam radiate out from his nostrils.

With a roar, the bear charged, and Morte responded in kind. They met in the middle with a terrible clash of claws and bone. In an instant they were both bleeding—the bear from its face, and Morte from his side. Together they were tangled, chest to chest. The bear reared up on its hind legs and brought its claws down on Morte’s side. The Hornhoov let out a high-pitched scream as the bear sank his teeth into the horse’s exposed chest, tearing off a large chunk of skin. Morte kicked the bear square in the chest before giving a great shake. Both the horse and the bear separated and charged again, tumbling to the ground in a flurry of thunder and blood. Morte landed on top this time and quickly reared himself up onto his back legs before bringing his massive hooves down onto the bear’s torso. Dinah heard a sickening crunch as the weight of the hooves and the bone spikes crushed the bear’s ribs and chest. Morte was stomping him to death.

The bear’s massive paw swiped at Morte, tearing jagged stripes across his muzzle. Morte stepped backward, shaking his head. The bear rolled over with a roar and righted himself. His walk was unsteady, and blood flowed freely from his gut. Morte was circling the bear now, letting out angry snorts as flecks of blood flew from his mouth. The bear lumbered sideways and then raced toward his opponent again. The Hornhoov spun around, but the bear latched on to Morte’s hindquarters. As the bear bit into Morte’s flank and his claws tore red gashes down Morte’s thighs, the massive steed let out a cry.

Unable to shake the bear by turning, Morte pushed up on his front legs. The bear lost his hold. With a strong kick of his back legs, Morte caught the bear square in the neck and sent the blood-covered beast sprawling backward.

In the sunlight, Morte’s muscles pulsed and rippled with pleasure—it was obvious to Dinah that though he was injured, he was enjoying the fight—and his crazed lust for fighting filled the air with a palpable stench. He turned to reposition himself. In that moment, Dinah saw instantly why the white bear would lose. The bear was acting out of instinct, out of hunger. His need was natural. Morte saw this as a battle—his brain was strategizing as they fought, and even though the bear outweighed him, Morte was adapting.

The bear charged again, but this time Morte was ready. Just as the bear reached him, Morte reared up and brought the bone spikes that surrounded his hooves straight up into the bear’s neck and face. The bear let out a terrible whine as Morte forced him down to the ground and delicately detached his hooves. Morte tilted his head and looked at the bear before he reared up once more and brought his hooves crashing down on the beast’s chest.

Dinah looked away. The creature was now utterly unrecognizable as a tangled heap of white and red. Morte stepped back and let out a bellow. It was a deep, terrible sound, a war cry, and it chilled Dinah to the bone. Morte began galloping wildly around his kill. The bear’s body shifted, and Dinah watched its exposed ribs give a final shudder before the bear surrendered his life.

Dinah stood quietly in the grass, her eyes on Morte, more afraid of him than she ever had been. Morte didn’t even seem to notice her as he buried his head deep into the bear’s belly and began eating. Dinah felt a wave of revulsion wash over her. She had forgotten that Hornhooves sometimes ate their kills. They were as satisfied with flesh and bone as they were with grass and grain. With her hand pressed over her mouth, she turned and walked back toward the overturned head of the Yurkei chief. Giant slashes lingered where the bear had ripped its claws across the stone. Dinah let out a long breath, suddenly aware of how close she had come to being maimed and eaten herself. This was the second time that Morte had saved her life.

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 tore 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 so 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, understand 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 large 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 the pelt 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 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.

The days stretched into a week, or so Dinah guessed by watching the rising and setting of the Wonderland sun. She would wake in the morning and take stock of the supplies quickly diminishing in her bag.

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 amid 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. She thought of all the tarts she had thrown out, of the banquets and balls where trays had been piled high above her head; lavish displays of exotic bird breasts, creatively carved pies, bubbling wineglasses, 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. Her 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, to pay sharp attention to the wood around her. She had come within an inch of her life because she hadn’t been paying attention. It wouldn’t happen again.

Still, it was hard not to be distracted by the beauty around her. The deeper they descended into the Twisted Wood, the more breathtaking the forest became. The soft colors of the plains gave way to deep mossy greens, their fuzzy fingers reaching ever upward on towering majesties of trunks and branches. One day, as she absently had watched a red-striped otter flit in and out of a stream, she had come very close to walking off a cliff. Behind her, Morte had given a loud snort and Dinah had stopped, the tip of her boots sending a scatter of pebbles off the cliff and down into a clear river far below. Even that had fascinated her; she had never seen such translucent water or such richly colored minerals that graced the river floor. Silver layers of rock converged upon each other, giving the entire river a rippling effect, though the water’s flow was quite mild.

Morte had allowed her to ride him a few times in the last few days, but only when she had grown so exhausted from walking that she found herself leaning against each passing tree to keep her balance. With an annoyed snort, he would saunter beside her and lift his leg. Dinah would climb up with a grateful sigh and feel the wave of relief that came with settling onto the already warmed bear pelt, her legs draped over Morte’s neck.

One day, lulled to sleep by his easy rhythm, she was jerked awake by the feeling of a cool shadow passing over her. Dinah looked up before letting out a small gasp. The trees had converged in a thick canopy of flowering branches, interweaving with each other to create a solid tunnel of flowers. The ground beneath, deprived of sunlight, had a soft and somewhat muddy texture and was covered by a thick maroon moss. The flowers looped down through the tunnel—pinks, purples, and glossy greens, swallowing the sky. Strange white insects buzzed within the tunnel—completely rotund, they fluttered by on petite wings that barely seemed to hold them, nesting on the dewy orchid petals, waiting for their mate. Once the mate arrived, the two little creatures somehow hooked themselves together and created a warm light that glowed from both of them. Together they would float drunkenly through the tunnel.

