Seeing Redd

  Next out of the satchel came a first-aid kit, complete with cauterizer, skin grafter and the U-shaped sleeve of interconnected NRG nodes that a surgeon had once used to fuse Hatter’s shattered shoulder back together. But also inside the kit, smashed as if with a rock or other blunt object: Weaver’s Millinery ID chip. She must have removed it from under the skin of her forearm to aid in her survival, destroyed it to prevent Redd from tracking her. It was a tiny thing, roughly the same size as the mole Weaver had had on the nape of her neck, but one of the chip’s circuits wasn’t adequately destroyed. It had probably been enough to betray her location to Redd’s assassins.

  He should have trusted his instincts. Originally against the idea, put forward by the Millinery’s board, of hiring a carefully vetted civilian to handle the facility’s alchemistic needs, he had changed his mind only after he considered: better to have every Milliner out in the field than in a lab. Besides, none had Weaver’s gift, her ability to discover and exploit the hidden properties of things; she could take some secret mixture of liquid metals, combine it with a beaker full of who knew what, and produce the strongest, most responsive of Millinery blades. Weaver was no ordinary civilian. But he should not have let her work there. He might never have known her, never have fallen in love with her or even known that he was capable of such love—he’d have lost these things, but she’d still be alive, filling her civilian days with civilian concerns.

  He thoroughly crushed the ID chip against a rock, returned it to the first-aid kit. He upended the satchel and let the lone item it still contained drop into his palm. As slim and compact as a playing card, it resembled a typical book from Earth in every detail except size: Weaver’s diary. What he’d hoped and feared to find.

  Mustering his courage, Hatter pressed the sides of the diminutive book, the covers sprang open and—

  More than three lunar cycles after arriving here, the man who had fought too many battles to remember, who had faced a thousand different deaths and come away from all of them more or less intact, suffered the blow of his life when the 3-D image of Weaver materialized and he heard the sound of her voice.

  “Hatter, my love, we never got a chance to say good-bye.”

  CHAPTER 10

  WHOOMP!

  Most continuum travelers had to concentrate on their destinations to keep from being projected out of a looking glass portal at some undesired location. Portals were stationed throughout Wonderland; the interlinked channels they created could prove slow going for inexperienced travelers who might enter a portal with the intention of visiting the Unnatural History Museum across town only to find themselves projected out of one at the end of their block. Navigating the continuum took time and practice. But on this particular day, at this particular hour, even the most skilled travelers were helpless. Commuters streaming home after a long day at work, families returning from visits with friends or relatives: One moment they were traveling along the continuum’s network of crystalline byways, the next they were shot out of the nearest looking glass like cannon fodder, their limbs flailing desperately for purchase on something, anything.

  Wondertropolis descended into tumult: the cries of the injured; the breathless reassurances and urgent calls of those rendering first aid; the bawling of frightened children; the moans and prayers of the superstitious who thought a sky raining Wonderlanders signified the end of the world. All was shock, confusion, pain, in the midst of which lay the girl who had caused it, unconscious, untended to, and unnoticed by everyone save two Boarderlanders on an illicit errand for their King.

  Whoomp!

  A bright hot force knocked Molly unconscious as what few splinters remained of the once beautiful chest fell from her hands. Catapulted out of a looking glass on Theodora Avenue, she landed hard on the quartz-and-pyrite-mottled pavement, in front of a pet store full of squawking tuttle-birds and screeching lizards. Even before her homburg came tumbling out of the continuum after her, four seekers began to circle in the sky above, signaling her location.

  Deaf to the injured Wonderlanders strewn about the desperate streets, blind to everything save the seekers, Ripkins and Blister stepped onto Theodora Avenue and sighted their quarry. As they approached, Ripkins shook his head, dismissive of the young bodyguard.

  “What could Arch want with her?”

