Ensnared

It isn’t enough that her hair shimmers with the sheen of rubies, and her silver eyes dance beneath thick lavender lashes. She’s constantly forgetful—a blank slate waiting to be written upon. Her frailty and dependence offer a distraction for the king’s grieving heart, one that Red’s strength and independence can’t.

The king leans down to show Grenadine for the hundredth time how to play croquet, having already reminded her for the thousandth time he’s her new father. He points to the U-shaped metal hoops that form a diamond-patterned run in the ground. Pink and gray stakes mark each end, and two sets of balls lie in a box lined with satin.

“We follow the circuit of wickets,” the king says gently. “My red color races against your silver. The first side to get their balls through the wickets in order and hit the peg wins.”

Grenadine shakes her head, her ruby curls bouncing about her shoulders. “What is a peg, again?”

“The stake, at the end of the run.”

“And a wicket . . . is that this?” Grenadine holds up a flamingo-necked fae whose body has been magically stiffened to the shape of a hockey stick. The blush-colored feathers ruffle as if the fae is offended by the misnomer.

“That is a mallet, darling. Wickets are the hoops we hit our balls through.”

Grenadine’s dimples appear like they always do when she’s bewildered. “Oh, Father, I simply can’t remember.”

He smiles, charmed by her mindless grace. “I’ve found a way around that, I think. Sir Bill?” He waves someone into the scene.

Bill the Lizard—a reptilian netherling with the ability to write without ink—scrambles into view and bows. His red tailcoat and pants shift to green leaves, matching the bush he’s beside so convincingly, he appears to be a decapitated head and clawed hands floating in midair.

Grenadine curtsies in return. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

The lizard smiles, beguiled by her sweetness like everyone.

“Sir Bill is the Red Court’s stenographer. He has the ability to eat whispers,” the king explains. “And afterward, he can write them out on any surface, where they’ll adhere forever as quiet murmurings, so they can be heard and not seen. Whisper something you wish to remember.”

Grenadine mumbles the rules of croquet she heard moments before.

Bill’s chameleon-like jaws unhinge, and his tongue snaps out in midair, capturing the echo of her whispers. His bulbous eyes rotate in different directions as he swallows a rather large lump. Next, he takes a velvet ribbon from his pocket and writes on it with a clawed fingertip.

Blinking, he hands the red strip to the king.

“Listen,” the king says, holding it to Grenadine’s ear.

She waits, then bursts into rosy-cheeked giggles. “It whispered the rules!”

The king ties the ribbon in a bow around her pinky. “Now you’ll never forget them. I’ve asked Sir Bill to be your very own royal consultant. He’ll make enchanted ribbons for as long as you need.”

Grenadine crinkles her nose. “Bill? I don’t believe I’ve met him.”

The king chuckles. “Of course you have. He’s right here.”

Bill the Lizard takes another bow.

Weary of the spectacle, Red concentrates on the ribbon tied upon her sister’s finger. Her body glows crimson as her magic unties the bow. The velvet strip flutters from Grenadine to land in Red’s palm. She steps out from her hiding place.

The king’s face flushes. He dismisses Bill, sending him with Grenadine into the palace so they can bring more whispers to life.

“Why would you do that?” Red’s father asks her, reaching for the stolen ribbon.

Red curls her fingers around it. “Perhaps I should appoint Bill to make ribbons for you, so you might remember you have another daughter. One whom you never spend time with.”

The king looks down at his red slippers. “Ribbons wouldn’t help. For I haven’t forgotten.”

Red’s chin stiffens. “She’s not even yours! I am, by blood.”

“Yes, my scarlet rosebud. Every day you look more and more like your mother. And every day I feel the pain of being torn away from her anew. You’re braver than me.”

“That’s why I’m going to be queen,” Red says, trying to harden her heart.

“Yes, because you embrace the things that remind you of her. You drink ash in your tea, to remember how she shushed you when you were a babe. You ask Cook for her favorite Tumtum-berry tarts, so you might remember sharing them with her. And you hum her songs.”

Red doesn’t answer.

“Please understand, dearest daughter. I only avoid you so I won’t drag you down. You’re too important to the kingdom for me to hinder you. So I watch from afar. I’m a lucky man, to have a daughter who has grown into such a strong young woman.”

Red scorns the empty flattery. “Grenadine is the lucky one. Because she has no memory. She can forget any rule that would confine her actions, blot out any failure that would cripple her confidence, misplace any sadness that would inhibit her to love. She has no standards to live by. She’s immune—by her own limitations—to everything that would limit her. She views the world with the wide-eyed cheeriness of a slithy tove pup who has never been kicked or strapped to a chain.”

The king nudges the croquet-ball box with his toe. “It doesn’t make her stronger to forget. You’re the one who’s strong. For you remember, and yet you go on. That is what will make you a wonderful ruler one day, just like your mother—sympathetic and understanding.”

Red’s fist tightens around the ribbon. “Emotions born of weakness. I want nothing to do with them.”

“Oh?” Her father’s stern voice startles her. “Would you disrespect your mother’s memory? All for a small seed of jealousy?”

Red grits her teeth, feeling her mother’s gaze on her even though she’s far away—a crystalline rose inside the garden of souls.

The king narrows his eyes beneath his crown’s shadow. “You have the same dark strain as all of the Red royal lineage. Your mother was the first to learn to balance madness with wisdom. Do not forsake that legacy. Make her proud.” He holds out his hand.

Tears singe Red’s eyes as she drops the whispering ribbon into his palm, an unspoken promise to honor her mother’s memory, to never forget her example.

My bones jitter and my head hurts as again I’m thrown into the chaise lounge, only to be jerked back on-screen for the final memory:

Red kneels beside a rosebush, breathing in the sweet scent. The blooms are such a deep red, they look like puddles of fresh blood against the u

“I should be with you both in the cemetery,” she mumbles to the roses. “Now that my life is over.” She rotates a bottle in her hand to reveal the label: Forgetting Potion.

Her shoulders hunch, as in the distance her stepsister’s giggle rings out, accompanied by the chortle of Red’s husband. Red met him one week after her father died. He had a kind heart like her father’s, and proved to be the only man who could reason with her anger, temper her bitterness. His strength was his compassion, and he adored Red. But the queen became obsessed with her pursuit to bring dreams to Wonderland and neglected her marriage, never even taking the time to give her king the children he yearned for. In her absence, her husband was often left alone with Grenadine.