“Everyone knows Bibwit Harte,” The
Cat said. “He’s tutored three queens.”
With growing interest, Redd asked, “Who are you that you’ve made an enemy of him?” “My name is Vollrath. Mr. Harte and I were in the Tutor Corps together many, many moons ago, when Queen Issa was still a newborn princess. We were, the top two students in our class, but for as long as we were in the Corps, Mr. Harte remained first-in-class while I was supposed to be content with second. I am incapable of being satisfied with second place in anything, so…” the tutor’s ears angled back, stiff, as if buffeted by a strong wind, “…not wanting to be forever at Mr. Harte’s heels in the propagation of White Imagination, I began to devote my knowledge and intellect to the service of Black Imagination. And with as much truthfulness as I allow myself—for too much makes one dull, dull, dull—I may say that I became its premier scholar. I offered my services to any Black Imagination practitioners willing to pay me the outlandish sums I demanded, and I lived a life of glorious decadence. But about the time of Issa’s coronation, I became entangled with an overambitious smuggler and it became necessary for me to throw myself into the Pool of Tears. I haven’t been back to Wonderland since.” A graduate of the Tutor Corps in the service of Black Imagination? A scholar of malice and foe of Bibwit Harte? It was time for Redd to announce herself: “I am Redd Heart, granddaughter of Queen Issa and eldest daughter of Queen Theodora and King Tyman, both of whom are dead.”
Vollrath immediately dropped to one knee, his head bowed. “I didn’t realize I was conversing with royalty,” he said. “I apologize for my lack of proper respect, Princess.” Princess. Redd bridled at the word. “You might ask why Wonderland’s heir apparent is in this foul and slummy place. The answer: because my birthright has twice been denied me, once by a traitorous mother who connived with my younger sister (both dead by my hand), and again by an upstart niece who this moment wears the crown that looks so much better on my head than it does on hers. Now get up. And call me ‘Your Imperial Viciousness.’”
Vollrath rose to his feet and put a thoughtful finger to his bloodless lips, about to speak, when— “Monsieur Vollrath,” the skinny torch-bearer said, “unless you want to be late…” “Yes, yes, Marcel. Your Imperial Viciousness, if you will deign to tell me, I’d like to hear more about your niece—and of course, what you intend to do to her—but I’m presently on my way to an engagement in a catacomb not far from here. I’d be honored if you and your feline friend would join me as my special guests. The entertainment is to be provided by a pupil of mine—one who, although not from Wonderland, has talents I think you’ll appreciate. Afterward, we may discuss your niece at our leisure, and if I can be of any service to you whatsoever, I shall not hesitate.” So Redd and The Cat followed Vollrath and Marcel along a zigzag of cobwebbed tunnels until they emerged into a catacomb well lit by torches. Though large, the crypt was crammed with tables. At one end, opposite a bar made of coffins, a pile of human bones took up most of an elevated stage. In the center of the room, a heavy-set man with an ink-dark mustache was urging on what appeared to be waiters readying the room for an influx of customers. “Chop chop!” the man was booming. “Chop chop! Sacrenoir’s performance will begin on time or not at all! Marcel, where have you been?”
“Forgive my delay, Master Sacrenoir,” Marcel said.
With growing interest, Redd asked, “Who are you that you’ve made an enemy of him?” “My name is Vollrath. Mr. Harte and I were in the Tutor Corps together many, many moons ago, when Queen Issa was still a newborn princess. We were, the top two students in our class, but for as long as we were in the Corps, Mr. Harte remained first-in-class while I was supposed to be content with second. I am incapable of being satisfied with second place in anything, so…” the tutor’s ears angled back, stiff, as if buffeted by a strong wind, “…not wanting to be forever at Mr. Harte’s heels in the propagation of White Imagination, I began to devote my knowledge and intellect to the service of Black Imagination. And with as much truthfulness as I allow myself—for too much makes one dull, dull, dull—I may say that I became its premier scholar. I offered my services to any Black Imagination practitioners willing to pay me the outlandish sums I demanded, and I lived a life of glorious decadence. But about the time of Issa’s coronation, I became entangled with an overambitious smuggler and it became necessary for me to throw myself into the Pool of Tears. I haven’t been back to Wonderland since.” A graduate of the Tutor Corps in the service of Black Imagination? A scholar of malice and foe of Bibwit Harte? It was time for Redd to announce herself: “I am Redd Heart, granddaughter of Queen Issa and eldest daughter of Queen Theodora and King Tyman, both of whom are dead.”
Vollrath immediately dropped to one knee, his head bowed. “I didn’t realize I was conversing with royalty,” he said. “I apologize for my lack of proper respect, Princess.” Princess. Redd bridled at the word. “You might ask why Wonderland’s heir apparent is in this foul and slummy place. The answer: because my birthright has twice been denied me, once by a traitorous mother who connived with my younger sister (both dead by my hand), and again by an upstart niece who this moment wears the crown that looks so much better on my head than it does on hers. Now get up. And call me ‘Your Imperial Viciousness.’”
Vollrath rose to his feet and put a thoughtful finger to his bloodless lips, about to speak, when— “Monsieur Vollrath,” the skinny torch-bearer said, “unless you want to be late…” “Yes, yes, Marcel. Your Imperial Viciousness, if you will deign to tell me, I’d like to hear more about your niece—and of course, what you intend to do to her—but I’m presently on my way to an engagement in a catacomb not far from here. I’d be honored if you and your feline friend would join me as my special guests. The entertainment is to be provided by a pupil of mine—one who, although not from Wonderland, has talents I think you’ll appreciate. Afterward, we may discuss your niece at our leisure, and if I can be of any service to you whatsoever, I shall not hesitate.” So Redd and The Cat followed Vollrath and Marcel along a zigzag of cobwebbed tunnels until they emerged into a catacomb well lit by torches. Though large, the crypt was crammed with tables. At one end, opposite a bar made of coffins, a pile of human bones took up most of an elevated stage. In the center of the room, a heavy-set man with an ink-dark mustache was urging on what appeared to be waiters readying the room for an influx of customers. “Chop chop!” the man was booming. “Chop chop! Sacrenoir’s performance will begin on time or not at all! Marcel, where have you been?”
“Forgive my delay, Master Sacrenoir,” Marcel said.