  Blister said nothing, not one to try and guess Arch’s motives the way Ripkins did. What did he care of motives so long as he got to use his gift of touch to hurt people? He noticed Molly’s homburg on the pavement and picked it up. He had never seen a Milliner’s hat in operation before, but with the instinct of one given to all things military, he flicked it and—

  Fwap!

  It flattened into a razor-edged shield.

  Ripkins scanned the scene: no one was watching. Lucky them.

  “Are we supposed to be impressed?” Blister scorned, returning the homburg to its original shape.

  Ripkins took Molly’s limp body in his arms, laid her over his shoulder, and Blister led the way through the alleys of the city. Not until the assassins had crossed back into Boarderland did they make contact with their king, who was in his palace with his ministers when the alert came and Blister’s face hovered before him.

  “We have her,” the assassin said.

  CHAPTER 11

  ALYSS WALKED purposefully through the palace’s night-dimmed halls, through three state rooms and as many parlors, trying to convince herself that her sole aim was to become more familiar with her new home, but…

  Can’t I even admit it to myself?

  She was looking for Dodge. To seek him with her imagination’s eye had felt like spying. Now, if and when she found him, she would feign surprise and say that she was simply exploring the palace, familiarizing herself with its well-appointed rooms, glittering floors, tumbled stone staircases that resembled frozen waterfalls, hand-hewn balustrades, and spacious landings.

  She stepped out into the courtyard. The sunflowers and poppies slept under blankets of dew. Moonlight glinted off the war memorial’s obelisk for the anonymous dead. The Hereafter Plants, whose pistils resembled the faces of Genevieve, Nolan and Sir Justice Anders, cast wistful shadows across the walk.

  Something sniffed, moved. Just as Alyss realized who it was, standing with bowed head at Sir Justice’s grave—

  Dodge.

  —he whirled around, the point of his sword aimed at her throat.

  “Not the warmest way to greet your…” She was about to say “queen” but changed her mind. “…friend.”

  He immediately sheathed his weapon and fell to one knee. “I apologize, Your Highness. You surprised me.”

  “You surprised me,” she said. He expects an attack even here? He is too ready to fight. “I wish you’d get up, Dodge. You don’t belong at my feet.”

  He looked as if he wanted to argue the matter, but he stood, saying only, “I thought you were with the Heart Crystal, helping the military bases defend themselves.”

  For better or worse, she’d stopped aiding the outposts when the reinforcement decks had arrived. She had needed to find him.

  Dodge nodded toward her parents’ graves. “I’ll let you have some time alone.”

  “No, stay,” she said quickly. “I was only…walking around.” She flapped a hand to take in the whole of the palace. “I’m trying to get used to this place.”

  “Really?” He tugged at the lapels of his guardsman’s coat, adjusted the weight of his sword. “Then if Her Majesty will allow me the honor, I would be pleased to accompany her on a guided tour.”

  She would tell him nothing of the tour Bibwit had already provided. “Her Majesty will be pleased to have your company,” she said, “if you give over your formalities and call her by her given name.”

  “Alyss,” he said, and offered his arm.

  They entered the palace and walked for a time in silence.

  Nice to have the warmth of him so close. Try not to feel guilty, the both of us strolling along as if card soldiers ar
en’t battling for their lives on the queendom’s outskirts.

  “I was worried, Dodge,” she said. “Back at the crystal chamber. The look on your face at the possibility of Redd’s return. No one wants to lose you again to an all-consuming vengeance.”

  “No one?”

  Say it. Tell him. “Me.”

  She felt blood rush to her face, hoped that he couldn’t see her blush in the half light. For an interminable moment his only response was the click-click of his heels on the marble floor, then—

  “When you first returned to Wonderland, Alyss, I didn’t understand why you weren’t angry. I thought you should’ve been twice as vengeful as I was, since Redd murdered your mother and father. It bothered me that you weren’t, and I couldn’t help thinking that, in some way, you were dishonoring their memory.”

  “I don’t honor my parents through vengeance,” Alyss said. “I honor them by watching over the queendom to the best of my ability, for the continued glory of White Imagination. As they tried to do.”