Dinah was watching them in wonder when Morte gave a rough lurch under her—she was almost sent sprawling past his hindquarters, and would have been if she hadn’t had her hand wrapped in his mane. Without warning, he was running—that pure gallop she had only experienced when she was fleeing for her life. Did he sense something? Her body tensed, hunching down, but he wasn’t being chased—his steps had a lightness to them that she hadn’t felt before. He was running because he could; from his mouth erupted happy whinnies. His body flowed like water beneath her, his speed unmatched by anything Dinah had ever seen. This time she was able to enjoy it—the world flying past, the greens and purples of the tunnel blending together as they raced through. His hooves barely graced the ground. Dinah felt her black hair flying behind her, her gray cloak flapping in the wind. For the first time since she had been awakened that night by the stranger’s hand, Dinah allowed herself to smile, a smile that stretched into a laugh as Morte plunged farther and faster through the tunnel. I’m flying! she thought.

Daring to reach one hand above her head, she let her fingers trail the heads of thousands of fuchsia orchids, their swollen tongues dripping down around her. The glowing lovebugs guided their way with subtle iridescent light, bouncing off branches and flowers, occasionally whapping Dinah across her cheeks and brow. She didn’t mind. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the swift wind on her face as Morte’s speed intensified. The tunnel ended abruptly, with two tree trunks lying squarely in the middle of their path. Morte easily leaped over them and then began to canter at a normal speed. The air was frigid on her face, which Dinah was surprised to find soaked with tears.

Morte let her ride a bit longer that day. The more Dinah observed him, the more she understood why he had not heeded the king that day as her father had bellowed out Morte’s name in a blind rage. Morte wasn’t anything like a normal steed. He didn’t come when called, and he wasn’t to be coddled and loved, as he wouldn’t give it back. Sure, Dinah gave him any apples that she ran across, but only from a distance—tossed in the air. When her father rode him into battle, he had made the mistake of thinking Morte was fighting for him—he never understood that Morte wanted to fight for himself, that he had no loyalty to the man.

Morte slept the nights away without a care, and Dinah watched him enviously as he slipped into the depths of slumber. At night, her thoughts wandered into dark places or even darker memories. Charles’s body, lying broken on a stone slab. His beloved servants, Lucy and Quintrell, their throats open and bloody. The sound of the trumpets blaring from the castle and the Cards who had swarmed out of it, so ready to kill their princess. The stranger, his black figure silhouetted in front of her balcony, the way his hand had wrapped around her mouth, truly the most terrifying moment of her life. She thought about Wardley and his brown curls. Wardley, who had saved her. Wardley, who was probably in the Black Towers, black roots twisting into his body, into his brain, hollowing him from the inside out.

When she finally did fall asleep, she drifted from one bizarre nightmare to another. The night before, Dinah dreamed that she had awakened to the sound of someone crying softly. Curiosity propelled her forward, and she came to a large clearing in the trees, where one of the Heart Cards she had killed sat on a log, softly playing a lute, a cat lounging lazily on his shoulder. Dinah had sat at his feet and listened to his weeping song as blood flowed down his chest, a crimson river creeping closer and closer to her white nightgown. She woke up screaming, covered in a cold sweat, and was unable to fall asleep until dawn began its slow rise.

Dinah’s days, however, in the untamable wood were consumed with thoughts about her mother. Dinah had always tried her best not to think on Davianna. Her father had forbidden her to speak Davianna’s name in his presence. In a way she was grateful to him for the excuse—it was easier than facing the raw grief, the gray wave of nothingness that would roll over her if she lingered on her feelings for just a moment. But here, she was at the mercy of her memories during endless hours of walking. The good thing about Morte was that he didn’t care if Dinah wept as she walked, or if she spent an hour staring off into the hazy wood. Remembering Davianna was a gift that Dinah gave herself—she needed to feel close to someone out here in the wilderness.

Her first memory of her mother was the tips of her fingers, trailing over Dinah’s face, tracing her cheekbones and lips with absolute devotion. Her mother had loved to be touched and to touch others. She was constantly resting her hands on the shoulders of those below her—Cards, lords, ladies, merchants, but especially children, whom she adored. People were originally struck by her beauty, but the touch of her hands left them overwhelmed by her grace.

Davianna had been born the child of the Duke and Duchess of Ierladia, the largest and richest township on the Western Slope. Ierladia lay just south of Lake Todren and was the Wonderland stronghold in the North. Negotiations between Dinah’s grandfather, the King of Hearts at the time, and Davianna’s father, ensured her place on the throne. From the time she was born, Davianna was groomed to be the Queen of Hearts, much like Dinah.

As a child, Dinah got the distinct impression that her mother loved being queen. She wore the crown with ease. As a mother she was gentle and loving, patient with her precocious daughter who was always yanking on her crown and smudging her dresses with chocolate-covered hands. Their relationship had changed when Charles was born, but Dinah never felt neglected; rather, she saw the large amount of care that Charles took and longed to be included. And so she was. Instead of croquet or watching ostrich riding, Dinah and her mother would feed and bathe Charles, or spend the day trying to teach him to walk, or take him outside on the balcony so he could watch the ever-changing stars. Dinah didn’t see her father from age three to five, when he was off fighting the Yurkei wars, and in that time she grew fiercely attached to her mother and Harris, her adviser and teacher.

Unfortunately, as Dinah grew older, she spent more time with Harris and less and less time with Charles and her mother. There were so many things to learn before one became queen, but every night Harris and Emily, her servant, had looked the other way when Dinah slipped out of her bedroom door and ran past the Heart Cards all the way to the Royal Apartments to tell her mother about her day.

Davianna would always be preparing for bed, brushing her thick black hair with her pink shell comb and staring at herself in the mirror, her tear-filled blue-black eyes staring back at her. Dinah knew she had a secret. She could see it in her eyes, in the way she held her body. Together they would climb across Davianna’s heart-shaped bed and her mother would pull her close and listen as Dinah whispered to her all the tiny details of her day—what Harris wore, what Emily said, the things she had learned, how she had cried after she broke a one-hundred-year-old teapot. Every night would end with her mother whispering softly,

“Someday, my love, you’ll understand everything.”

