return to the relative safety of the palace so that we can discuss what’s to be done about the woman who is to remain nameless—by whom, I think you know, I mean your aunt Redd.” “Bibwit…have you seen Homburg Molly? It’s unlike her not to throw herself into a fight where she can show off her skills.”
“It is not at all like her,” the tutor agreed, “but I haven’t seen the girl.” While Hatter tried to act as if Molly’s whereabouts didn’t mean everything to him, Alyss quickly scanned the palace with her imagination. She didn’t glimpse her bodyguard anywhere. Probably still sulking because I sent her off. She’ll have to learn not to take things so personally. “Expect us momentarily, Bibwit,” she said. The tutor’s ears dipped in acknowledgment. The screen faded, the transmission ended. “My queen,” said the knight, “with your permission, as long as a single one of my chessmen risks death against the Glass Eyes, so must I.”
“I should stay and fight,” agreed the rook. One glance at Dodge and Alyss could tell that he wanted to stay and fight too. Till every living vestige of The Cat is rent from the world for all time. It was ironic that to keep him from further risking his life and sanity for revenge, she had to tempt him with a greater opportunity to accomplish its end. “Dodge,” she said, “the Glass Eyes are only foot soldiers, as you’ve said yourself. Redd and The Cat won’t be so easily coaxed into the open. Come with me. Together we’ll devise a plan to flush them out of wherever they are. Return to the palace with me and we can confront them together.” She held out her hand. The Wonderlanders were silent, and Dodge’s jaw looked diamond-hard as he stared off into the distance. But at last he turned to the woman who was both Wonderland’s queen and his love. He would follow her.
PART TWO
CHAPTER 16
Montmartre, Paris. June, 1873
T HE PAINTER awoke from a fitful sleep, his nightmares cut short by
the cries of his newborn son, who seemed to be suffering unquiet
dreams of his own. Outside, rain thrashed the streets and lightning
split the sky. The painter’s wife complainingly went to check on
the baby, and the painter himself stared out the window at the few
pedestrians making their way through the downpour; with their
shoulders hunched and their heads bowed, they looked—to his trained
eye—furtive and morose, people bent on illicit errands. “What are
you gawking at?”
His wife was standing at the door of their room with the whimpering
baby in her arms. If he’d had any doubt before, he had none now:
Her mood was as foul as the weather. What did he propose to do
about