Red Queen (30 page)

Alfhild looked back at Hatcher and then at Alice, her little face twisted in a frown. “He looks like a man to me.”

“But sometimes he's a wolf, and he runs through the wood at night, and when he changes back to a man he looks scraggy,” Alice said.

“Because he's been playing in the dirt all night and needs a bath,” Alfhild said.

“Just so,” Hatcher agreed.

“Can you really change into a wolf at night?” one of the boys asked, staring at Hatcher in fascination.

“If Alice says so, then it must be true,” Hatcher said. “Alice is a Magician, you know.”

“You never told us you were a Magician,” Ake said accusingly.

“Where do you think that picnic came from, then, you nit?” Alfhild asked. “The White Queen never left all that for us.”

“Oh. Of course,” Ake said, his thin cheeks flushing red.

“Now,” Alice said, wanting to distract the boy from his embarrassment. “You said you remembered passing through the cellar and the ice tunnel before, right? Do you remember where to go after that?”

Ake and the other children stared hard at the three doors, obviously hoping that a clue would present itself.

“Why don't we just open them and see what's behind?” Alfhild asked.

Alice shook her head. “There could be an enchantment on them, so you would fall in as soon as you touched the door.”

“Can't you tell? You are a Magician, or so the wolf says,” Alfhild said.

It was hard not to laugh at her severe little face and the adult words that came out of her pink bow mouth.

“You're right,” Alice said, nodding. “I'll try.”

She stood before each door in turn, placing her hand on each. Two of them pulsed in warning. One did not.

“This one,” Alice said, pointing at the left door.

She grasped the knob and turned it, hoping that her magic had not tricked her, hoping that if it had, Hatcher would get the children away safely.

The door opened and behind it was a passage that appeared to be a very large branch of a tree, hollowed out now. It smelled of fresh sap and wood shavings.

“That's it!” Ake cried, and pushed past Alice before she could tell him to wait.

For a moment she was frozen, expecting something to grab the boy as soon as he entered the passage. But he was fine, and the others ran after him, laughing and shouting and telling Alice and “the wolf” to come along.

Alice ran after them, not wanting to face Hatcher just yet. His anger was gone, but the consequences of Alice's actions—or the Red Queen's—were still there, impossible to undo. Whether it was by Alice's hand or some other's, Jenny was dead and it would take some time for Hatcher to accept that.

And then . . .

She'd never
really
thought about “and then.” Yes, she had dreamed of a day when she had no task before her, no nightmares to chase. Somehow she'd never truly expected the day to come. What would become of Alice and Hatcher after they delivered these children to their parents? Would Hatcher want
to stay with her now, or would he always see Jenny's body turning to dust whenever he looked at Alice?

She couldn't bear to know the answers now, so she chased the children as they giggled and screamed with delight. She made monster noises and scooped them up and pretended to eat them, all the while dimly aware that they could have been eaten up in truth, eaten from the inside out by a monster who was gone forever now.

The crowns had fallen with the tower. They would sink to the bottom of the chasm in the mountain. The rubble would be buried by ice and snow and no one would ever be able to find them again. Alice was certain, too, that the Red Queen would watch over the White, now that their crowns were together. The Red Queen would make certain that the White Queen did not call to another person, someone vulnerable who would want the strength that magic brought. The White Queen would not use another puppet to bring her magic to life again.

Ahead of Alice one of the girls burst through the door at the end of the tunnel. Sunlight flooded in, blindingly bright, and they all emerged blinking and shading their eyes in the little clearing before the enchanted tree.

Bjarke lay in the shade of a large boulder, his daughter cradled in his arms, his pale eyes wide and staring. The baby was fussing, not completely committed to wailing yet, but making little mews and cries of distress and kicking her feet inside the blanket swaddled around her.

Alice moved toward the child, but quick as a flash Hatcher scooped her up. He murmured in her ear, and the baby stopped
making noise, looking up at Hatcher with serious grey eyes. Her hair was dark like his, and she was plump and fine and healthy.