Dinah’s father had returned from war a changed man. He was angrier and increasingly cruel toward them both. She saw less of her mother, and when she did, Dinah was alarmed at her shrinking figure and the dark circles under her eyes. The care of Charles was taken from her and given to Lucy and Quintrell. Dinah would still occasionally visit her mother’s chambers at the end of the day, but Davianna would often be sleeping, unable to take her visits, and Dinah would be sent back to her room like a child without supper.

On the eve of her ninth birthday, Dinah stumbled across a scene that she would never forget. Her daily lessons in the library had been cut short due to the sneezing of Monsignor Wol-Vore, the language tutor, and the princess found herself with a few free hours. Running happily down the hall, her pink dress in tatters behind her, Dinah made her way to her mother’s apartment. The Heart Cards who normally stood guard at the queen’s door were oddly absent, and the door was cracked open a few inches. As she laid her fingers on the cool knob, Dinah could hear her father’s angry voice. She paused at the door.

“How dare you? You are nothing more than a common whore, lowborn trash that washed up from the sea on the beaches of Ierladia! I am the King of Wonderland, and I will not be made a mockery of. Is this how you repay me? Who is he? Tell me! I should take your head for this!”

Dinah heard the sound of something crashing—dishes, perhaps. Something hit the door with a loud thud and Dinah leaped back, afraid. She could hear her mother murmuring, attempting to calm her father.

Then: “Don’t tell me it’s NOTHING!” roared the man who wore the crown. Dinah heard the sharp snap of skin against skin—a slap. She desperately wanted to help her mother, but she was afraid of her violent father. Her hand lingered on the door as she heard her mother weeping behind it. Dinah walked back to her chambers, a coward.

She never told anyone about that day, not even Wardley. It was strange to think of it now, as she stepped over root after root, the muscles in her thighs clenching with fatigue. A tiny stream crossed in front of them, and Dinah stopped to fill her waterskin. Morte lapped at the water, and Dinah sat down on the muddy bank to rinse off her sore feet. The tinkling of the stream had a lulling power, and Dinah raised her face to take in the warm sun, resting for just a minute, just one more memory.

Her mother had died on a winter afternoon, when huge mounds of pink snow were piled high against the Iron Gates outside the palace, and inside everyone was trying to stay warm. Her illness had been violent and sudden. One day, Dinah’s mother had been there, her face thin and worried, but alive. The next she was lying in her bed, drenched with sweat so hot that it steamed in the cool air. Her lips, once the color of a ripe fig, were blue and withered, and her eyes were somehow gone already. They looked past Dinah, as if the queen were seeing someone else. The White Fever had raged through Wonderland proper that year, a quick illness that turned a person’s nails white before it swiftly delivered them to the grave. Although it was curious that no one in the palace had gotten it, aside from her mother.

Dinah hadn’t been allowed to touch her mother, or even to go near her bedside. She stood sobbing in the doorway, Harris’s arms wrapped firmly around her, holding her back, as she watched her mother’s body convulse and twist in pain. Charles was not allowed in the room, and the king was nowhere to be seen as Davianna took her last breath, her eyes finally trained on Dinah as she whispered her good-byes, her body shaking with the effort.

“Dinah, oh my wild girl. You so are smart, just like him. Be gentle, my dear, take heart. Be a good queen. Take care of your brother.”

Dinah wept, her fat tears dripping off her chin. “I will, Mother. I will. I love you. I love you.”

The hint of a smile brushed across Davianna’s face. “I love you too …”

The conversation had exhausted the queen, and it wasn’t long after that she fell into a heavy sleep, never to wake again. The rising of her chest slowed until it ceased. The queen was declared dead. Her father, her servants, Harris, everyone who had known her mother, wailed. Even Cheshire’s dark eyes filled with clever crocodile tears. The Cards came and went; a priest, wearing long red robes covered with hearts, rang a tiny silver bell outside her window. Another bell from somewhere down below rang in return. Suddenly bells were ringing throughout the kingdom, and the sound of them rose up through the courtyard and in through the open window as a swirl of pink snow rested on her mother’s lips.

Dinah screamed and flailed in Harris’s arms when the thin ruby crown was removed from her mother’s head. The priest held it over open flames until the crown glowed a dim red, as if lit from within. She realized with a start that it was a precautionary measure, to cleanse it from the fever. He walked over to Dinah as he blew on the crown to cool it.

“The queen is dead. Long live the future Queen of Wonderland.” He placed the crown on her head, the heat of it scorching the tips of her ears. Harris carried her out of the room, and as he turned, Dinah was given one last glance at her mother’s face, her beauty siphoned away by death.

Taking a cue from her father, Dinah had built a wall around that memory, thick as stone and impregnable to wandering thoughts. But here, in the depths of the Twisted Wood, it had been so easy to remember. She could smell the putrid air of the bedchamber, could see the fear in Harris’s eyes as the hot crown was laid on her head.

Dinah wiped her eyes as she pushed her blistered feet into the cool stream. The relief was instant, and it occurred to Dinah that she could possibly stay here forever, in this tiny lovely part of the wood where all the trees were white and the huge dark blue and deep green veiny leaves stretched out over the ground. But she couldn’t. Not yet. After a few moments, Dinah pulled her feet out of the stream, delicately wrapped them with the remaining strips of linen, and pushed them back into her boots, now instruments of torture. She watched silently as a fiery red hawk danced and dipped over the horizon, such a thing of beauty. She looked hopefully over at Morte, wishing he would lift his leg and have mercy on her. He did not, but rather stared off into the distance, his massive black head tilted with interest.

“I guess we’ll be walking, then,” groaned Dinah. It was nice to hear a voice—any voice, even if it was her own. They continued walking northeast. Her march to starvation, as Dinah had begun to think of it, dragged on.

The tracking hawk continued to circle lazily overhead.

All day Dinah had felt strange. She had just eaten her last loaf of bread and there were only a few pieces of bird meat left. A creeping feeling made its way from her spine to her forehead. She convinced herself that it was just the sinking feeling of having no more food. Her time was up—she would either need to learn how to hunt or begin eating only fruit that she could find along the way, but that wouldn’t sustain her for long.

