Page 10 of Off with Her Head
Chapter
Four
RAVENNA
Scarlett.
The memory of her garden sends a shiver through me as I lay in bed after a long night of securing Darkmore borders. The way our magic connected when our hands touched—I've never experienced anything like it. Blood magic is solitary by nature, a power that flows within family lines but is practiced alone. It doesn't share. It doesn't blend. It certainly doesn'tstrengthenwhen it touches another form of magic.
And yet, with Scarlett, it did all those things.
I sit up with a frustrated growl, throwing back the silk sheets. This is ridiculous. I'm acting like a lovestruck fool instead of a queen. I need my mirror. Rising from the bed, I cross the room and approach it, pricking my finger on one of its thorns to activate its magic. I smear a drop of blood onto the polished surface, and watch it as it spreads like ink in water.
"Show me," I whisper, keeping my voice low. "Show me what this means—this connection between our magics."
The mirror's surface ripples, images forming and dissolving too quickly to fully comprehend. I catch glimpses:Scarlett and I standing together on a battlefield, our magic swirling around us in patterns of red and black; the two of us in what appearsto be my chambers here in Darkmore, her hair spread across my pillows like living flame; a garden where roses bloom in impossible colors.
And then,darkness. A shadow that consumes light, that twists magic into something sick and wrong. My sister's face, but not as I remember it—changed, corrupted, hungry. Her hand reaching for something I cannot see, her mouth forming words I cannot hear.
The mirror goes still, its surface returning to normal reflection. I stare at my own face, noting the faint flush on my cheeks, the unusual brightness in my eyes. I look...alive. More present than I've felt in years. The realization is as unsettling as it is exhilarating.
A knock at my chamber door pulls me from my thoughts. I quickly step away from the mirror, smoothing my nightgown as I move to answer. It's late for a visitor—past midnight, by my estimation.
"Who is it?" I call, one hand hovering near the dagger I keep strapped to my thigh even when sleeping.
"Just a friendly cat, passing through," comes the unmistakable voice of the Cheshire Cat. His grin materializes through the door itself, followed gradually by the rest of him. "Hope I'm not interrupting any... royalreflections."
I lower my hand from the dagger but keep my guard up. The Cat may seem whimsical, but he's one of the most powerful entities in this realm—and one of the most unpredictable. "What do you want?" I ask plainly.
"Want? Such a limiting concept." He floats in lazy circles around my head, his striped tail occasionally passing through solid objects as if they weren't there. "I prefer to think of it as... offering perspective."
"On what?" I cross my arms, unimpressed by his theatrics. Even Darkmore’s most enigmatic creatures speak plainly to their queen.
"On queens and hearts, on blood and magic, on the patterns that form when opposites align." He stretches in midair, his grin widening impossibly. "On the garden, perhaps, and what bloomed there this evening."
He was watching us. I'm not surprised—the Cat seems to see everything—but I'm irritated by the invasion of privacy. "If you have something to say, say it plainly. Otherwise, I have more important matters to attend to than cryptic riddles."
He laughs, the sound like wind chimes in a storm. "Very well, witch-queen. Here is the plain truth: what happened in the garden has happened only once before, when Underland and Darkmore were a single kingdom, ruled by sisters."
This catches my attention. "Sisters? When was this?"
"Before the sundering. Before the magic system became separate powers rather than aspects of a unified whole." The Cat's form becomes more substantial as he speaks, his usual translucence giving way to solid reality. "You've felt it, haven't you? The way your magic responds to hers? The way itgrowsstronger rather than weaker when you touch?"
I think of the moment our hands connected, how power surged between us in ways I've never experienced. "That doesn't make sense. Blood magic doesn't share. It's solitary, exclusive to the bloodline—"
"Because that's what you were taught," the Cat interrupts, purring as he grins. "By parents who were taught the same, and grandparents before them, all the way back to the sundering. But what if what you were taught was only part of the truth? What if blood magic was never meant to be practiced alone?"
The implications are staggering. If the Cat is right, then everything I know about my power—everything generationsof Darkmore rulers have known—is incomplete at best, deliberately misleading at worst.
"Why tell me this?" I ask, suddenly suspicious. "What do you gain from sharing such secrets?"
The Cat's grin turns enigmatic. "Perhaps I'm simply tired of the same old story, played out again and again across centuries. Or perhaps—" he fades slightly, his form becoming ghostly once more "—I remember what it was like when magic flowed freely between kingdoms, unconstrained by artificial borders."
Before I can question him further, he begins to disappear entirely, starting with his tail and ending, again, with that unsettling grin.
"Watch for roses blooming where they shouldn't," his disembodied voice advises. "They'll tell you more than I ever could."
And then he's gone, leaving me with more questions than answers and a restlessness that makes sleep seem even more impossible than before.
