bottommost steps were lost in darkness as unremitting as the grave, a darkness that, for generations, had attracted lesser beings given to Black Imagination-occultists, drug addicts, outcasts seeking a shelter devoid of society’s judgment, thieves and murderers seeking refuge from the police.

“Come,” Redd said. “I’ve found a place for us.”

Descending the crumbling stairs, enveloped by the darkness, Redd and The Cat entered a dank

catacomb whose size was belied by the echo of their footfalls. Redd conjured a throne for herself, its seat and backrest resembling a splayed-open rose blossom, its legs and armrests thick, petrified rose vines. Her Imperial Viciousness flopped down into the throne like a woman falling into her favorite chair after a hard day’s work.

“You best remember how to return to Wonderland,” she warned The Cat.

“I remember, Your Imperial Viciousness. The portals look like ordinary puddles. I’ll know them when I

see them.”

“Let’s hope for your health that you will. But it’d be no use returning to Wonderland now, when my army is at best scattered and at worst imprisoned en masse.”

Her assassin began to clean himself. “With your strength and power, you could rule as much of this world as you wanted.”

Redd’s nostrils flared with impatience. “I know it’s difficult for you, Cat, but try to use your brain, as small as it is. Why would I want to lord myself over this world when it’s nothing but a weak reflection of my birthplace? Wonderland belongs to me. I intend to get what’s mine.”

“Won-der-land!” echoed a voice in the dark. “How long it’s been since I’ve set foot on her soil!”

A flickering glow bobbed toward them from the distance of a tunnel: a torch, carried by what appeared to be a dead man, as emaciated as he was and having the complexion of a week-old cadaver. He was dressed entirely in black and wore black gloves. In addition to the torch, he carried a violin case. With him was a tall, bald albino with elongated ears sprouting from his head and a map of veins visible beneath semi-transparent skin: a near twin to Bibwit Harte, identical in every feature except that his nose was more pointed and his cheeks pitted with acne scars. Neither he nor his cadaverous companion showed signs of alarm at the sight of creatures as extraordinary as Redd and The Cat.

“Are you from Wonderland?” the albino asked.

Redd knew a member of the tutor species when she saw one. She also knew that the tutor before her must be a criminal-someone who had leaped into the Pool of Tears to avoid prosecution in Wonderland courts and make what life he could for himself in this antiquated world. She might have considered such ex-Wonderlanders sooner. She could put them to nasty purpose.

“What business is it of yours where we’re from?”

“It’s none of my business whatsoever,” the stranger answered. “It’s just that I used to have a few friends in Wonderland. The one I’m most curious about, however, I can no longer with justice call my friend.”

“Justice is overrated,” Redd brooded.

“Quite,” the stranger agreed. “But perhaps you know this former friend of mine? He’s a tutor, as am I, and he likely holds a position of eminence in the queendom. His name is Harte.”

“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.

“I’m to blame for our tardiness,” interrupted Vollrath. “But I’ve just made what I hope will be a profitable association for all of us. This is Her Imperial Viciousness, Redd Heart, and her feline companion, who have just arrived from my former home.” Addressing the Wonderlanders, he said: “This robust gentleman is Master Sacrenoir, a former apothecary from Lyons gifted in a particularly unsavory practice of black magic.”