Dinah was losing weight rapidly—already she had tightened her belt loop two notches, and when she had splashed her face in the stream that morning, she was shocked at how thin her face looked, how tired. Her hair was a raggedy tangle that would probably take years to work itself out, and her skin was marked with dozens of small cuts from thorny branches. The cut on her hand was healing well, but her two broken fingers still ached whenever she put pressure on them. The shocking thought that she might not survive this ordeal washed over her like a cold wave. I cannot die from something as simple as a lack of food, she told herself.

That day she kept a very sharp eye out for things that looked edible. She found a Julla Tree, but most of its spiky fruit had gone rotten. Dinah managed to grab three fruits that were edible and stashed them in her bag for the following day. She found a strange plant in the ground that sprouted something similar to the cabbage they ate at the palace. Tentatively, she rested a leaf on her tongue only to spit it out immediately. It was bitter and numbed her tongue, and she quickly rinsed her mouth out with water. I’ll die from poisoning much faster than starvation, she thought.

The wood was filled with such fascinating and terrifying plants: huge rubbery vines that gave a shiver when she passed, and when she touched them, they released a puff of sparkling yellow powder; tubal roses that grew long instead of wide, whose petals collapsed inward when the sun set; carnivorous plants that feasted on small rodents—and once attempted to bite Dinah’s ankle and would have broken the skin if she hadn’t been wearing boots. There were thousands of ever-changing plants and flowers woven among the trees—those trees, always knowing—and none of them to eat. Damn it.

Grumbling to herself while ignoring the sharp pain in her stomach, Dinah walked on, watching the blazing sun creep from west to east as dusk settled in like a thick blanket. Without warning, she found herself in a small clearing, marked by a unique tree that had small, perfectly round holes drilled into its impossibly wide trunk. Dinah walked up quietly to inspect the tree, noting that it was at least twice the width of her bedchambers. She padded slowly around the smooth trunk, letting her hand linger on its surprisingly glossy surface. The bark had the texture of marble. It shimmered in the setting sun, the light playing across it like a warm ember. Dinah watched with amazement as rays of sunlight shot through the tree, and suddenly it hummed with life, as if lit from inside. The tree was transparent and filled with a frozen golden sap. She could see everything inside it—every fiber, every bubble of air. This was an amber tree, something she had only seen in her picture books, valuable because they were so rare. Once found, they were immediately hacked down and turned into jewelry, furniture, and hand railings for the wealthy. The base of her tea table was made of this rare amber wood.

Dinah ran her hands over the trunk. It was so beautiful it took her breath away—why would anyone ever chop it down? There was so much more beauty in a living tree than a pendant wrapped around some noblewoman’s neck. The tree pulsed with warmth that Dinah suspected didn’t come from the sun, but rather from inside the tree. Her fingers trembled with the knowledge that its texture was changing underneath her skin. Whereas before it had felt like cool marble, it now was soft, like the jams she spread on toast. When she pulled away, her hands were covered with a dark, drippy syrup the color of molasses. Without thinking, she licked it. After weeks of stale bread and dried bird meat, the syrup was heavenly—rich and sweet, the best thing she had ever tasted. She licked her hands dry, covering her face in syrup, and went back for more until she felt sluggish with the sugar, drunk on this rush of goodness. She stumbled away from the tree past Morte, who had also been licking the trunk.

Dinah was wiping her hands on the damp grass when she looked up in surprise, her eyes catching a strange form in the trees. There was a house in front of her. Dinah leaped back in shock, her hand on her sword hilt. How had she not noticed it? The house sat snugly between two trees, their roots twisting up through the roof. It reminded her of the Black Towers, of that root twisting itself into her mouth, up her nostril … Dinah heaved up the syrup onto the ground, the thick sludge puddling at her feet. Afterward, to her relief, she felt much better without its weight sitting in her stomach.

Dinah gaped at the house as she crouched behind the liquid tree. There was no visible light coming from the house, no candles flickering in open windows, no guards against the approaching night. Morte flattened his ears back against his head and gave a loud huff. Dinah felt that familiar dread that had plagued her all day. While longing to plunge back into the safety of the wood, Dinah found herself drawn to the man-made structure. It had been so long since she had seen anything related to humans, and she longed to run her hands over the walls, to feel timber and bolts, blankets and cups. Also, she reasoned, there might be food in the house, something she could not ignore.

Scrambling on her knees, Dinah found a small rock and threw it at the door. It bounced off with a loud thud and landed beside an empty bucket. Dinah waited a few minutes, but nothing happened, other than the wind tossing the branches of the trees overhead in a lulling whoosh. She drew her sword and approached cautiously, on silent feet. Dinah crouched low beneath the window and raised her head to peer through the beveled glass. She could see nothing through the thick glass, but she could sense that everything was still. With a deep breath, she turned the door handle. The door swung open and rocked on its hinge. Dinah stepped inside. The house was one large circular room with a beautiful high-vaulted ceiling and a dirt floor. On the right, an unmade bed had been overturned and books were scattered about, their pages flapping in the wind. At the front of the room sat a cold fireplace, cozied up to a sitting area that featured a well-worn rocking chair resting against the wall. A blanket had been ripped to shreds and tossed about the room.

To the left was a kitchen but it had been recently ransacked. Milk dripped from an overturned jug onto the floor, where a basket of food had been tossed aside. Hunger making her impulsive, Dinah raced toward it. She pushed past the overturned table, stepping over the blue-and-white-spotted teakettle smashed on the floor. She didn’t care—all she saw were two loaves of bread, some onions, carrots, and what looked to be a burnt husk of thick deer meat. Ravenous, Dinah threw these things into her bag as the sun dipped behind the cottage, filling the room with a shadowy light. She gnawed at the bread. Who had been here? Yurkei? Had an animal gotten in—a wolf? Something worse? Dinah looked around. No. The chaos seemed a little neat for an animal, a little too intentional. What animal would leave food but rip pictures off the wall and flip a bed over?

