Heartless

It was a new day in Hearts, and she was the Queen.

“Off with his head.”

‘Why is a raven like a writing desk?’

One to be a murderer, the other to be martyred,

One to be a monarch, the other to go mad.

Had a pet and couldn’t feed her;

Caught a maid who had meant well –

What became of her, no one can tell.

Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater,

Had a wife but couldn’t keep her;

He put her in a pumpkin shell

And there he kept her very well.

Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater,

Murderer, martyr, monarch, mad.

So far as she could tell, only one of the prophecies had come to pass.

Jest was martyred. Jest was dead. Jest.

Jest.

Mutilated. Severed. Dead.

with sweat.

‘Stuff and nonsense,’ he whispered, the words cracking. ‘Nonsense and stuff and much of a muchness and nonsense all over again. We are all mad here, don’t you know? And it runs in my family, it’s a part of my blood and he’s here, Time has finally found me and I—’ His voice shredded. His eyes burned. ‘I haven’t the slightest idea, Your Queenness. I find that I simply cannot recall why a raven is like a writing desk.’

The Three Sisters stood before her, their small hands gripping Sir Peter’s chains, their black eyes peering up at the Queen.

“How different everything could have been,” she said, “if you had thought to ask me that before.”