The days stretched into a week, or so Dinah guessed by watching the rising and setting of the Wonderland sun, west to east, west to east. She would rise in the morning and take stock of her supplies in the bag—mentally repeating them to herself in an effort to maintain her sanity. Five loaves of bread, ten pieces of bird meat. Three loaves of bread, seven pieces of bird meat. One loaf of bread, three pieces of bird meat. Then it was time to find water, which, thank the Wonderland gods, had not been difficult. The Twisted Wood was full of tiny creeks crookedly spreading their fingers into little pools of water, perfect for filling her waterskin or providing Morte with a well-deserved drink. He often almost drained the pools, leaving behind a black puddle full of weeds and muck. Taking their time, they both rested and ate, slowly making their way deeper into the wood.
Since they had fled the stables, Morte was actually gaining weight on Wonderland’s bountiful grasses and plant life. His inky coat glistened in the sun, his muscles hard and ready. He looked healthy and strong, even with his healing wounds. Dinah was not faring as well. As she ripped into her bird meat and bread every morning, she was painfully aware that she was starving, and that each meal meant that her provisions were dwindling. What would she do when the food ran out? She had been diligent about plucking any available fruit from the trees—a Julla Tree, with its sharp and fuzzy black melons, a pink peach tree, a handful of berries. Dinah would shovel them into her mouth, her lips dark with their ripe juices. Stepping over plants and overturned logs, she walked through countless trees stretching on forever. At night, when she settled into a thick nest of leaves or particularly soft dirt, she would set out to eat only a half loaf of her bread, and always ended up eating the entire thing.
This raw hunger was something she had never experienced—a constant jab of emptiness, an endless imagining of all the plates of food that had been available to her in the palace. She thought again and again of all the tarts she had thrown out, all the food left on her plate when she was done eating, of the banquets and balls where trays of food had been piled high above her head. Lavish displays of exotic bird breasts, creatively carved pies, bubbling wine glasses, and rich fruits. All that food, wasted; all the food she had taken for granted. This was what she thought about when she walked, when the hunger pains became so intense that she gasped out loud and Morte jerked his head up, alarmed. She thought about food, and what she would do when the food ran out. All the time, she walked. Her brown boots, once a deep, regal red but now covered to the tip with brown mud, crunched over dead tree branches, thick foliage, and exotic orchids.
Since the bear attack, Dinah had been more aware of how much noise she made. Hammering the tree with her sword in a moment of frenzy had no doubt attracted him. Her breathing was silent, and she tried to step softly, even when her legs felt as if they were made of iron. She tried to heighten her senses—what did she hear, what could she smell? She should have seen the bear—he was bright white, for gods’ sake—and yet, her eyes had betrayed her. She had come within an inch of her life because she hadn’t been paying attention. It wouldn’t happen again.
Still, it was hard not to be distracted by the beauty around her. The deeper they descended into the Twisted Wood, the more breathtaking the forest became. The soft colors of the plains gave way to deep mossy greens, their fuzzy fingers reaching ever upward on towering majesties of trunks and branches. In the early mornings, the calm and quiet lull would be broken when white light radiated through the trees and heavenly streams of dawn covered the forest floor. One day, as she absently watched a red-striped otter flit in and out of a stream, she came very close to walking off a cliff. Behind her, Morte gave a loud snort and Dinah stopped, the tip of her boots sending a scatter of pebbles off the cliff and down into a clear river far below. Even that fascinated her; she had never seen such translucent water, or the minerals that graced the river floor. Silver layers of rock converged upon each other, giving the entire river a rippling effect, though the water’s flow was quite mild.
They made their way down to the silver stream. The water was shallow—almost waferlike—and if she squinted, she could see tiny, waving underwater plants, their long fingers trailing downstream. Shimmery orange fish leapt and played between the thin silver layers. They swam backward, their shiny spotted tails weaving as they fought the current. With great bursts, they would shoot out of the water to wriggle backward in the air and burst hidden wings out of their backs. They would fly a few feet and splash back into the water to do it again.