Morte gave a nervous whinny from outside and pounded the ground with his heavy, spiked hooves. The dishes inside rattled. Dinah took one last glimpse around the kitchen before ducking out of the round house. She said a silent thanks to whoever baked this bread and grew these onions as she made her way behind the house, back into the wood. Morte dutifully followed behind her before they both stopped short. There was a long field that stretched hundreds of feet behind the garden, and a body was there, lying facedown in the dirt. He had been quite large but obviously strong—huge muscles, still as stone, looked as though they had been carved out of his back. He wore a floppy hat and a lavender linen tunic, his feet bare and dirty. A farmer, Dinah thought, pressing her fingers across her trembling lips. Broken jars of the amber tree syrup littered the ground around him. Dinah felt all the air rush out of her lungs as she comprehended what she was seeing. Out of the man’s back arched a long arrow. It nestled between his great shoulder blades, a small blotch of blood surrounding the entry point. He had bled out from the front, the ground stained a deep red all around him. The blood was still wet, but it was cooling quickly and becoming one with the sticky syrup, a sickening, swirling mixture of red and amber.

The fact that this hadn’t happened long ago alarmed Dinah, but not as much as the red blown-glass heart that topped the end of the arrow. She had seen these arrows before, adorning the backs of many Heart Cards that guarded the outer gates of the palace. She stood, the world spinning around her. It wasn’t the Yurkei who had been here. The Cards had found her. Dinah swung the bag around her back and ran straight toward Morte. “Up!” she barked. Her panic was evident and for this he didn’t hesitate, lifting his leg as she neared him. Dinah stepped without fear onto his spikes and vaulted herself onto his back, her legs curling around his massive neck.

From what she could tell, the tracks of the Cards (huge, impossible not to notice once she was looking) were heading north, and so she turned Morte east. From there, they ran. Her heart thudded in her ears as Morte raced through the ever-blackening wood. Farther and farther in they dashed, making an incredible noise, yet what chance did they have not to? Dinah could barely see, but Morte seemed to have perfect night vision—he easily navigated branches and deep holes in the earth without trouble. Every few seconds, she would glance back, praying that she wouldn’t see a white Hornhoov emerging from the darkness. They had made it a few miles from the house when she heard the first faint shouts and clinking of armor. Fear surrounded her and made it hard to think. The sounds seemed to be coming over a dark ridge in the distance.

Tears welled up in her eyes and her hands shook as she clutched Morte’s mane, turning him around, racing away. As he ran, the sun disappeared over the Yurkei Mountains and all was black. The Twisted Wood became nothing more than shadows, an inky shade of trees and branches. Dinah could barely see Morte’s head in front of her as he dived through the trees, straining to outpace the growing sounds of horses and men. The cacophony was coming from all sides now, so foreign and abrasive to her ears after so much silence. Morte’s arrival desecrated the quiet wood, violating the peace of the trees, the hum of the insects. She couldn’t see where her pursuers were, but they were getting closer—and there was nowhere to run where they wouldn’t hear Morte crashing through the brush.

Dinah drew her sword and the ring of metal echoed through the trees. She wouldn’t be able to fight through many of them—any of them, maybe—but she would not be taken to the Black Towers. She would force them to kill her, and she would try her best to kill her father. That was her only purpose on this night; if this was going to be the way it ended, so be it. She would avenge her brother, his keepers, and lastly her mother, slowly killed by her father’s neglect and cruelty. Dinah sat still and held her breath for a moment. Then her father’s voice carried through the darkness, commanding his troops, the sound sending a dagger of fear straight through her.

“She’s here! Bring her to me, dead or alive. A lifetime’s worth of wages and a position in the court will be given to the Card who finds her. Do your duty and avenge your innocent prince! His blood will not be in vain!”

The voice stopped Dinah cold—Morte as well. They stood perfectly still as the roar of soldiers echoed all around them in the darkness. They were surrounded. A leaf crackled directly behind Dinah, and she heard deep breathing.

“Hide,” whispered a voice in the darkness. “If you want to live, don’t fight. Hide.”

Dinah didn’t need to be told twice—or have time to consider the source of her advice. She quietly dismounted Morte and bid him to follow her into a densely leafed area of the trees, stumbling many times over things she could not see. Something slithered over her boot and she forced herself not to scream. It was a consuming darkness. The stars must be on the other side of the sky tonight, she thought, hiding from this terrible noise. The sounds of the Cards were all around her—the violent breaking of tree branches, the clanking of cups against thighs, horses pawing the ground, and a singular sound that chilled her blood—the thundering sound of another Hornhoov.

She stood still, considering how best to hide—and to hide Morte. She looked over at him through the night but could see almost nothing—the black of his coat blended effortlessly with the trees and night. I have to disappear, she thought. Disappear into the night. The dress. Moving as quickly as she dared, Dinah untied the flaps on her bag and rummaged through it, her hands feeling for the thick, heavy fabric. When it seemed she had touched everything in her bag except for what she needed, Dinah’s hand felt it. She pulled out the dress, unfurling it against the starless night. Dinah could barely see her hand in front of her face, let alone the pitch-black fabric of the dress. Dropping her sword to the ground, she pulled the dress over her head. It slipped over her easily, the ends of the dress brushing the ground. Reaching back, she felt that the dress collar was lined with a hood. Dinah pulled the black wool over her dark hair and face. It was long enough to cover everything, and the fabric reached her chin. She pulled her hands into the sleeves so that they would not show and inched up next to a particularly wide tree, leaning into the trunk.

The voices were almost on top of her now—they would be on her in seconds with their swords and horses and torches. She looked over at Morte, who stood as still as she was, white steam hissing out of his nostrils. It was taking every inch of his control not to leap into the fight. Dinah reached out and felt for his nostrils. She gently and carefully laid her hand over his muzzle. Her voice shaking, she murmured, “Still … still …” The steam stopped and Morte knelt on the ground, becoming one with the thick foliage around him. Perhaps the animal knew he could not win this fight, not tonight, not while he was still recovering from the bear attack. Either way, Dinah could no longer see him. She pressed her face and body up against the tree and waited for them to come. Quivers of fear crawled up from her legs and infested her chest. Her knees felt weak. She clutched at her heart.

