old-fashioned way, by scouring every gwormmy-length of every corridor.

“Not much of a maze, are you?” she muttered, because she had discovered that she could step through the looking glasses without consequence. It was as if she were in a giant room, the mirrored halls the ghostly residue of the intricacy it had once contained.

“How dare you, when I’m smarter and more imaginative than you!” a girlish incarnation of herself hissed. The night she’d murdered her mother played out in a glass. But mostly, phantasms of the past kept to the edge of her senses, half heard, half seen.

Then she spotted it, lying up ahead as if it were nothing but a useless stick someone had dropped in her hurry to leave. A once brightly colored staff, it had rotted black with age. The heart at its top was

shriveled and gray, its filigree flaked and rusted-the scepter’s abandonment like that she had suffered from her parents.

“And they had the impudence to blame me!” Redd shouted, her mind again spiraling into the memory of that distant day that had changed everything.

“It’s your own fault, Rose,” Theodora had said. “You refuse to listen to anyone’s counsel but your own, and you insist on being so undisciplined, disregarding the most basic principles of White Imagination.”

“Perhaps I have discipline in other things!” Redd had spat.

“That’s what I’m afraid of. You’ve already scared a number of important Wonderlanders.”

Redd shook the memory out of her head. Her fingers closed around the scepter, giving her access to the full potential of her imaginative powers. She was the strongest Heart alive. Soon, she would be the only Heart alive.

CHAPTER 40

S HE HAD stopped trying to fight, only daring to move her mouth so as not to be knocked flat by the drug-delivery system the ministers refused to remove. Her brain was still woozy from the last dosing, when she’d tried to prevent one of King Arch’s wives from clipping a bauble to her ear.

“You should let your hair grow,” the wife said now, flicking at Molly’s short-cropped bangs with a manicured hand.

“I like my hair the way it is.”

She had kept it short because of her work as Milliner and Queen Alyss’ bodyguard. It could have compromised her; a combatant might have snagged hold of long hair in a fight. But she didn’t have to worry about any of that now, did she? She’d given up her post. She probably deserved this humiliation for the deadly mistake she’d made-having to sit unmoving with Arch’s wives gathered around her, applying rouges and powders to her cheeks, coloring her lips, and dolling her up in their bracelets and necklaces.

“You could be pretty if you tried,” said another wife, coming at her with an eyelash brush. The wives stepped back to appraise her.

“Much better,” one of them said.

“Now maybe you won’t scare prospective husbands off,” said another.

But Molly couldn’t care less about prospective husbands. She had noticed, in the rear wall of the tent, a slit that hadn’t been there before…as if made by the skillful swing of a blade.

Before being sent to engage WILMA, Hatter had already searched most of the Doomsine encampment for evidence of his daughter. Disguised as a day laborer, he now did quick reconnaissance of the few unexplored neighborhoods that still remained, but found nothing, Molly’s whereabouts as unknown to him as ever.

He would have to start over. He’d never be able to search the entire camp a second time. He squinted

up at the sky-little more than one revolution of the Thurmite moon before the time allowed for his WILMA mission expired. All he could do was hope. And move fast, but not so fast that he attracted suspicion.

Head lowered, making the most of his peripheral vision, Hatter huffed along recently visited streets and alleys. At a market stall selling fresh herbs and vegetables, he saw two of Arch’s personal chefs. The sight of them, royal servants out among the common folk, served as a jolt to his senses. How could he have been so remiss? He had searched everywhere for Molly except the royal enclave in which he himself had been living-among the tents of Arch’s personal retinue. He had always assumed that the king would keep Molly close, but that close?

He made his way to Arch’s tent at the center of camp, where the threat of being recognized was greater than anywhere else, and had barely begun his hunt when-

“Are you in need of work, laborer?”

It was Weaver. He bowed his head to indicate that he was, not wanting to risk letting his voice be heard. “I have some furniture that needs to be moved. I can pay you a necklace of beaded quartz and a hot

meal.”

He followed Weaver out of the main thoroughfare to her tent. Swallowing her sobs, she spoke in a desperate whisper.

“They said you’d gone, and I…You were right. You’ve been right all along. I overhead Arch talking about Molly. I should’ve believed you sooner, I-”

“Sshh, Weaver. Sshh, you wanted what you thought was best for Molly, for all of us. You have no cause to blame yourself. Do you know where she is?”

Weaver stepped back and wiped her cheeks. “I’m not sure. His ministers take turns visiting one of the wives’ tents. I doubt Arch would let them if their business had anything to do with his wives.”

“Show me which tent.”

She was about to step out to the street, but he touched her arm to stop her. “How did you recognize me?”

“I’ll always know you. The way you walk is as familiar to me as my own thoughts, even after so many years.”

Hatter nodded. But if she could spot him so easily, others might not have a difficult time of it. Still, there was nothing he could do about it now.

“Show me where Molly’s being kept.”

Weaver, walking ahead of him as instructed, indicated the wives’ tent with a slight turn of the head and continued past. Hatter ducked around to the back, to a small space with enough room only to stake and unstake the tent supports. He tapped his belt buckle, the sabers of his belt snapped open, and he quickly sliced a small gash in the canvas. He tapped his belt buckle again and the sabers retracted. He peered through the slit he’d made into the tent. Among the thirteen wives who lounged on voluptuous pillows and lush silks, he saw her: guarded by a pair of intel ministers, sitting glum and alone in the corner. She was without her homburg and dressed in pink clothes he’d never seen before.

Weaver was waiting for him in her tent.

“She’s there,” he said. “I’ve only got my wrist-blades and my belt. Do you have access to weapons?” “I’ve heard of a dealer in the Kyla district. Contraband. But-”

“If our daughter’s to live, we have to find him.”