Queen of Hearts. Colleen Oakes

She tucked it all around him, her dresses, slips, and socks, so that he might be comforted on his journey to another place. Charles’s fingers had found one of her mother’s bejeweled hats, the one she had worn for All Tea’s Day the year before—a gorgeous plum hat with a tall plume, plump and glittering in his small hand. An absurd smile played across his translucent skin as he turned the hat over and over in his hands, a look of fascination on his face. He then turned to Dinah and simply asked for a biscuit.

      “My Dinah,” he had whispered with a smile, his small hand tracing her chin. “Biscuit?”

      She saw it in his eyes that day—he had decided to stay, just like that. That was seven years ago. Since then, Charles never left his room. He watched the world from his windows, where he occasionally threw his lavishly made hats down onto adoring townspeople. A hat created by Charles, the so-called Mad Hatter, was worth more than any piece of clothing in Wonderland. His creations were inspired works of skill and insanity. Unapologetically whimsical, rich in every color found in nature and some that weren’t, they were a testament to Charles’s lunacy.

      He rarely slept or bathed. His two loyal servants, Lucy and Quintrell, saw to all his needs. They kept his chambers from falling into disrepair but allowed his mind the freedom to create in the wild lunacy that he fostered. Tapestries and huge rolls of fabric covered the ground and most of the walls. Narrow walkways had been created for the servants, but Charles simply danced over the rainbow floor, his feet barely brushing the patterned fabrics of amethyst, pumpkin, taupe, and lapis.

      Charles looked up at Dinah, still standing on the stairway. He giggled and sang, “A ribbon across their necks, one, two, hearts. Check and check!”

      She looked down at the tawny head and the mismatched blue and green eyes that stared back at her wildly. “Do you remember my name today?”

      “Dinah, rhymes with lima, beans and more beans, growing up and up, over the hills into the pale white, like sugar on a pie, die, die …”

      Dinah gave him a proud smile. “That’s right, Charles. Dinah. Your sister. I brought you something today.”

      His right eye blinked twice. “Something? Something like the sun, inching closer every day. It will burn us, uh-oh, it will.”

      “Not quite the sun, but something really special.” Dinah reached into her cloak and pulled out the tiny wooden seahorse. Charles’s eyes widened, and he took it in his slight, feminine hands. Wardley had carved swirls into its curving back and blackened its long nose with smudged charcoal.

      “It’s from Wardley. Remember him? What do you say?”

      Charles repaid Dinah with a huge smile that showed his misshapen teeth. “Blue horse, swimming on a long field. Tasty shrimp inside his ribs, I can taste it, yes I can!”

      “I’m glad you like it.”

      Charles held the carving up into the light as he made it swim through the air. “Sea birds, shimmering scales, black eyes …”

      He dashed away from her and began riffling through the fabrics, muttering to himself. Dinah had seen this a hundred times before. The inspiration for a hat had taken root in his mangled brain—a creative, aggressive root that was spreading its joy and poison through each and every secret path of his mind. Dinah descended the staircase to speak with the servants who were waiting patiently near the door.

      “How is he doing this week?” she asked.

      Lucy gave a deep bow. She was the gentlest woman Dinah had ever known, a grandmother of three with rosy cheeks and white hair that glowed a pale blue in the harsh winter light. Age lines rippled out from her eyes and down her neck into her modest white gown. On her head sat an enormous felt whale, embroidered with swirling pink blossoms. Charles loved her dearly, in his own way, and Lucy was his most devoted servant.

      Quintrell was her assistant—a strapping lad who handled the physical labor involved with Charles’s care. He wrestled Charles into the swan-shaped tub once a week and scrubbed him down with hedgehog skins while the boy screamed and writhed. He was also the only one who could force Charles to eat when he was in one of his hat-making furies. Charles periodically went through long periods where he saw nothing but fabric and stitching—fits of wild, brilliant mania that would last for days. Dinah had no idea how Lucy and Quintrell dealt with Charles day in and day out, but they seemed content. Other than Dinah, they were the only ones who truly loved him.

      Though he was her brother, Dinah felt that she floated in a strange emotional fog with Charles—she loved him dearly, but her love was always tinged with confusion. She couldn’t deal with him the way Lucy and Quintrell did. Charles recognized her most weeks, but when he didn’t, Dinah felt betrayed, even more alone than usual. Dinah watched as Lucy wrinkled her face, sorting a pile of buttons into several different boxes. She cleared her throat, preparing to respond to Dinah’s question. “How is he doing, Your Highness? Well, he has created two hats in the last twenty days, which is fast for him—the fuchsia beret with swallow’s eggs, and the gryphon top hat, which will be delivered to Lord and Lady Clutessa next week. Both works were inspired by the birds that have nested just outside the window.”

      Dinah nodded. Working for Charles had turned both Lucy and Quintrell into hatters as well—they were as skilled and knowledgeable as any milliner in town could ever be.

      “They sound beautiful. But I was asking about Charles. Has he been well?” Quintrell fidgeted nervously. Dinah smiled. “Well, out with it.”

      “Your Highness, three nights past, I woke up to loud giggling coming from the atrium.” Quintrell glanced nervously at Lucy. She placed her withered hand on his arm and nodded for him to continue. “When I came out into the room, Charles was up on one of the staircases. He …” Quintrell’s voice caught in his throat.

      Lucy stepped forward. “Charles had one of the stitching needles dug into his arm. He was squeezing the blood out and letting it drip onto the mulberry silk.”

      A painful gasp escaped from Dinah’s lips. “Why, why would he do that?”

      Lucy refused to meet her eyes. “He said the dye wasn’t the right shade of red. He was fixing it. We tried to get the needle away from him, but he was on the edge of the staircase, so …”

      “So you let him do it, rather than risk his falling.”

      They both nodded. Dinah was tempted to rage at them the way she had raged at the Spade, but it was no use. She knew Charles, and she knew that he couldn’t be controlled, bottled, or taught. His mind worked in a different way—short flashes of brilliance followed by dark plunges into his macabre imaginary world.