“Don’t move,” whispered the same voice from before. Was it above her? “Don’t move, don’t breathe, and the Cards shouldn’t see you.” Dinah froze, a black statue in the wood. She closed her eyes as the Cards swarmed around them. Several Cards trampled right past her—it sounded like one almost tripped over Morte before he suddenly changed direction and veered to the right. He should be thankful to be alive, she thought, as that would have ended in his very gruesome death. Two brushed past the tree she was leaning against, and Dinah clenched her hands inside the sleeves to keep from fainting. Unable to raise her head for fear of being seen, Dinah kept her eyes glued to the ground. She could see nothing except the occasional flash of a torch as it was waved in the darkness, the wood swallowing the light in their vast space.

The voices of the Cards flowed past the trees. “She was here!” “I heard her, Your Majesty!” “She’s over there!” The echo of the Cards bounced through the wood, making it very hard to tell where each man was—and she could see that the Cards were disoriented and scattered. They were unaccustomed to the trees, to the starless night. To Dinah’s horror, she felt the earth shake beneath her feet and heard the singular plodding with which she had grown so familiar. She dared to raise her face a few inches. The white Hornhoov carrying her father had entered the trees, with Cheshire’s sleek stallion following behind him. Her father sat proud and furious atop a female half the height of Morte but still gigantic. He carried a torch, so clearly visible in the darkness that surrounded the rest of the Cards. He wore his red armor, a black heart slashed boldly across the chest. The gold of his crown glinted in the firelight, his eyes lit up like flames. He held the reins on the Hornhoov in one hand and his Heartsword in the other, ready to kill. He seemed to stare right at Dinah, right through her. Beside him, Cheshire sat with his dagger clutched loosely as he scanned the wood, his black, catlike eyes searching each tree, his purple cloak draped over the flank of his steed.

The Hornhoov turned her head in their direction, and the king began thundering toward them. Dinah clutched the tree, pressing her face against it, fearing that her heart would actually explode.

“Stay still,” ordered the voice. Dinah froze as her father’s Hornhoov walked closer to them, his torch only lighting the few feet in front of him. Carefully, she raised her head and saw her father in the darkness, his face a mask of righteous fury. The king looked confused, as though he were unsure of what he was seeing. He was close enough that she could make out the sweat on his brow and smell the stink of drink clinging to his skin. She was sure he could hear her heart, which thudded with enough power to shake the tree.

Her father climbed off the Hornhoov and began making his way toward the clump of trees where Dinah was standing. Hatred flooded over her fear, and she felt an intoxicating rush of fury circle up from inside her gut. He killed Charles, she thought. And I will kill him now, a shadow in the darkness. Yes, my king, come ever closer. Moving as slowly as she could, Dinah reached for her sword, her eyes trained on his neck, the only open spot in his armor. Suddenly there was a loud crash from the wood behind her.

“There!” yelled a soldier from a distance away, “I heard something over there! I think it’s her!” The king’s face distorted with pleasure, and he vaulted back onto the Hornhoov, turning her in the direction of the sound. Cheshire followed, giving a backward glance at the seemingly empty valley before raising his dagger menacingly and following the king. The king’s Hornhoov kept trying to turn back—it could obviously smell Morte—but Dinah’s father simply yanked the reins and dug his spiked heels in.

“Go, you blasted creature! Find her!” Together they galloped off into the brush, the light from his torch dimming to a dull candle in the darkness.

“Go …,” snapped the voice, and then Dinah heard the sound of a body dropping down from the tree above.

“Who are—”

“No time!” snapped the voice, distinctly male, somehow familiar. “Yeh, go! I’ll lead them south. Quickly, for they will surely come back here.” He was as invisible as she was, a hulking, dark shape in the trees. Dinah flung the bag around her, climbed onto Morte’s back, and strapped the sword across her shoulders. She leaned forward and pressed herself against his black coat, becoming invisible once more. Black on black, a shadow at midnight.

“Quietly now,” she whispered to her giant steed. Morte seemed to understand as they headed east, his hooves gently kissing the earth. They moved far away from the roaming Cards, deeper and deeper into the night, until the sounds of her father’s army were no more. They walked quietly for hours, and Dinah noted that the flat floor of the forest was now increasingly sloping upward, harder and rockier. Hornhoov and rider moved soundlessly through the trees until Dinah spotted a small rock outcropping perched upon a narrow ridge overlooking the forest. Strategically, it would be a great place to watch for the approaching Cards, and besides, the trembles in her legs reminded her that they should go no farther. Without a word, she slipped off Morte and collapsed against the rocks, exhausted from her ride and from the all-encompassing fear. Morte knelt behind the rocks next to her and fell quickly into slumber, leaving her alone with the night sky.

Comforted by the fact that she didn’t think her father’s army could sneak up on them in the dark—or find them in the dark, for that matter—Dinah let her eyelids flicker closed once, twice, and then she surrendered to her voracious exhaustion. She dreamed of a deck of cards on a glass table, being played by a black glove. The hand was detached from an arm, and tiny flecks of crimson dripped across the faces on the cards as they were revealed. Hearts. Spades. Diamonds. The king. The king. The king.

Her eyes opened again in the early dawn and she woke drenched in a feverish sweat, unsure of what had awakened her so suddenly. Then she heard the click of a boot in front of her and felt a cold steel blade pressed firmly against her neck. Trembling, she raised her eyes, her black braid brushing the tip of her sword. A Spade stood before her, his massive frame blocking the sun.

“Morning, Princess.”

Dinah flew backward, knocking her spine against a rock. Picking up a handful of loose dirt, she flung it at the Spade’s face and felt the ground for her sword. The Spade gave an annoyed cough.

“You won’t be finding that now, Yer Highness.” The Spade raised his other hand, which held Dinah’s sword. He had two swords and she had none. “Yeh know, it’s not very princess-like to throw dirt.”

Dinah paused a second before slowly inching herself toward the Spade, hoping to scramble over the rock to where Morte lay snoring on the ridge above. Why is he still sleeping? Curse that lazy beast! As she moved forward, his blade slid coolly against her throat. She stopped moving.