  “I know, I know,” he sighed. “Did I take unnecessary risks as an Alyssian? Did I put myself in harm’s way because I cared less about my own life after Redd’s coup? Probably. What did my life matter in a universe that allowed Black Imagination to win?”

  “It mattered,” she whispered.

  Dodge shook his head, uncertain. “That’s what’s funny—as in, not funny at all: I was unnecessarily risking my life but I had vowed to live in order to kill him.”

  They had come to a series of rooms whose familiarity struck Alyss mute. Bibwit had not shown her these rooms, which were a re-creation of her mother’s private quarters in the former Heart Palace.

  “I’m told the architects meant for these rooms to serve as a sort of shrine,” Dodge explained, “a place where you could commune with your mother, if you ever desired her guidance.”

  A noble intention, and yet, the last time she was in these rooms…

  I never saw my mother alive again.

  “If it is Redd,” Dodge said quietly, “if she has returned…I don’t know how much control I’ll have over myself.”

  Alyss tried to sound reasonable, as if whatever Dodge chose to do wasn’t of the greatest importance to her. “You could let me deal with them and not get involved. I can protect you—from them, from your own worst impulses. Whatever power I have is nothing if I can’t use it to keep safe those who…mean the most to me.”

  “You protect me?” he laughed. “Alyss, your responsibilities as queen make it necessary for you to keep yourself out of harm’s way whenever possible.”

  She started to protest.

  “Yes, yes, you’re a warrior queen, absolutely,” he said. “But I think even Bibwit would agree when I say, just because you personally can defeat an enemy doesn’t mean that you always should. The queendom can’t afford to see you injured or worse. Besides, you have card soldiers and chessmen more than willing to engage in battle for you. And if card soldiers and chessmen aren’t enough…” his voice sounded choked, like something was stuck in his throat, “…my life might not have mattered to me, Alyss, but yours always has.”

  Did he just say that? Did he…?

  “A lot of men would be intimidated by a warrior queen, never mind one as intelligent and powerful as you are,” Dodge went on. “But I know that you wish you didn’t always have to be strong. You wish you could let someone else be the strong one for a change, someone who could support and comfort you. I might not have your powers of imagination, Alyss, but let that person be me. Let me protect you, always and forever, no matter who attacks the queendom—Redd or anyone else.”

  “Dodge,” Alyss said, putting a hand to the parallel scars on his cheek, that brand left so long ago by The Cat. She pressed her lips against each of them—four delicate kisses. When she pulled away, he was smiling.

  “I have to check in on a couple of guards,” he said. “Wait for me?”

  She nodded, watched him stride in among the plush couches and oversized pillows that furnished the first of her mother’s replicated rooms, a room heavy with the past but now the site of an overwhelming present. With a last happy look at her, Dodge slipped through a door in the far wall.

  His ears stiff with alarm, the veins in his skull pulsing faster than usual, Bibwit let his hearing guide him. He followed the sound of their voices through half the palace, at last rounded the corner and saw them—Alyss at the threshold of her mother’s quarters, Dodge stepping rather proudly toward the guardsman’s balcony that overlooked the courtyard. He hurried up to the queen and spoke with breathless urgency.

  “Alyss, Glass Eyes have entered the city. They’re on our streets.”

  “On our…?”

  “And there’s something else. The Crystal Continuum—”

  She didn’t give him time to say more, turning her imagination’s gaze on Genevieve Square, where Wonderlanders were being launched out of looking glasses with such speed that they smashed through shop windows, upset tarty tart carts, knocked unsuspecting shoppers to the ground, and sent skittish spirit-danes galloping off uncontrollably with their riders. On the corner of Tyman Street and Wondertropolis Way, Alyss watched as a smail-transport in the midst of boarding its passengers was slammed on its side by a knot of Wonderlanders jettisoned from the continuum. And even Wondronia Grounds—normally the site of so much pleasure—was not exempt from the hailstorm of Wonderlanders; Alyss witnessed dinners and cocktail parties thrown into disarray as continuum travelers crashed onto tables, bars, dessert carts.

