"The Queen of Hearts"
Summary: We last left our narrator, alone but hopeful, in the halls of Arkham Asylum. The Joker has, in his own twisted way, revealed his feelings for her, but he hasn't said the "L" word yet. My narrator still doesn't have a name, but she will - just hang in there. Also, The Batman/Bruce Wayne - and his surrounding posse - gets a much bigger part to play from here on out. This story is told somewhat out of sequence - I'm following two separate timelines, about a month and a half apart. One follows what happens immediately following the narrator's stay at Arkham. The other starts with the beginning stages of a plan she's helping carry out for The Joker. That second one is where this prologue kicks off; I'm putting "Now" and "Then" tags on all the chapters, rather than fancy titles, to let everyone know exactly where we are. So - here goes!
Prologue
I had some harsh words with him about the dress. Subtlety was not one his stronger traits, but it happened to be a cherished virtue in me. Besides that, I was of the opinion that my standing out would be hazardous to our plan. The dress was beautiful of course, even more so on me – floor-length, wine-red satin, with a snug bodice and a plunging back criss-crossed with black lace; long black satin gloves to match, and a rope of freshwater pearls. I only just managed to talk him out of high-heels, insisting instead on soft slippers laced with ribbon. The effect of the assembled pieces, together with my alabaster complexion, blue eyes and long black hair, was stunning, but made me feel horribly exposed.
"Trust me," he said. "You can pull this off, little lady."
Trust him. . . The request was precarious at best. I'd once heard it said that he had a 'taste for the theatrical.' True enough, and it was one of things I loved best about him. But little comfort that would be if it got us both killed. It wasn't me I was worried about.
"But what if—" I started.
"Shh," he said, putting a finger to my lips. "I'll be a phone call away if you need me. Don't you worry about a thing."
The truth is he wanted me to stand out. He wanted me in the spotlight, drawing all the attention, pulling the focus of the gala from its host to myself. I knew my assignment. I had thought it laughably easy, what he had asked of me. The dress changed everything.
I arrived at Wayne Manor at a quarter-past six in the evening, attired in the ridiculous ensemble, a gold-embossed invitation in my gloved hand. The event was in honor of the late Rachel Dawes, Bruce Wayne's childhood playmate, and some said his former sweetheart. It was the first event to be held at Wayne Manor since it had been rebuilt. I didn't know who had put the idea into Bruce's head that throwing a party would aid him in his grieving process, but I was certain that he hadn't come up with it on his own. In fact I would venture a guess that he had agreed to it with great reluctance and trepidation. My lover had ended her life. He had not laid a finger on her himself, but he had lit the fuse. I wished sometimes that I had known her. Anyone who could capture the heart and mind of the unfathomable Bruce Wayne must have been truly remarkable. I regretted never having the chance to see her mind.
The moment I crossed the threshold, I understood. The mansion was spectacularly adorned – polished crystal chandeliers, ice sculptures in the shapes of rare birds, crisp-coated waiters handing out champagne and bite-sized delicacies. But all that I'd expected. When I entered, all eyes fell on me. The dress, although dazzling, was not entirely appropriate for a black-tie affair such as this. I felt pinched disapproval, sour jealousy, and a waft of intense curiosity. But underneath all that, there was fear. The atmosphere was thick with it. It lay heavy on the festival air, stifling the gaiety and heightening senses. A few of them recognized me from the pictures on the television and in the newspapers. I knew the caption by heart: "Dangerous. Possible accomplice to The Joker. Do Not Approach." I understood completely. The tension was what he wanted. It caused confusion, panic, chaos.
Trust him? No, I did not. But I admitted with chagrin that he was almost always right.