This was the last time she would tread this path, the last time she would be her. She had come here as a child with her father. The roses fascinated her. A memory came to her then, her father’s warning. How appropriate that it should come today of all days.

“You mustn’t touch the stems child.”

“But why daddy?

At this last question, her father beckoned to

a bench, and they sat down. Putting his arm around her, his face took on a serious cast.

“The thorns cut, dear. In alot of ways…”

He paused a moment, finding the words.

“In alot of ways, people are like roses. They

can be beautiful…eye catching even. But you

have to be careful. We have to be careful.

Always you must remember that as pretty as

they are, flowers can hurt you.”

“But I love them daddy,” she had cried aghast.

And then he had delivered the most important lesson of all. Taking her by the hand, he had approached a nearby bouquet. Before she knew what was happening, a prick. Raising the bloody finger to her face, she stared at it, shocked.

“Always remember my daughter - always - that they can hurt you.”

She had never forgotten, would never forget.

In some way, it explained why she loved Jack. Quiet, always lenient, always patient Jack. He would make a fine husband, and a perfect foil for her purpose. In the last five years she had worked hard to portray herself as a bloodthirsty would-be tyrant. This was another of her father’s lessons.

“Make them fear you, child. You should be as

capricious as a spring storm.

Leave them wondering- just when will the axe

fall?

Already, Jack fulfilled the role. When crossed, she would fly into a swirling, relentless rage. Her face would go bright red and then the shouting would commence.

“Off with their heads! Off with them I say! I

will not stand for it!

Afterwards, Jack would make his apologies, would tend to any wounds. She hid her knowledge of his actions. She conveniently forgot any slight. At his suggestion they would play croquet or another engagement would require their attention. You didn’t really need to kill anybody, just give the impression that you might. _Although there is that blasted cat_, she thought.

Ahead of her trumpets sounded. It was time. Her father had passed in the night. In front of her the thronging masses of Wonderland awaited. This day she would be made the Queen of Hearts. Smiling to herself, she turned and pulled a rose from a nearby bush. The thorns bit into her hand, small beads of blood forming there. She showed no signs of pain. With the rose held to her breast, she marched forward, into the now, and into her future.

,

The queen of hearts

Off with his head