Page 82 of A Court of Hearts and Hunger
Even if I can’t kill the Queen, I can save Clara from her. I’ll do it if it kills me.
But the Queen spins away, snapping her fingers high. “Have both these portraits framed at once and hung in my quarters. And take the painter to the Entertainer’s Wing. See that she’s given a room.” She glances at Clara. “Elowen, tomorrow you will join me for a game of croquet in my garden.”
“I would be honored, Your Majesty,” replies Clara with a deep curtsy.
The Queen sweeps down the back steps of the dais and heads for one of the palace entrances, accompanied by several courtiers.
“That was a close call for the little Seelie,” murmurs a deep voice behind me. The White Rabbit again.
“Was it?” I examine the sparkly black paint on my nails. “I barely noticed her. The Queen is quite striking, don’t you think? I’ll wager she’s a demon in bed.” I lick my sharp teeth, grinning at him.
But he steps past me, his attention apparently fixed on Clara’s second painting, though it’s difficult to tell what he’s looking at with the mask covering most of his face.
“By the Broken Star,” he murmurs. “How did I miss that?”
“What?” I follow his gaze, squinting at the painting. “What are you talking about?”
“They say art reveals the soul.” He grips my shoulder and laughs, maniacal and joyful. “That Seelie artist is more than she appears. Sweet dreams, Sugarplum. It was a displeasure to see you again.”
And he’s off, wending his way through the crowd, moving rapidly on his long legs.
There’s something about Clara’s painting that I’m missing, and I’ve got no time to figure it out because the servants are preparing to carry it away.
I glance at Clara, who remains on her stool, pale and lovely and triumphant. She is safe, for the moment.
Quickly I navigate the crowd myself, but I don’t follow the White Rabbit. I head for the palace entrance through which the Queen disappeared.
She’s far ahead already, nearly at the end of the hallway, surrounded by her entourage. My magic is nearly spent, but I conjure a treat on a white cloth and whisk myself nearer with a burst of speed.
“Your Majesty!” I call out.
The Queen looks back, anger sparking in her gaze. But when she sees what I’m holding, she turns around. “Approach, Sugarplum.”
I kneel and hold up my offering—an anatomically correct human heart, complete with chambers and blood vessels, all crafted of sugared strawberry gelatin.
“I noticed Your Loveliness did not partake during the festivities,” I say, my head bent in deference. “Perhaps this gift will please you more than the sweets I conjured for the Court.”
She glides nearer and scrapes my hair back from my brow with her white claws. “I don’t consume anything but living hearts,” she says. “But this is a beautiful gift. I accept it.” She nods to a servant, who takes the cloth and the candy heart from my hands.
“You are too kind, Majesty.” I bow lower.
“You’ll join me for croquet tomorrow,” she says. “We’ll speak of the other delights you can bring to our revels.”
“As you wish, My Queen.”
She moves on, but I remain on my knees as the servants carry the two paintings past me. I get one more clear look at what Clara painted, but I can see nothing that should have triggered such a response from the White Rabbit.
It’s a mystery I can’t solve right now. I need to return to the open air of the Dread Court and follow Clara when she’s taken to her rooms. I can’t trust any of the food or drink they might give her, so she and I have agreed that I’ll provide her with conjured food during our stay, since I can’t always be nearby to test what she’s given. Conjured food won’t be as filling, but it will sustain Clara until we can find Drosselmeyer’s maid and steal her from my old master.
25
The Queen approves of the portrait.
I inhale, tension unspooling from my limbs. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Finias, standing near the platform—a blurry shape in my peripheral vision. I dare not look at him. No one can connect the two of us. But it comforts me to know he was ready to help me if things had gone badly.
My body is still recovering from the peril of the Queen’s attention, and I can’t move, not yet. I watch the servants lifting the paintings, carrying them away to be framed.
A whiff of violets and shadow, the brush of a furry tail against my bare ankle. The Cat has returned from wherever he went.
