Free The Crown by Colleen Oakes Page A

the mallet sent her white ball hurtling through the first two wickets, but her next shots didn’t get her close to her next outside wicket. Dinah was next. She had never been skilled at croquet, despite weekly lessons that she despised. Her red ball went through the first gate, but got caught on the second wicket. Her second shot left her ball in her father’s way. The King of Hearts took the next turn. His ball sailed through the gates on the first try, whacking Dinah’s ball out toward the course boundaries.
    Vittiore gave a triumphant giggle. “Excellent hit, Father!”
    He took his extra strokes to send his black sphere hurtling towards the third wicket. Vittiore took her second turn, the gentle nudge of her mallet sending her white ball through the obstacle. Dinah got her red ball headed back in the right direction, but she hadn’t even taken a single turn before one of her father’s black balls was targeting her red ones. Dinah recognized his strategy immediately. Isolate the opponent. Attack with relentless fury. Dominate. Eliminate.
    As she watched her father smile encouragingly at Vittiore as she sent one of her white balls into a bush, Dinah felt her shame at this spectacle turn into anger. The black fury was rising inside of her, making the tips of her fingers tingle. Two could play this game, she thought—she wouldn’t let herself be humiliated by his misplaced doting. When her turn came again, she swung her mallet hard, unladylike. Her red ball sailed through the wicket and with a smack, sent Vittiore’s ball completely off the course in a perfect roquet. The crowd gave a murmur of disapproval. Poor Vittiore. Dinah didn’t care.
    Another horn blasted and the game advanced in complexity once the birds were let loose. A dozen birds ran wild over the course—flamingoes, dodos, pale-white swans, and ducks. They got in the way of the balls or blocked stakes, or pecked at players’ heels. It was chaos. A dodo sank its beak into Vittiore’s smooth calf, and she let out a scream, which made Dinah’s heart leap with joy. Yet even with the whimsy of the birds and the lighthearted mood of the crowd, both Dinah and her father seemed to sense a turn in the purpose of the game as they attacked each other with relish. Red and black balls cracked against one another continuously as their mallets swung higher and higher. Vittiore was almost forgotten, but just when she would draw close to the eleventh wicket, Dinah would send a red ball her way and she would be pushed backwards.
    Time seemed to stretch on forever as the three wound their way through hoop after hoop. The crowd grew silent and tense as they sensed the enmity between Dinah and her father. Dark circles of sweat had formed under the King’s arms and across Dinah’s brow. Her heavy wool dress was swampy inside, and Dinah dreamed of casting it off into the crowd. Her thin ruby crown lay uncomfortably on her head, its sharp points pulling her hair out strand by strand as she bent and twisted, beyond caring how she looked.
    After an hour had passed, Cheshire strode out to the middle of the lawn and signaled for the bird catchers. The birds were gathered and removed for the final round, signaling the end of the game. Vittiore had three hoops left and would not win. She forfeited with an easy smile to the crowd and a wave of her hand. They gave a great cheer as she retired, her blond curls untouched by any of the physical strain that Dinah and her father were suffering. Cheshire led her to the edge of the lawn, where she collapsed into a large heart-shaped chair. She was so charming in that self-effacing way: a toss of her hair, a twinkle in her blue eyes. It made Dinah feel dismal and jealous at the same time.
    It was her turn. Her emotions tangled inside of her and she brought her mallet down upon her red ball with vengeance, which sailed across the lawn with a loud CRACK and slammed into her father’s last black ball, which rolled out of bounds and rested