Page 71 of A Court of Hearts and Hunger
“Yes,” she agrees without hesitation. “Complete freedom, and total bondage. Liberty and oppression.”
“The two-sided coin again.” I sigh, pulling the carriage curtains shut. There’s a heavy floral smell, as if someone sprayed perfume liberally on the seat cushions to cover up some other odor.
“Not so much a coin,” muses the Hatter. “More like… a looking glass. A reverse image. Matched and opposed at the same time.”
Her words echo in my mind as the carriage rumbles along the streets, over a new kind of surface, then grinds to a halt.
“Time to play, lovey,” whispers Ygraine, adjusting my hat. Then she bursts out of the carriage with a keening laugh, and I follow her into the red light.
Reckless life explodes around me. Bent-legged insectoid Fae. Reptilian legs with batlike wings and human torsos. A blast of sparkling blue magic on my left, the thrum of dragonfly wings to my right. A blazing whirl of orange fire, scarlet glitter, crystalline black ash—the acrid scent of sizzling magic, the raw coppery sting of blood. The thunder of drumbeats pounds through the cobblestones, up my legs, into my bones, gripping my heart and synchronizing it to the wild whirl of the Dread Court.
My human eyes are dazzled, overwhelmed. Leering faces flash past me—serrated grins, multifaceted insect eyes, snakelike fangs, black eyeballs with yellow irises, scarlet orbs of living flame.
And the clothes—swirls of scarlet fabric, veils of emerald gauze, flashes of blue silk. Shoes with skulls for soles, boots that reach from heel to hip joint. Wide sleeves edged with thorns, black cloaks seeded with white pearls and bits of bone. Hats crafted from skulls or satin, bedecked with sparkling pins, lethal spikes, jewels, chains of finger bones, coils of spine, feathers, scales, or living plumes of fire.
It’s more than I can manage sanely.
Metal fingers close painfully tight around my wrist. Ygraine pulls me along—she’s taking me to the Queen, the Eater of Hearts herself—and I don’t want to go.
Stop it, Clara. Pull yourself together. Focus on your mission.
Somewhere in this terrible place, in a house attached to the palace, a frightened human girl is being subjected to the White Rabbit’s sadistic experiments. I can’t leave another human being to the mercy of these creatures.
These monsters were created with the spells inside the Tama Olc. What else could be done with that book, if it remains in the Rabbit’s possession? We can’t let it remain in this city.
I lift my chin and straighten my shoulders as the Unseelie begin to take notice of us, peering curiously, clustering around me and the Hatter.
“Seelie,” they hiss, desire and derision in their voices.
I scan their faces, selecting a tall male with a bull’s head and another male with serpentine arms. I give them each my most vicious smile, and the others notice.
“Seelie likes to play,” someone murmurs.
Fingers, feathers, and claws brush my arms as I move ahead with Ygraine. We’re approaching an open space now—a narrow, respectful gap between the churning revelry in the rest of the courtyard and the favored Unseelie who hover around the royal dais. It’s a high, square platform, the size of the parlor in the house where Louisa and I grew up, with thirteen ebony steps leading up to it on all four sides. It stands between two wings of the palace proper, forming the centerpiece of an open-air throne room.
The throne is white quartz—stunningly beautiful, except for the runnels and drips of blood trailing from its sharp peak. The crimson liquid doesn’t seem to drain or dry—perpetually flowing by some foul magic.
And on an immense cushion, stained dark with the endless spilled blood, sits the Queen.
She’s lovely. Daintily posed, one perfect leg crossed over the other. Atop her black hair sits a fascinator crafted of black thorns, red roses, and scorpion tails, the perfect adornment for her flowing ebony curls. Thick black lashes nearly brush her pale cheeks as she examines the hand of cards she’s holding. She wears a dress of white lace and gauzy tulle, with a low neckline that shows off a scarlet tattoo on her breastbone. Her dark red mouth is plump, heart-shaped.
She looks almost human, except for the unnatural smoothness of her skin, the pointed tips of her ears, and her white claws.
No one told me the Eater of the Hearts was Seelie.
But perhaps being Unseelie has little to do with one’s appearance, or with the infusion of certain bestial body parts. Perhaps it is a state of the mind and heart.
Several Fae cluster around the Queen and linger behind the throne. One of them is sitting on a stool near her feet, with a fan of cards in his fingers. A long furred tail extends from his rear, and as we approach, his cat ears twitch, rotating slightly to catch the faint scuff of our footsteps.
The Queen’s lashes lift, revealing eyes that are black from corner to corner, with scarlet irises like burning red rings in all that black space.
“Kneel and put your head down,” whispers Ygraine tightly, sinking to her knees.
I crumple immediately and bow with my forehead touching the floor.
“Rise, Hatter,” says the Queen in a soft, musical voice. “Who is this?”
“A Seelie painter, your Gracious Majesty,” says Ygraine. “One of the Inert, but gifted with artistic talent. She has left her people and come to bask in the light of your beauty.”