“Don’t be calling that monster of yours. I just want to talk to yeh, that’s all.”

Her heart galloped wildly in her chest and Dinah glanced frantically around for the rest of the king’s men. “Where are the others?”

“Ah, them. I left them behind.” The Spade stepped forward into the light and Dinah gave a loud gasp.

“You!” She recognized the Spade instantly—his dark gold eyes, his grizzly gray hair, the tiny black heart tattooed under his right eye—mostly because of the shallow two-inch scar that ran down his left cheek. “I know you.”

The Spade smiled and drew his sword lightly across the mark. “Yes, yeh know me. You gave me this, you may remember, back in the palace when I dared to pluck a silly wooden toy from yeh. Yeh slapped me with a big ring? A big ring for a spoiled princess.”

“It wasn’t my toy. It was for my brother.”

The Spade grimaced. “He won’t be needing that much now, will he? Wings might have helped more.”

Dinah let out an angry scream before she feinted left, twisting past the sword, and managed to grab the Spade’s black breastplate. He roughly shoved her backward with one hand. She tumbled in the dirt. He was so strong. She flung a rock at him, which bounced off his armored chest.

“Do not speak of my brother, you filth!”

The Spade peered at Dinah with fascination. “Just as spirited as I remember yeh! Now shut that privileged mouth and listen to what I say. I’ll need yeh to promise that you won’t try to run from me, otherwise I might have to give you a matching scar. And unlike me, you aren’t pretty enough to make it charming.”

Dinah sat back, her legs collapsing underneath her. The Spade wiped his face with his sleeve and tossed Wardley’s sword into a nearby bush. He then dropped his sword down to waist level, his keen eyes never leaving Dinah’s face. Her eyes met his and there was a moment of silence where they stared at each other. He stroked his goatee, peppered black and gray.

“I’m here to aid yeh. You can’t make it very much longer without my help. Yer father and the Cards will find yeh. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but they will. And when they do …” The Spade pursed his thin lips and drew his finger across his neck. “Your father is a king entirely without honor.” His eyes focused sadly upon the wood behind her.

Dinah stared at him, not understanding what he was saying. He wants to help me? She followed his eyes to the side, giving the impression that she was considering his speech before bolting off to the right. She almost made it past the edge of the boulder and opened her mouth to yell for Morte but before she could, the Spade caught her around the waist and flung her roughly to the ground. Dinah’s still-healing fingers vibrated with pain, and the Spade reached forward and boxed her on her right temple, which left Dinah’s head spinning. Blood seeped into her ear.

“Oh, fer gods’ sake …” The Spade picked her up and easily propped her back underneath the rock overhang. “We’ll try again. My name is Sir Gorrann. I’ve been a Spade in the Cards service for thirty years, and I am here to help yeh, if you will just settle down and stop behaving like a wild bear, damn yeh.” Dinah was having trouble breathing, and the world spun around as her hearing slowly returned. She was unsure of what was happening. He gave a loud sigh.

“It makes me unhappy to treat yeh so, but until you stop tryin’ to run, it’ll just be beatin’ after beatin’.” He settled down next to Dinah on a tree stump and pulled off his black gloves, flexing his hands. She laid her forehead against the ground, her hands curled protectively over her head.

“I can’t … I can’t … think.”

“Aye, you’ve never been hit before, have yeh? More reason that you need help to survive. I can teach you many things, Princess. How to cover a track, how to fight, how to find food.”

“I know how to fight,” mumbled Dinah.

“No, yeh don’t. That handsome stable boy might have taught yeh a few things, but fighting wasn’t one of them.”

“Wardley?” At his mention, everything in the world seemed to stop. “What do you know about Wardley? Is he alive?”

“Ah, now yeh want to talk.” The Spade dusted off his black tunic, adorned with a glossy black Spade symbol. “Tell you what, Princess—I’ll make yeh a deal. Yeh stop trying to run, and make sure that horse of yers doesn’t impale me on one of his bone spikes, and I’ll tell yeh everything yeh want to know about Wonderland and what’s happened since yer … departure.”

Dinah blinked in the rising sun, her eyes trained on the Spade’s face. “I remember you. You left the gate open that night. You could have shut it, but you waited. I saw you. You paused …”

The Spade gave a quick nod. “That I did. Now, we best be on the move. If we stay here, the king’s Cards will be on us in less than an hour.”

“How do you …?”

The Spade gave a low whistle, and a reddish-brown mare approached on gently trotting feet. Dinah frowned. Morte would definitely not come if she whistled.

“Answer me this, traitor: Why are you not with the king?”

The Spade gave a snicker as he mounted the mare. “Let’s just say that I have my own interest in helping yeh. But that’s not for yeh to worry about yet. Before I’ll answer any questions, I need yeh to straddle that black thundercloud and ride.”

Dinah climbed unsteadily to her feet. “How long?”

“How long fer what?”

“How long until you answer my questions?”

The Spade gave a laugh. “I’ll answer one question each time the sun sets. Now, we really must go.” He had her just where he wanted her, she was sure of it, but what else could she do? She could no more stop breathing than turn away from knowing Wardley’s fate.

“How is it that you know what they are doing if you aren’t with them?”

The Spade had already begun riding into the trees, which were looking ever more whimsical on this side of the Twisted Wood. “I know because I’m the king’s best tracker, or at least I used to be. They are tracking yeh even now, and after yer close call last night, I’m sure yeh know what that means. They will rush in like water, surrounding yeh from all sides. The darkness won’t hide yeh again, not with the trees thinning out the farther east we go.”

Dinah wiped her face on the heavy black dress. “That was you. You told us to hide.”

“Aye. And if I hadn’t, yeh would be headless right now, since yeh were determined to fight an entire army for one single moment of revenge. I hope I can teach yeh to think about the consequences of yer actions, to control that fury.”

“My father murdered my brother.”

“Not the first, I imagine, to be wronged at the hands of the king, vengeful bastard that he is, but that’s a discussion for another time. We must move.”