“Do you know what they called her?” Hatcher asked Alice, but he didn't look at her. His eyes were only for the baby.

“Eira,” Alice said without hesitation.

“Eira,” Hatcher repeated. “Eira, my little angel.”

She'd never seen him like this, never seen him so soft and melting around the edges. All the hard, mad Hatcher-ness receded and Eira was the sun that his love encircled.

The children crowded around Hatcher, all of them wanting a glimpse of the baby except Alfhild. She stuck her thumb in her mouth and stared at Bjarke's corpse.

Alice crouched beside her. “Do you know who that is?”

Alfhild nodded, speaking around her thumb. “Brynja's brother. He's dead again.”

“Again?”

“My momma told me he was dead and now he's dead again,” Alfhild said, as though this made perfect sense and Alice was simply too dense to understand.

Really dead this time,
Alice thought. He saw his daughter, saved her from the castle, and then his body gave out.

“And so ends the tale of the White Queen and the Black King,” Alice murmured.

“Is that a story?” Alfhild asked. “I like stories.”

“You wouldn't like this one,” Alice said hastily.

“Do you know any stories?” Alfhild asked. “I haven't heard one for ever so long.”

“I do,” Alice said, taking the little girl's hand.

She walked toward the edge of the clearing and started down the mountain toward the village. The others followed, Hatcher softly crooning a lullaby to the sleeping baby. She wondered if he would be able to let her go, when the time came.

“I know a story about a girl who falls in love with a great white bear, far away to the north where everything is always covered in ice and snow and there are no green things,” Alice said.

“I know about that place!” Alfhild said excitedly. “My momma told me about it. She said it was the place where she came from, where everyone in the village who was old came from.”

Alice covered her mouth to hide her smile. She imagined that anyone bigger than Ake seemed very old indeed to Alfhild.

“Well, do you know this story, then? Because I don't want to tell you one that you already know,” Alice said.

Alfhild shook her head, eyes wide. “I don't know this one. But even if I did I would like to hear it again, because stories get better the more you tell them.”

Is that true?
Alice wondered.

Would someone tell the story of Alice and Hatcher one day, and how they defeated the Jabberwocky and the White Queen? Would the story grow sweeter in the telling, and the blood drained away from it, and Alice and Hatcher become heroes? Alice hoped not. That wasn't the story she'd lived. If the story wasn't to be told properly then it shouldn't be told at all.

Alfhild tugged on Alice's hand impatiently. “You were going to tell me a story.”

“Yes,” Alice said. “Once upon a time there was a girl who lived with her father in a village at the bottom of a mountain. The girl's mother had died and the father spent all his day with his face in a bottle.”

“That means he gets drunk,” Alfhild said matter-of-factly. “Old Enok in the village is drunk all day, and Momma says it's a disgrace.”

“Stop interrupting, Alfhild. I want to hear the story,” said one of the older girls.

“It's my story, Dagny. I asked for it,” Alfhild snapped back.

They had clustered around Alice as she spoke, though there was hardly enough room for all of them on the narrow path through the rocks. The boys clambered over the boulders so they could stay close enough to hear.

“Nobody's going to hear it if you two don't stop arguing,” one of the boys said.

Alfhild stuck her tongue out at him.

“At any rate,” Alice said. “This girl was very sad because her mother died and her father drank and everyone in the village said that her family was unlucky, so they stayed away.”

“You didn't tell us the girl's name,” Alfhild said.

“Alfhild, of course,” Alice said.

“I told you it was my story,” the little girl said to Dagny.

“One day the girl's father went out and got lost in the snow,” Alice said.

“That was a foolish thing to do,” Alfhild said. “You have to be very careful in the snow.”

“Yes, you do,” Alice said.

“Shut
up
, Alfhild,” Ake said.

