Page 27 of These Vile Hearts

The carriage continues to rise, and the song disappears. Then the trees stop being just trees—they become pillars propping up the world emerging around us. A treetop city with a fairy ring of redwoods in its heart. The citadel, so I’ve been told. Aka: the fortress protecting the king I’ve been tasked to kill.

My dad hardly ever talked about the Redwood dryads, and myyoung brain didn’t realize there was a difference between them and the Myrtlewood dryads he knew so much about. His journal is also relatively sparse on the topic. When I first read of a “treetop kingdom,” I pictured a palace sitting just above the canopy likeHowl’s Moving Castleor something. But this is nothing like that.

Unlike the Myrtlewood’s burrowed tunnels in the tree roots, the Redwood Court seems to be builtaroundthe trunks. Like tree houses on steroids. Which makes sense, given the myrtlewood trees’ girth is as impressive as the redwoods’ height.

The spheres filled with partygoers stop at a wooden dock where more dryads dressed in red greet us, checking the black outlines on our hands as we step onto the platform. Guards clothed in golden metal feathers dot the dock. None of them smile.

“To the wine!” the man in the gown announces, pumping his left fist into the air and strutting down the walkway leading into the walled fortress.

Platforms of shamrock grass and bushes heavy with golden berries make up the interior of the citadel. An aged redwood stands in the center, a regal king of a lion pride.

The Sovereign Tree.

I remember the first and only time I visited San Francisco with my parents, when I was seven. Since I’d only known tiny cabins and quaint establishments until that point, my first glimpse of the city’s skyscrapers downtown had my mouth hanging open in awe.

This tree is taller and grander than any of them.

“Fuck me,” I whisper aloud.

“Perhaps after some wine and dancing!” an arborfae with shimmering silver skin calls over her shoulder at me.

Built in bloodred wood around the Sovereign Tree’s trunk is what I assume to be the throne room, its heavy doors flung open to let out a symphony of music and drunken laughter. My heart flips at the sight. That’s where the Redwood King will be.

One of the Sovereign branches curves above the throne room like the top of a witch’s hat. Along the branch, a dozen more trees have sprouted like a natural candelabra. Three horned guards wearing gold-plated armor stand, stationed as sentries around one of the parasite trees—the largest, reddest, and most vibrant of all.

The king’s heartwood.

A much smaller tree resides at the end, a burnt smudge on a tapestry. Unlike the king’s heartwood, this one is completely black and barren, as if struck by lightning. A tree you might expect to see in a haunted forest.

When I was a little girl, my dad found me crying in our snow-covered backyard beside a sapling I’d planted in the spring.

“It’s dead,” I’d sobbed. “My tree died.”

“It’s not dead, Mads,” he’d told me. “Watch.” Then he pulled out his pocketknife and cut into one of the branches. “It’s green inside, see? It’s just sleeping right now because of the cold.”

Sure enough, my little tree came right back to life the next spring, bursting with delicate pink flowers.

This tree looks the same as mine did that December. I wonder if it’s cold.

A chill trickles down my back and tremors my hands.

Actually. That’s not a chill.

Fuckme. This always happens after I’ve stacked insulin to correct a high blood sugar. I donothave time for hypoglycemia right now.

Numbness spreads across my tongue and seeps into my lips, symptoms that only happen when my blood sugar is dropping fast. I move as quickly as I can in this weapon-laced monstrosity down the grand walkway leading to the throne room.

Golden-feathered guards loom along the walkway like breathing statues, and teams of servants dressed in red carry trays of wine and other beverages.

Don’t drink the wine.

Masked guests mill around, sipping and chatting and paying me no attention.

Dizziness makes my vision blur, and I stumble forward until I’m inside. The sounds of string and woodwind instruments emanate from some hidden place. Dryads, arborfae, and human pets twirl around the dance floor. Looking at them makes my head spin.

Then I see it. A magnificent display of color. Mounds of cream topped with all sorts of fruit. Assortments of meats and cheeses. Loaves of bread baked into wreaths of leaves. Bowls of jams and jellies. Pastries and pies and honeyed nuts.

I reach for a tart covered in berries and sugar, but another hand gets there first.