From the depths of the Twisted Wood below, she thought she heard the faint blast of a trumpet. They were still looking for her, and if she stayed, they would find her. The Spade was right. There was no choice. She pushed her hair back from her face and glowered at the Spade. “Fine. Let me get Morte.”

“Oh, is that his name? He’s a ripe, ferocious animal that one. I’ve seen him in battle. Killed a dozen Yurkei right in front of me.”

“You should ride him. He loves new riders.”

The Spade chortled. “I don’t think I’ll be doing that today, Princess.”

“Don’t call me princess anymore,” she snapped quietly. “My name is Dinah.”

He tipped his head in her direction as his brown steed disappeared under a clump of mossy green trees. Dinah stood still for just a second, letting the breeze rush over her. There was a new chill in the air, and she realized with a start that from the top of the rock outcropping, she could see the faintest outline of the Yurkei Mountains, once far on the horizon. The trees in the valley below groaned hungrily in the breeze, and she saw several of them reach out to welcome the clean, frigid air. In the azure sky above, a red-feathered hawk dived again and again into the wood, searching for food, spiraling with deadly efficiency as it sailed above the trees. Its feathers rippled like fish scales, and she watched as the flaming colors danced over its small form.

Something silver winked from the bird’s neck in the morning light. She squinted. A collar. Dinah felt her breath catch in her throat. That was a tracking hawk. It was not hunting rodents, it was hunting her.

Dinah threw the filthy wool cloak over her shoulders and began to climb out of the rocky nest. Morte slumbered above, his spiked hooves pressed out in front of him. Dinah cleared her throat. He did not stir. She coughed again, loudly this time. One of his black marble eyes popped open, and he watched Dinah as she began to weave her way up the forest trail, following the Spade. She walked for several minutes before she spotted Sir Gorrann up ahead, his horse meandering through the wood as the Spade hummed a soft tune under his breath. He gave Dinah a smile as she came up the path behind him.

“I think I saw a tracking hawk.”

“Indeed you did. His name is Bew, and he belongs to one of the king’s trackers, Sir Fourwells.”

“Will he find us?”

“Not now that yer with me.” The Spade raised his eyes, taking in the trees and the increasingly rocky landscape. “We won’t have to flee long. I doubt the king will lead them out of the Twisted Wood. If they don’t find yeh here, they’ll probably head up to Ierladia, to pay a very unpleasant visit to yer mother’s family.”

“Why wouldn’t they follow us?”

The Spade leveled her with an exasperated gaze.

“Because we’re getting close to Yurkei territory, and because your father isn’t comfortable ’round these parts.”

The Spade blinked in the sun before reaching down and yanking a tall piece of wheatgrass to put into his mouth. “Yer just as smart as they say.” The ground gave a slight tremor as Morte appeared at the end of the trail, his colossal body reflecting the bright sun as he climbed toward them with alarming speed. Sir Gorrann’s mare took a step backward, almost tripping over an overturned branch. Even she knew better than to trifle with a Hornhoov. Sir Gorrann’s face paled.

“Gah, he is massive! Can yeh control him?”

Dinah gave a shrug and picked up a stick to fling angrily into the trees. “Not really. I wouldn’t touch him if I were you.”

Before she could release the stick, the Spade’s hand, nails black as soot, clamped onto her wrist. “No throwing sticks. No touching anything that yeh don’t have to. Don’t throw, don’t kick, don’t shuffle yer feet or run yer hands along the trees. It’s going to be hard enough covering his tracks”—he motioned at Morte, who was munching on some tiny yellow flowers that popped open like bubbles when he crunched them—“without yeh leaving yer scent and marks everywhere. Yeh might as well have left a royal red carpet behind us!”

They walked until the sun was high in the sky, breaking for a quick lunch beside a stream. The Spade pulled some dried meat and a small wrapped cheese out of his pack. Dinah’s mouth watered at the sight of the cheese, but she forced herself to look away and appear happy with her stale bread. She didn’t want anything from this man.

“Give me yer boots,” he ordered gruffly, and Dinah obeyed. He rinsed them out in the stream, taking care to scrub the soles with diligence. He handed them back to her. “Step lightly. Try not to tramp around the wood making as much noise as possible like yeh’ve been doing.” Dinah watched in fascination as the Spade fastened two low-hanging pine branches to his belt so they dragged behind him. He pointed to the stream. “You and the horse need to walk in the stream fer the next few miles. This is where I plan on losing them fer good.”

It was easier said than done. Getting Morte to follow her into the ankle-deep stream was incredibly difficult. Eventually he was lured in by the large piece of meat Dinah had grabbed in the farmer’s house. Morte didn’t like the water on his spikes, although it was clear they needed it—swirls of dried blood colored the water when he finally stepped in. They followed the stream as it flowed uphill. Everything flowed uphill now—the land, the flowers, the plants. Dinah quickly sweated through the heavy black dress. Walking in the stream was difficult. Several times she stumbled. Her ankle caught on seaweed, rocks, and much to her horror, a silver-and-rose-striped snake. After a few miles, the Spade ordered her to leave the stream and walk in only her socks. He shuffled behind her, erasing their footprints. Every once in a while the Spade would lick his finger and hold it in the air or stop and tilt his head, listening for something inaudible to her own ears. Then he would correct their tracks, step by step. At one point, he made Dinah climb a tree only to climb back down on the other side. She protested loudly, until the Spade drew his sword. She grumbled all the way up and all the way back down as Morte watched her with amusement.

Several times Dinah would begin to talk only to be shushed by him, and once, without warning, the Spade pushed her down into a bush, laying his body on top of hers, followed by several branches and brush. Dinah let out a shriek and pushed against him with all her might, fearing he wanted to defile her in a way she had only read about, but his hands had only cupped her mouth. Dinah struggled until she saw the red shimmer of the tracking hawk above, dancing in and out of the tree branches overhead. She fell silent, though she was certain that the hawk could hear the loud poundings of her heart. After a while they hiked again through the bleached trees, until dusk fell and the wood turned dark. Dinah felt as though she were wandering through a gathering of ghosts. The Spade stopped abruptly and pushed his ear against the ground. After listening for a few seconds, he hopped to his feet.

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