vitality and life, but to have
actually created them? With nothing more than brushes and
oils?
“It’s impossible! Impossible!” he kept repeating. But if it was impossible, why did he have a dream-fuzzed memory of the ferocious woman and cat-beast standing over him as he curled in his cot, sleeping off his drunk, a memory in which he was both participant and observer?
“The only reason I don’t kill him,” he remembered the woman saying, her voice sounding like the scrape of iron against iron, a corrosion of vocal cords, “is because he’s not important enough.” CHAPTER 17
M OLLY’S HEAD felt like it had been cracked open and poorly fit back together. Her shoulders ached. Her forearms tingled raw, as if skinned. Her swollen hands were so sensitive that it hurt to make a fist. It hurt to do most things—including blink, so she lay with her eyes closed, remembering what had happened: the Lady of Diamonds; the carved wooden chest that was supposed to have gone to Queen Alyss; her suspicion of a plot to upset Alyss’ reign (which, judging by her present pains, had not been ill-placed). But an attempt on the queen’s life? The Lady of Diamonds was bolder than she had supposed. Alyss had to be informed.
Molly forced herself to sit up and open her eyes. What the—? King Arch was sitting in a chair next to her mattress. What was Arch doing in Wonderland? “She lives,” he said.
A minister scurried in on silent feet and whispered in the king’s ear, which was when she realized: Arch wasn’t in Wonderland; she was in Boarderland. But how had she ended up in Boarderland? Where was her gear? And what was she wearing that encased her like a second skin? Instead of her usual pants and belt, she had on a formfitting one-piece made of some unfamiliar pink material, and there were no visible buttons or clasps by which to remove it. The collar fit tightly about her neck, the leggings tightly around her ankles, and the cuffs of the long sleeves came close to choking off the blood supply to her hands. She hated tight-fitting clothes. Worse, she hated pink. “Send her in with the dumplings,” Arch told the minister, who left as quietly as a curl of smoke. The king smiled down at Molly. “And how are we feeling after our much-needed nap?” “Where are my things?”
“Right there.”
He pointed to a table across the room, on which her homburg, Millinery coat, backpack, belt, and wrist-blades were neatly arrayed. Standing on either side of the table were two creatures from a species she had never seen before.
“You underestimate me,” she said, and lunged for her gear. Her legs gave way as if they’d been shorn of all muscle. Her arms were useless and she was unable to steady her vision, as if her eyes were swirling in their sockets independently of each other. She fell to the floor. Far, far away she felt someone pick her up and set her back down. Her head began to settle and she found herself on the mattress.
“It seems, Molly, it is you who underestimates me,” Arch said. “I should’ve perhaps told you the item
“It’s impossible! Impossible!” he kept repeating. But if it was impossible, why did he have a dream-fuzzed memory of the ferocious woman and cat-beast standing over him as he curled in his cot, sleeping off his drunk, a memory in which he was both participant and observer?
“The only reason I don’t kill him,” he remembered the woman saying, her voice sounding like the scrape of iron against iron, a corrosion of vocal cords, “is because he’s not important enough.” CHAPTER 17
M OLLY’S HEAD felt like it had been cracked open and poorly fit back together. Her shoulders ached. Her forearms tingled raw, as if skinned. Her swollen hands were so sensitive that it hurt to make a fist. It hurt to do most things—including blink, so she lay with her eyes closed, remembering what had happened: the Lady of Diamonds; the carved wooden chest that was supposed to have gone to Queen Alyss; her suspicion of a plot to upset Alyss’ reign (which, judging by her present pains, had not been ill-placed). But an attempt on the queen’s life? The Lady of Diamonds was bolder than she had supposed. Alyss had to be informed.
Molly forced herself to sit up and open her eyes. What the—? King Arch was sitting in a chair next to her mattress. What was Arch doing in Wonderland? “She lives,” he said.
A minister scurried in on silent feet and whispered in the king’s ear, which was when she realized: Arch wasn’t in Wonderland; she was in Boarderland. But how had she ended up in Boarderland? Where was her gear? And what was she wearing that encased her like a second skin? Instead of her usual pants and belt, she had on a formfitting one-piece made of some unfamiliar pink material, and there were no visible buttons or clasps by which to remove it. The collar fit tightly about her neck, the leggings tightly around her ankles, and the cuffs of the long sleeves came close to choking off the blood supply to her hands. She hated tight-fitting clothes. Worse, she hated pink. “Send her in with the dumplings,” Arch told the minister, who left as quietly as a curl of smoke. The king smiled down at Molly. “And how are we feeling after our much-needed nap?” “Where are my things?”
“Right there.”
He pointed to a table across the room, on which her homburg, Millinery coat, backpack, belt, and wrist-blades were neatly arrayed. Standing on either side of the table were two creatures from a species she had never seen before.
“You underestimate me,” she said, and lunged for her gear. Her legs gave way as if they’d been shorn of all muscle. Her arms were useless and she was unable to steady her vision, as if her eyes were swirling in their sockets independently of each other. She fell to the floor. Far, far away she felt someone pick her up and set her back down. Her head began to settle and she found herself on the mattress.
“It seems, Molly, it is you who underestimates me,” Arch said. “I should’ve perhaps told you the item