  She had to defend her realm with all the imagination she possessed. The sooner Redd and her Glass Eyes were put down, the less opportunity Dodge would have of succumbing to revenge, of risking his life for the sake of killing.

  “Don’t tell Dodge,” she said, and sprinted down the hall.

  Bibwit stared after her for several moments, worried that she might not yet be ready to again battle her aunt, when—

  “She was supposed to wait for me.”

  Dodge. Surprisingly, and not a little ashamed of it, Bibwit had been too absorbed with thoughts of Glass Eyes to hear the guardsman emerge from the balcony. “Who was?” he managed.

  “Alyss.”

  “Oh, was she here? I’ve been looking for her myself.” From the folds of his robe, Bibwit retrieved the menu of the Lobster Quadrille, his favorite restaurant in the city. “I have a pardon that needs her signature.”

  Dodge squinted, suspicious. “Is that right? With your acute hearing, Bibwit, you can usually find anyone you like.”

  Bibwit considered running off. He had never been a good liar. The only way to keep news of the Glass Eyes’ invasion from Dodge would be to avoid the young fellow’s company, for surely the guardsman would pry it out of him otherwise, but—

  “Mr. Bibwit, sir! Mr. Bibwit!”

  The walrus-butler came waddling toward him from one of the ballrooms.

  “I hope you’ve had better luck than I,” said the creature, “because I’ve had none! Not the tiniest bit! No, indeed, I cannot find the queen anywhere!”

  “I was just with her,” Dodge said. “I’m sure I can find her for you.”

  Behind Dodge’s back, Bibwit shook his head at the walrus—No, shhhh, say nothing—but the poor animal was carried away with worry and woe.

  “Then you must tell her, Mr. Dodge—oh, it’s bad news, very unfortunate!—you must inform Queen Alyss that the Glass Eyes have invaded Wondertropolis!”

  Before Bibwit could stop him, Dodge was halfway down the hall with his sword drawn.

  “Tell Alyss to stay in the palace!” he shouted, and kept running.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE FIRE crystals in the shallow pit cast a modest heat as Hatter sat staring at Weaver’s stilled image. He had paused the diary, wondering if something were wrong with its inner workings, because his beloved appeared blurry, as if seen through a veil of water. But then he felt the wet on his cheeks. It wasn’t the diary; he was crying.

  She was dre
ssed in the Alyssian uniform: rough-fibered and nondescript except for the emblem of a white heart on the cuff of the right shirtsleeve.

  His hand twitched. The diary began to play.

  “If you’re viewing this,” Weaver said, “then you have proved wrong all those who currently believe you and the princess are dead…although it also means that I’m most likely dead.”

  She smiled sadly at the space between them. Hatter nearly slammed the diary shut. He’d been wrong; he wasn’t ready for this. But to relegate Weaver’s image back inside the book…No, he couldn’t do that either. It would be too much like shutting her away in a tomb. And so he sat there, watching her recorded image, listening to her every word.

  “This diary is for me as much as it is you, Hatter. I hope I’ll be able to tell you what I have to say in person, but circumstances here are dangerous. Just because I’m alive today is no guarantee that I’ll be so tomorrow. You probably already know that Redd has destroyed the Millinery. Her goal is genocide, to wipe the Milliner breed from existence. It’s believed that she salvaged the ID tracking system from the Millinery and is using it for this purpose, after which she’ll destroy it. You often told me that one born a Milliner still needs the proper training to make the most of his or her natural gifts, but Redd puts more credence in the birth than in the training. As soon as the first Milliner was ambushed by Redd, I hid out here, not sure if I’d be targeted too. There are rumors that a few Milliners have so far managed to escape their assassins and are hiding undercover somewhere. If the rumors are true, I hope they will continue to evade their would-be murderers so that once the rebellion succeeds—and I believe it must—they will come out of hiding and you can lead them in a new Millinery.”