Page 3 of Knot My Wonderland: Part Two
Just quiet footsteps on polished stone. Purposeful hands. Smiles that never touched their eyes.
I’d spent the time pacing the room in tight circles, testing the collar’s leash like a dog grown sick of its kennel. The carved bone band at my throat allowed me to move freely within the obsidian chamber, but each time I neared the windows or brushed a hand against the iron-banded door, it pulsed—sharp and cool, a warning wrapped in silk. I understood its message clearly:You belong to her now.
They gestured for me to sit at the cushioned stool near the foot of the bed, and though my instincts screamed to resist, I sat. Not out of submission—out of strategy. I needed to knowwhat they were preparing me for. One woman knelt and began to untie the laces of my sleep clothes, her fingers deft and emotionless. Another unbound my hair, combing it through with a brush dipped in lavender oil and murmuring low words I couldn’t decipher. The third began painting careful lines of golden oil across my collarbones, wrists, and ankles—each one a stroke of ritual, glowing faintly when it touched skin.
The scent was overwhelming: jasmine, clove, crushed sage… and something faintly metallic beneath it. Familiar and wrong. My stomach turned, but I forced myself to stay still.
They worked in near silence, the kind that settled into the bones. Their movements were reverent, mechanical, and entirely void of human warmth.
“She’ll be pleased,” one finally said, her voice no louder than a hush of wind through a crack in the glass.
“She’s waited for this moment,” another added, carefully arranging silk around my legs.
“She sees you as the daughter she was denied,” the third whispered as she fastened a gold clasp to my throat.
The words stung like frostbite.
Daughter.
She had said that….but I didn’t think she really meant it…but it seemed like I was wrong.
Daughter.
The thought alone made my stomach turn. They dressed me in something that was beautiful, white, with shades of reds and blacks. It was cut to resemble a royal gown, yet it felt more like a shroud. The white silk base was embroidered with intricate patterns of roses and thorns in deep crimson thread, while black lace trimmed the sleeves and hem. It fit perfectly—too perfectly, as if it had been made specifically for my measurements. The neckline was modest but elegant, designed to showcase the collar rather than hide it.
One of the attendants stepped back to admire their work, her mirror-eyes reflecting my image without warmth. "Beautiful," she murmured, though the word sounded hollow on her lips.
I caught my reflection in the obsidian walls and barely recognized myself. The golden oils made my skin luminous, the dress transformed me into something regal yet fragile. I looked like a princess prepared for sacrifice—which, I realized with growing dread, was exactly what I was.
"Her Majesty awaits," the tallest attendant announced, her voice musical but empty. She gestured toward the door, which swung open silently.
I stood, feeling the weight of the dress settle around me like armor made of petals. The collar pulsed once against my throat—a reminder of its presence, its control. Through the weakened golden bond, I sensed Heart's consciousness flickering in and out of consciousness. Still alive. Still fighting. The knowledge steadied me as I followed the attendants into the corridor.
The palace hallways were architectural nightmares of beauty—vaulted ceilings that seemed to breathe, walls of polished obsidian veined with crimson crystal that pulsed like exposed arteries. Everything felt alive, yet wrong, as if the entire structure had been grown rather than built, fed with something I didn't want to name.
Guards stood at attention as we passed—card soldiers with faces that shifted between human and playing card features, their expressions unreadable behind masks of duty. Each one watched me with calculating eyes, measuring my worth, my threat level, my compliance. The white silk rustled with each step, the sound echoing off the walls like whispered secrets.
We ascended a spiral staircase that seemed to twist impossibly upward, the steps carved from the same obsidian as the walls but inlaid with silver that caught the light and threw it back in fractured rainbows. The higher we climbed, themore oppressive the magical atmosphere became. The air itself felt thick with the Red Queen's influence, pressing against my consciousness like a suffocating blanket.
Finally, we reached a pair of massive doors carved with scenes of conquest and submission—queens ruling over kneeling subjects, hearts being offered on silver platters, roses blooming from spilled blood.
The attendants arranged themselves in a perfect line behind me, their synchronized movements unsettling in their precision. The doors swung open without a sound, revealing a chamber that took my breath away.
The queen's private audience hall was smaller than the throne room but infinitely more intimate—and therefore more terrifying. Crystalline walls curved upward into a domed ceiling painted with constellations that moved slowly across the surface, their light casting shifting patterns across the polished floor. At the center of the room sat a circular table set for two, delicate porcelain and silver gleaming under the starlight above.
The Red Queen stood with her back to me, gazing out through floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a panoramic view of her domain. Her crimson dress had been replaced by something softer—deep burgundy silk that flowed like liquid shadow, making her appear almost maternal in the gentle light.
"Alice," she said without turning, her voice carrying the warmth of honey laced with poison. "You look absolutely radiant. The preparations suit you beautifully."
I remained silent, studying her profile against the window. In this softer light, with her hair falling in gentle waves rather than the severe styling from the throne room, she looked almost... human. The resemblance to Heart was striking—the same aristocratic bone structure, the same ruby eyes that could shift from warmth to cruelty in an instant.
"Come," she gestured to the chair across from her at the intimate table. "Sit with me. We have much to discuss before the cleansing in three days. We need to prepare your body before it happens.”
The collar pulsed gently as I approached, a reminder of my leash even in this seemingly civilized setting. I settled into the chair, the white silk of my dress pooling around me. The Red Queen turned from the window and finally faced me directly. Her ruby eyes studied me with an intensity that made the collar tighten slightly, as if responding to her attention.
"Much better," she said, gliding to her seat with liquid grace. "The dress becomes you. White and red—purity and passion. The traditional colors for a royal."
"I'm not royalty." I said, keeping my voice steady despite the fear churning beneath my composed exterior. "And I'm not your daughter."