Alice hurried on before another argument began. “The man couldn't find his way home, and just as he was about to give up a great white bear appeared in the blizzard. The man thought the bear was going to eat him but instead the bear spoke. It told him that it would help the man reach home but he had to give the bear something in return. The man said he would give anything at all. Now, this was a very silly thing to say, for you shouldn't say you'll give anything if you don't really mean anything. And of course the bear asked for the man's daughter to marry him.”

Alfhild pulled a face. “I wouldn't want to marry a bear.”

“I'm going to feed you to a bear if you don't hush,” Dagny said.

“Would you want to marry a bear if it was really a prince?” Alice asked.

The girls all gasped in delight. The boys looked as though perhaps it would not be so bad to be a prince so long as you could be a bear as well.

“The prince, of course, was under a curse from a terrible troll-witch,” Alice said.

“Like us,” Alfhild said solemnly.

None of the children argued this time at the interruption. Their eyes were serious and sad and they all looked at Alice expectantly.

“Yes,” Alice said. “Like you. But the witch who cursed you is no more.”

“Did you kill her? That is what's supposed to happen to witches in stories.”

Alice glanced at Hatcher. He was paying close attention.

“I didn't kill her,” Alice said. “Her sister did.”

“Who was her sister?” Alfhild asked.

“Another witch, but a good one, and she helped me save you.”

Alice's eyes pleaded with Hatcher to understand. His face hardened for a moment, then relaxed. He nodded and looked at the baby in his arms, now sleeping. There had been more at stake than just saving Jenny. Alice hoped that someday he might understand this in his heart and not just his mind.

“Witches can be good?” Alfhild asked. This seemed a total reversal of the world she understood.

“Sometimes,” Alice said.

And mad Hatchers can be gentle fathers. The world is not made of things that are black and white but shades of grey, or (
thinking of the Red Queen
), shades of blood.

“I am glad you came for us,” Alfhild said. She tugged at Alice's hand, pulled her down so she could drop a kiss on Alice's cheek. “And you too, wolf man.”

The children giggled when Hatcher pulled a snarling wolf face.

“Now tell the rest of the story,” Alfhild ordered, and Alice obeyed.

None of the children interrupted while Alice finished the tale that had been told to her long ago by the young sailor on the docks. And when Alice finished, they all clapped and cheered when the girl had saved her prince from the troll's curse.

“Is that what you did to him?” Alfhild asked, pointing at Hatcher. “Saved him from a curse and turned him back into a man?”

“Yes,” Hatcher said. “She did.”

The village was still quite a distance away, but none of the children wanted to sleep overnight on the mountain. Alice magicked another picnic for them. Everyone ate hungrily and took turns cooing over the baby Eira, who woke and cried until Alice made a bottle for her. Hatcher wouldn't let anyone else hold her, though, nor feed her. Alice shushed the disappointed children and told them to let it be. She knew that Hatcher was going to have to give the baby up soon.

They walked all the day and into the night, and Alice carried each of the children in turn as they stumbled. None wished to stop, though, no matter how tired they were. They wanted to go home, and Alice could not blame them. She wanted to go home too, wherever that was.

Alice the Traveler,
she thought. There were many miles to go still for her and Hatcher—if he would stay with her. She hoped he would. She was almost certain he would.

The moon rose, casting strange shadows on the landscape. None of them had any notion of just how far away the village was, especially in the dark. Alice longed suddenly for Pen. The giant could have scooped them all up and carried them home in just a few strides.

Alice and Hatcher and the children crested a rise and saw
below the burning candles in all the windows of the village, like stars leading them back to where they belonged.

The children whooped and hollered and ran and tumbled down the hill. Alfhild, who slept in Alice's arms, woke and wriggled away and chased the others.

Alice felt a momentary sense of loss, for she had shepherded the children from the castle, but they were not her children after all. They did not belong to her.

Hatcher came to her side, the baby resting her head on his shoulder. Her face was peaceful in the moonlight, her little mouth curled in a smile as she slept.

“I know where to take her,” Alice said.