trap. The Lady of Diamonds might be trying to ensnare the queen in a scheme designed to cost her the respect of government officials and the general population. It was easy to believe: the Lady of Diamonds conniving to gain advantage over Alyss in political dealings that a needless bodyguard was not allowed to know anything about.

And if it were a trap? Well then, she might be able to prevent it, because what was so hard about opening the chest as the Lady of Diamonds had claimed? It had a single clasp and…there, she unlocked it. Now all she had to do was lift the lid. If she could protect Alyss from the Lady of Diamonds’ intrigue, whatever it was, she would thus ensure the still fragile stability of the queendom. Then Alyss would have to let her take a more active part in military and other important meetings. She would have proven

beyond all doubt that, halfer or not, she deserved the most the queen could grant in the way of responsibility and honor.

Impatient, careening past commuters toward Heart Palace, the continuum’s prismatic surfaces a smear of twinkling colors, she lifted the lid of King Arch’s weapon no more than a vein’s breadth and-

Whoomp!

CHAPTER 9

A TOP THE second-highest peak in the Snark Mountains, at a military base overlooking the Valley of Mushrooms, card soldiers armed themselves with AD52 projectile-decks, fortified the grounds with orb cannons and whipsnake grenade launchers. The latest communication from Doppelganger’s headquarters had informed them that there was no discernible pattern to the attacks on other outposts, no strategic principle by which the general could deduce which base would next come under siege.

Seven other outposts had already been destroyed; the card soldiers had no intention of becoming the eighth. They cautiously walked patrols, stood their lines. Yet there was no sign of Glass Eyes or anyone else, no sign of life whatsoever unless they counted the wind, the scudding clouds. They were remote enough from civilization that, if not for the shadow cast over them by Talon’s Point to remind them where they were, they might have supposed themselves the lone community in the world, isolate in the vast, unpopulated upper reaches of the sky.

Talon’s Point was the highest peak in the queendom and thought to be unreachable by ordinary means, the winds too fierce even for the two-person crafts operated by Wondertropolis sightseeing firms. But unbeknownst to the nearby card soldiers, it was here, on the only upsurge of land closer to the heavens than they, that an extraordinary Wonderlander had taken up residence, one who had wanted to utterly remove himself from his responsibilities, to wallow in the fact that he was not first and foremost a Milliner, but a man. He had fought against this for so long, struggled to subordinate every impulse, every desire, to the dictates of Millinery duty. It had been futile to try. He knew that now.

He had helped Princess Alyss ascend to her rightful place on Wonderland’s throne and been granted leave. Packing only enough provisions to last the journey, planning to forage for food on the lower parts of the mountain as needed, he came to Talon’s Point, wanting time and space and solitude to mourn the loss of Weaver, a woman he loved more than he had realized. Completely severed from his responsibilities for the first time in his life, he unburdened himself of his Millinery backpack, took off the long, battle-scarred coat that had been his uniform for as long as he could remember. He unhooked his Millinery belt and unlocked the cuffs that held his wrist-blades in place. He removed his top hat last, sensing its reluctance in the suction-like hold that made it slightly more difficult to lift from his head. He arranged all of his Millinery gear in a neat pile and set it aside, doubtful he would use any of it again.

Far from the bustlings of Heart Palace yet within easy sight of Alyss’ imaginative powers if she but knew where to direct them, the legendary Hatter Madigan-unflinching in combat, role model of the

duty-bound stoic for all those born to the Millinery, was allowing himself to feel.

Long before, he had chosen Talon’s Point for his intermittent rendezvous with Weaver because it was presumed to be unreachable. Untrodden by Wonderlander and Boarderlander alike, it would be safe from trespassers.

He’d made the first visit alone-by means of blades pulled from his backpack, scaled the sheer cliff that

towered up to the summit of Talon’s Point, where he discovered a ridge wide enough to support a smail-transport and, in an outcropping of ice-glazed rock, a cave that could comfortably accommodate two. Weaver, the Millinery’s sole civilian employee, would never be able to scale the cliff, he knew, so over the course of several following visits, he’d used his wrist-blades to bore an upsloping tunnel from the cliff’s base to the cave at the summit, pressing his whirring blades into the mountain, his entire body vibrating with the friction as they churned bedrock to pebbles and flinty dust.

He had brought Weaver after the tunnel was complete, showed her by what flora to recognize its entrance and where he stowed the fire crystals she could use to light her way up to the cave. They had never been able to spend as much time at their refuge as they might have liked, Hatter being too busy with his duties to Queen Genevieve, and Weaver with her lab work. But what days they had carved out for themselves on Talon’s Point were all the more treasured for being infrequent: welcome hours of respite from the daily tussle and wear of living; rare moments of relaxation for Hatter, the only time another living being had seen him slough off the cloak of stoicism his position forced him to wear.

But now Weaver was dead, murdered by Redd’s assassins, as had been every member of the former Millinery. What better place to indulge his mournful reminiscences than at the hideaway that most reminded him of her? Because in a way, the pain of her absence, the loss of her, was a living thing. It had a life inside him that he wanted to coddle, to nurture. Weaver’s dying was her final physical act, the last thing she’d ever do that would impact him; he wanted to make it last as long as possible.

In the farthest recess of the cave he found a leather satchel blanketed with dust, half buried in drifts of dirt formed by the wind. Weaver’s satchel. Had she brought it on one of their earlier visits or left it for him, a clue to how she had spent her last days? But if she’d left it for him, troubling questions came to mind. Why would she have abandoned Talon’s Point, since it was where she’d had the best chance of avoiding Redd’s assassins? Or what if she hadn’t abandoned the Point, but instead had been ambushed by

Redd’s assassins while gathering food lower down on the mountain and-

He couldn’t tolerate thinking about it. To mourn the loss of Weaver was one thing; to envision the actual event that had forever wrenched her from his life was another. Plus, the satchel might only contain clothes and other provisions she had needed to survive. It might not have been left for him at all.

He spent entire afternoons staring at the bag or avoiding it altogether. He who feared no enemy was afraid to open it. But enough time had finally passed. He thought himself ready. He took the satchel in hand, brushed it clean of dust and dirt. He removed one item at a time, letting each conjure what memories it would…