The Only Card You Need

Standing a couple inches short of six feet, and weighing just a little less than a nice and even one-hundred-and-sixty pounds, the Ace of Spades is not the tallest, the heaviest, or even the most muscular of the four Aces who form the Red Queen’s vanguard. But this is by no means a great surprise, for in this land of wonders—and we use that term quite wrongly—few things are ever as they ought to be. The highest ranking of the Aces dresses almost as humbly as a monk amidst the sea of taffeta and silk, of plaid and checkerboard patterns that he knows as an ally, not a foe. It was not by his choice that he was clothed dissimilarly to his comrades, no, it was their tailor: his poor bloodshot eyes branded with endless checkers and his aching hands tired of ruffling together rows upon rows of excessive frills. Keen on maintaining his sanity, the tailor stepped back from extravagance for the first time in what felt like a decade, and crafted for the Ace of Spades an ensemble whose relative simplicity was outmatched only by its functionality.

In spite of using Spades’ attire as a means to relax and unwind, moments where the clothier’s logic and desire for minimal detail faltered are present within his designs. The most prominent stumbles include the embroidery around the shoulders of his tunic and, oddly enough—perhaps more importantly—the very patterns of the garments themselves.

One cursory glance at the hood draped over Spades’ head would be enough to induce sobbing in many seamstresses— pieces of surplus linen sewn into the front of the hood which defy all reasoning. That is not even mentioning a glance directed at the rest of the garment; from the layers of swallow-like tails in the back of his tunic, to the hand-tooled and stitched auburn leather belt that cinches the off-white tunic in around his broad waist. In the same vein, a pair of thick leather bracers, stained a rich auburn brown to match his other leather trimmings, decorate his forearms. Although, only one half of the pair was crafted by the tailor—designed to complement the original, significantly larger, and far sturdier of the two, located upon the Ace’s left arm. Apparently leatherwork became something of an addiction at this point, so much so that a completely superfluous leather accent for his chest was created for no more than the garment maker’s own amusement. The trousers he stitched together, which were cut from the same ivory linen as the tunic are, thankfully, free of any unnecessary complications, one of the only garments designed for the Ace of Spades that remained true to their creator’s original craving for simplicity.

His footwear is, unsurprisingly, another fine display of what may occur when an outfitter misplaces his logic, with every piece of the pattern for the calf-length boots serving as another problem the maddened tailor designed for himself. After just a few months of use, the heels and toes of these hard-wearing tan-stained leather boots have already been scuffed and scraped to the point that gouges have begun to form. Two years’ worth of damage has been dealt in but a quarter of the time, though the only being that would object to such brutality has been relieved, rather tragically, of his head. Their owner simply acknowledges that they do their job, much like his humble linen robes which can, at times, do their job of keeping him warm a little too well.

Why on earth did the clothier part ways with his head, you ask? Why, like many who face decapitation in wonderland, it was not by choice, but for a minor sleight perpetrated against Her Royal Highness. What remained of a bolt of rich rust-red silk he used sparingly in the gown crafted for the Red Queen, went into the sash which sits beneath Spades’ broad belt. When she found out for herself, the Queen did what she did best. She exacted disproportionate retribution, and her loyal tailor learnt that his well-intentioned conservation of supplies was, like many things, an injustice punishable by a good and bloody beheading.

Contrary to popular belief, clothes do not make this entity; instead they shroud its substance from sight. Were he alive, the tailor who slaved over the Ace’s attire would be delighted to know that every garment is worn exactly the way he had intended, even the hood which Spades wears over his head, not to incite fear, or to command a false sense of respect, not even to pique a little curiosity, but because he was informed by the late garment maker that hoods were made to be worn up. Never have the laws of fashion been so rigorously adhered to by someone so indifferent to the custom.

So what on earth hides beneath the peak of the Ace of Spades’ hood?