“No, you can’t have her!” Red shouts, a weight in her chest so heavy it hurts to breathe. The stench of mildew and scorched leaves stings her nostrils. She’s never been this close to the garden of souls, having grown up on horror stories of the keepers and the grounds. But tales of scissored hands and trespassers left in bloody shreds hold no sway today. Not with her mother being taken away forever.
Sister One stares back from inside the gate, a frown on her face. “This is hallowed ground, child-queen. Whatever you be thinking, ’tis foolish. You haven’t the power here that you wield in your kingdom.”
Red scowls. Her entire body glows crimson as she concentrates on the spidery woman’s hair. Strands, as shimmery and fine as pencil shavings, flutter around the gardener’s face with a breeze, but Red’s magic has no effect.
Red looks up and down the tall fence and the thorny branches that stretch over the expanse of the cemetery gardens like a roof. There’s no way to breach the defenses.
Sister One smirks haughtily. “It would be a mistake to attempt to find a way in, little princess, lest you wish to know my sister personally. She has a gift for making confetti of delicate little imps like yourself.”
A shudder races from Red’s spine to the tips of her wings.
With a final glare at Red, Sister One winds the whimpering, glowing spirit through her fingers. In a sweep of skirts and spidery legs, she disappears into the maze of foliage.
Red’s kingly father arrives, his face flushed from trying to catch his daughter.
“What’s the good of being immortal,” Red asks, her nose wedged against the gate and cold from the metal, “if we can’t be together eternally?”
“Immortality merely means you reach a point and stop aging . . . and your spirit never dies,” he responds between panting. He squeezes her shoulder. “But the body is vulnerable to some things, and can be left but a shell.”
Red’s arms and legs go numb. Her own body feels like a shell. Empty and brittle, as if it might blow away at the first gust of wind.
She clasps the bars, holding herself steady. “But why can’t we bury her in the ground, amongst the begonias and daisies in our palace courtyard? Like the humans do? If she lived in the flowers, we could visit her every day.”
Her father frowns, as if considering. “You know our spirits need dreams to satiate them, to keep them from being restless . . . from possessing living bodies. Only the Twidsters can find and supply such things.”
“Dreams.” Red sniffles. “One day, I’ll bring dreams to our kind, Father. They’ll be in abundance everywhere, not just in the cemetery. One day, I’ll free the spirits, so they can sleep inside our gardens, brushing our windows at night, and bumping against our feet in the day. I’ll bring imagination to our world so everyone might always be with those they treasure.”
He pats her head, a tender gesture that almost fills the gaping hole in her chest. “That would make you the most beloved queen of all time, scarlet rosebud. But until then we are bound to follow rules like everyone else. We cannot abuse our power and status, or endanger our subjects. No matter how much we love her.” He blots his eyes with a handkerchief. “Understand?”
Red nods.
The scene scrambles and blurs. I’m dragged out of the memory and dropped back into my seat, cradled by the darkness around me. A knocking sensation shakes my skull, as if a fist punches it from the inside. I press my hands to my temples until it stops.
It must be the repudiated memory nesting inside my cranium, because I didn’t experience anything like that the last time I was here.
The screen flicks on again. A vivid rainbow smears across the room to jerk me back to the stage. My bones settle into Red’s, and my skin conforms to hers.
She’s older by six years or so. Her father married a widowed netherling after her mother’s death, so the Red Court would have a queen to rule until Red was of age. But in just a few more months, Red will have her coronation, and the crown-magic will fill her blood . . .
Red hides behind some bushes in the castle courtyard’s garden. The purple-striped zinnias wilt from the anger seeping off of her as she spies on her father and younger stepsister. Grenadine is the daughter from the new queen’s prior marriage, and has proven to be a thorn in Red’s side.
It isn’t enough that her hair shimmers with the sheen of rubies, and her silver eyes dance beneath thick lavender lashes. She’s constantly forgetful—a blank slate waiting to be written upon. Her frailty and dependence offer a distraction for the king’s grieving heart, one that Red’s strength and independence can’t.
The king leans down to show Grenadine for the hundredth time how to play croquet, having already reminded her for the thousandth time he’s her new father. He points to the U-shaped metal hoops that form a diamond-patterned run in the ground. Pink and gray stakes mark each end, and two sets of balls lie in a box lined with satin.
“We follow the circuit of wickets,” the king says gently. “My red color races against your silver. The first side to get their balls through the wickets in order and hit the peg wins.”
Grenadine shakes her head, her ruby curls bouncing about her shoulders. “What is a peg, again?”