Page 11 of Knot My Wonderland: Part Two
"I'm not her daughter," I managed, though the words slurred at the edges. "And I don't care what pleases her."
A flicker of something—perhaps amusement—crossed his aristocratic features before disappearing behind the mask ofprofessional detachment. "Nevertheless, you should return to bed. I brought you food."
I pressed my back against the wall, using it to support myself as I glared up at him. "I’m not hungry.”
"The Queen anticipated your reluctance," Aldric replied, his voice carrying neither sympathy nor malice. "She instructed me to inform you that refusal isn't an option. The cleansing process requires you to stay strong…which means eating to keep your energy up."
I studied his perfect, emotionless face, searching for any crack in his façade, any hint of the person beneath the servitude. "Do you ever question her? Or are you just another puppet dancing on her strings?"
Something flickered in those frozen-blood eyes—brief but unmistakable. Pain, perhaps. Or memory.
"I serve the Crown of Hearts," he said carefully. "As I have for centuries."
"That's not an answer." I bit out, eyes narrowed at the man.
"It's the only answer that matters in the Red Court." He approached slowly, extending a hand to help me up. When I didn't take it, he sighed—a surprisingly human gesture from someone who seemed more statuesque.
"The Queen was once different," he said quietly, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Before the plague. Before she lost her daughter. Before grief twisted her into something that could justify any cruelty in the name of love."
I stared at him, surprised by the admission. The collar at my throat pulsed with warning heat, as if sensing the dangerous direction of our conversation.
"You knew her daughter," I said, not quite a question.
Aldric's perfect features tightened almost imperceptibly. "I was assigned to protect her. The princess was... remarkable. Brilliant, compassionate, everything a future queen should be."His frozen-blood eyes grew distant. "When the plague took her, it didn't just kill the princess. It killed the last of the Queen's humanity."
The crimson fog in my mind seemed to clear slightly, perhaps responding to the genuine emotion beneath Aldric's words. I studied him more carefully now, noticing the subtle signs of weariness beneath his perfect façade. The slight tightness around his eyes, the almost imperceptible tension in his shoulders. He wasn't just a servant—he was a survivor who had witnessed the Queen's transformation firsthand.
"You couldn't save her," I said softly. "The princess."
Pain flashed across his features before he mastered it. "No one could. The plague consumed her from the inside out, magic turning against its wielder. Her mother tried everything—blood rituals, reality manipulation, soul transfers. Nothing worked." He extended his hand again, more insistent this time. "Come. You need to eat before the second treatment."
I allowed him to help me to my feet, my legs still trembling from the first dose of the Queen's concoction. As he guided me to the small table where the tray waited, I caught a glimpse of something else in his expression—guilt so profound it had carved itself into the very lines of his face.
"She blames you," I realized, settling into the chair with movements that felt disconnected from my own will. "For not saving her daughter."
Aldric's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "She blames everyone. Herself most of all." He lifted the delicate porcelain cup, steam rising from whatever liquid waited inside. "But blame is a luxury the living can't afford when the dead demand justice."
I looked at the meal before me. It was simple but elegant: delicate sandwiches cut into perfect triangles, fruit that seemed to glow with its own inner light, and a clear broth thatsteamed with aromatic herbs. Everything looked harmless, but I'd learned not to trust appearances in the Red Court.
"It's not drugged," Aldric said, as if reading my thoughts. "The Queen wants you lucid for an evening chat with her…and the next dose of tonic.”
I picked up one of the sandwiches, studying it carefully. Through the weakening golden bond, I felt Heart's presence grow stronger—he was moving, preparing for something. The knowledge gave me a spark of hope despite my circumstances.
"The food will restore some clarity," Aldric added, watching as I reluctantly took a small bite. "The tonic's effects come in waves—periods of fog followed by moments of awareness. The Queen prefers you coherent for your conversations."
The sandwich tasted surprisingly normal—cucumber and cream cheese on delicate bread—a jarring contrast to the surreal nightmare surrounding me. As I ate, the crimson fog in my mind receded slightly, allowing me to think more clearly.
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked, studying his impassive face. "Aren't you afraid she'll punish you for helping me understand her methods?"
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "The Queen values loyalty above all else. But even she recognizes that blind obedience produces poor guardians." He gestured to the food. "Continue eating. You'll need your strength."
I took another bite, and studied him more carefully. "You're planning something," I said, noting the way his frozen-blood eyes kept flickering toward the door. "This isn't just about following orders."
Aldric's perfect composure cracked for just a moment—a flash of something desperate and determined before he mastered himself again. "The Queen has ruled for centuries through fear and manipulation. But even the most absolute power has limits." He moved to the window, his reflectionmultiplying in the crystalline surface. "The pattern you carry... it represents something she can never truly possess. Choice. Free will. The ability to forge connections based on love rather than dominance."
I set down the sandwich, my appetite vanishing as understanding dawned. "You're going to help me escape."
"No." His voice was firm, but I caught the regret beneath it. "I can't. The bonds of servitude run too deep, and the Queen would sense my betrayal before we reached the outer walls." He turned back to face me, his frozen-blood eyes carrying centuries of carefully hidden pain. "But I can tell you this: the pattern cannot be forcibly transferred. Not completely. Not without your consent."
