The Queen of Hearts knelt in the dirt and counted her dying roses. Eleven heads this week, and still the hedge sagged. The blooms drooped on their stems, petals fading from red to brown. She pressed one wilting flower to her cheek. It left a smear of thin, watery blood. Not enough. It was never enough. She wanted a maze someday, walls of roses so tall and tangled no victim could ever escape. But the plants starved faster than she could feed them. She stood and drove her axe into the chopping log. The blade bit deep beside the purple spiral carved in the wood. Her usual method was failing. One wanderer, one head, one weak trickle of blood. The hedge drank it in a day and begged for more. The Queen walked to her outdoor table and sat. Blood crusted the heart-shaped seat. She traced the splatter with one finger and thought. The problem was not her hunger. The problem was her supply. She caught victims one at a time, by chance, when they stumbled through her gate. She looked up at the iron arch that crowned the garden entrance. Her axe hung there, driven through the words above. Below it, the path stretched out past her grounds. People did not wander in. She had to make them come. An idea took root. She would not wait anymore. She would set a trap. The Queen pulled her axe from the log and went to work. She dragged her tea set out beneath the arch, where any traveler could see it. She set three chairs around the table. She left a pot steaming, as if guests were expected. Warm. Inviting. A welcome. Then she cut her own palm and let the blood fall into a cup, a lure for the thing that wandered the fog. She knew the swollen black bird that haunted these grounds. It swallowed people whole and guarded an egg that never cracked. It followed blood the way flies follow a corpse. She waited behind the hedge. By dusk, the fog rolled in. Shapes moved on the path, drawn by the steam and the open chairs. Not one traveler. Six. A ragged band of lost wanderers, chasing the promise of tea. They crowded around her table and sat. The Queen stepped out with her axe. She did not explain. She never did. The blade swung, and swung again. The wanderers ran, but the hedge had grown thick on every side. Blood poured into the soil faster than it ever had. By full dark, the roses drank deep. New shoots pushed up overnight, taller than before. The Queen wiped her blade and smiled. The trap worked. Now she had her method, and her garden had its feast. But the smell of fresh blood carried far in the fog. Something massive stirred on the path. Wet feathers. A low, hungry gulp. The black bird had smelled her lure too, and it was coming for the table.