Free Queen of Hearts (The Crown) by Colleen Oakes Page B

against the foot of a mortified Heart Card. He stepped back, and wisely so, for the next sound Dinah heard was her father’s rushing cry of rage. He took three steps toward Dinah and violently pulled her close. Both Harris and Cheshire stepped toward the lawn, ready to intervene. The King’s huge fingers sank into Dinah’s shoulder as a cruel look stretched over his face. To the crowd, it looked like a funny moment between father and daughter. But Dinah could see the enraged indignation in his eyes and could smell the wine as his breath washed over her face.
    “Princess, You WILL let me win this game. You will not humiliate me in front of my kingdom any more than your mere existence already does. The King of Hearts will not lose to his pathetic daughter, or you will find yourself a new mentor, and Harris will find himself suddenly a Spade.”
    Hot tears welled in Dinah’s eyes as he shook her loose. He was her father, how could he do this to her? She tried to summon the same boldness that dwelt in her when she had whacked his ball off the lawn, but it was not there. It was replaced by a gnawing hunger for her father’s love, so powerful and real that it made her gasp.
    “I will,” she whispered. “I will do whatever you ask, Father. I’m sorry.”
    “Do not forget your place again. I am your King and Vittiore is your sister and you will honor us both. After the game, you will bow before her so all of Wonderland can see that you have accepted her as your blood sibling and equal.”
    A shocked sob escaped from her clenched lips. He smiled and gestured to the crowd. “She takes the game so seriously!” he announced. “My sweet daughter.”
    He released her. Dinah stepped back, her knees threatening to buckle underneath her. The Master of Games walked to the center of the lawn and spoke into a large silver horn. “The final play of the Royal Croquet Game will now commence. Please stand for your King.”
    The crowd rose to its feet. The King had the final stroke. He unclasped the four-Card brooches that fastened his cloak and flung it toward Wardley. Wardley scooped it off the field and strode quickly back to his place on the border, but not before he shot Dinah a sympathetic look. The King’s ball rolled easily through the last wicket and struck the final stake. All eyes turned to her, including her father’s. His face was a distorted tangle of pride and fear, like a bear in a cage. He belonged on a battlefield, not a croquet lawn. Or a throne.
    Dinah raised her mallet. There was an intake of breath and she looked at the crowd, their anxious faces yearning for their King’s victory. They feared him without knowing him, worshipped him without any proof of his divinity. She understood at once what it took to be a leader—one had to be willing to be a figurehead without any trace of intimacy. One had to be the projection of even the lowest born’s hopes and fears. She understood. This crowd needed her father to win.
    She brought the flamingo’s beak down hard against her red ball. It sailed across the yard and bounced off the edge of the peg. The crowd erupted into glorious cheering. The ladies were weeping and the men were saluting her father—tracing the shape of a heart over their own—and letting out bold yells. The King raised his mallet above his head in a sign of victory.
    Vittiore rushed to him, her dress floating across the short green grass. “Father! Congratulations.”
    He swept her up in a warm embrace. Dinah dropped her mallet on the lawn and walked off the green. Harris followed behind her, his head hung in mutual disappointment. Harris had long ago learned to read Dinah’s moods and knew when to reprimand . . . and when to stay silent. Dinah walked through the palace quickly, making her way through the twisty stone halls to her bedchamber. She pulled off her gray wool gown, reeking of sour sweat, and fell onto her down mattress. A surge of self-pity washed over her and she turned her face into