Heartless

  He was not a clever man, she reminded herself, for once glad that he was so dim. He is not a clever man.

  Jest replaced his hat and lifted the flute to his mouth. He licked his lips, and Cath cursed herself for mimicking the action, glad that Jest’s eyes were closed and he couldn’t have noticed.

  The music that followed was its own sort of magic.

  The lilts and the skips, the dancing notes that swept over Catherine and the King and the hedges and the flowers. The bluebells stopped ringing so they could listen, the breeze stopped whistling, the finches stopped chittering. Catherine took in a breath and held it, feeling as though the flute’s music were seeping into her skin, filling up every space in her body.

  It wasn’t a song she recognized. The notes were happy and sad all at once, and she imagined flowers blooming anew in the wet spring dirt, leaves unfurling for the first time on winter-ravaged boughs, the smell of rain in the air, and the feel of cool grass beneath her toes. The melody hinted at newness and rebirth and beauty and eternity …

  … and by the time it was over, Cath had tears on her cheeks.

  Jest lowered the flute and opened his eyes and Cath swiped away the tears, unable to look at him. She fished for a handkerchief from inside her pocket, her hand bumping against the forgotten package of macarons.

  The King sniffled too, then began to applaud. “Bravo! Bravo, Jest!”

  Jest bowed. “Your Majesty honors me.”

  The King’s cheers were met with equal enthusiasm from all the creatures that had come to listen. Cath forced herself to look up once she’d finished dabbing at her eyes. She expected smugness, but what she saw was a hopeful question in his bright yellow eyes. It quickly turned into another grin, his real grin, she suspected. Whatever he’d seen in her face had satisfied.

  The King was still clapping enthusiastically. “That was wonderful! Absolutely wonderful! Lady Pinkerton, wasn’t that wonderful?”

  She cleared her throat and conceded, “It was indeed. What is the song? This was the first I’ve heard it.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know, my lady,” said Jest. “It came to me just now.”

  Her eyes widened. Impossible.

  “Perhaps you are my muse,” he added, and the joking tone had returned. “I shall dedicate it to you, Lady Catherine Pinkerton, if it pleases.”

  The King squealed. “Oh yes, that’s perfect! I shall have you play it again at our—” He cut off sharply.

  Cath stiffened, clenching the handkerchief in one fist.

  Jest’s suspicious look returned.

  The King fidgeted with the clasp of his velvet-lined cape, and his excitement was replaced with mumbled bashfulness. “At, er … the royal wedding.”

  Cath wished she could disappear down a rabbit hole.

  “It would be my pleasure, Your Majesty,” Jest said, with new tension in his voice. “I had heard rumors of an upcoming wedding. What a lucky joker I am, to have such a queen for whom to compose all manner of ballads and poetry.”

  Twisting the handkerchief in her lap, Cath forced herself to look at the King with as much ignorance as she could manage. “I wasn’t aware you had chosen a bride, Your Majesty. I look forward to bestowing many congratulations on our future queen.”

  The King’s round face was as red as the ruby heart in his crown. “Er—that is … well … I have not … exactly proposed yet, you see … but with you here, Lady Pinkerton—”

  “Oh, how clever you are!” she said, cringing internally at the shrill in her tone. From the corner of her vision she could see that Jest had frozen, and the King, too, had a new wide-eyed visage. “It is so smart of you not to hurry. I’m sure the lady is most grateful.”

  The King gawped at her. “Er. Well, actually…”

  “Nobody likes to be rushed into these things, after all. Courtships and marriage proposals should be taken slowly if they’re to, er … result in mutual happiness. I find that men are too quick to ask for a lady’s hand, not realizing that we prefer it to be a long … rather arduous process.”

  The King continued to stare at her.

  “Of course. Lady Pinkerton is correct,” said Jest, and his voice was measured and patient compared to Cath’s desperation. She and the King swiveled their attention back to him.

  “I am?” said Catherine.

  “She is?” echoed the King.

  “Absolutely, but you are a wise man to know it already.” Jest threaded the flute between his belt and tunic.

  “Er—yes. I mean, I am, naturally. Wise, that is. But, er, what do you mean?”

  “As Lady Pinkerton was saying, all ladies enjoy the dance of courtship, the rush of new love, the anticipation of a yet-unknown happiness.” He hesitated, as if searching for the proper words, before continuing, “The courtship period is the foundation upon which a happy marriage will stand, and should not be hurried by any devoted lover—not even a king.” Jest inclined his head. “But it seems you know all this, Your Majesty.”

  “Y-yes,” stammered the King. He looked bewildered. “That’s what I’ve always said. The courtship is the … the foundation…”

  Cath’s chest was expanding—with relief, with gratitude. Jest glanced at her and raised his eyebrows, as if in question. As if he was concerned that his involvement would not be appreciated.

  But it was, more than she could express.

  “The Joker has explained it perfectly,” she said. “Wedding proposals, after all, should not come as a shock.” She laughed, and hoped it didn’t sound as frenzied to them as it did to her. “I can see that advice-giving is among your talents.”

  Jest’s grin turned teasing. “I live to serve.”

  Suddenly, the King hopped to his feet. “I know,” he said, beaming with renewed courage. “Let’s play croquet!”

  “Croquet?” said Cath.

  “Yes! Croquet! It is my best sport. I’m not much of a dancer, you see. And I can’t compose ballads or poetry. But … but the hedgehogs are fond of me.” He said it more like a question, and his eyes were shining when he looked at Cath. “You’ll see, Lady Pinkerton.”

  He stomped off with purpose toward the croquet court, his fur-lined cloak fluttering behind him and his scepter held high.

  Cath turned to Jest. If he shared any of her agitation, it didn’t show.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Whatever for?”

  Before she could stammer out some response, he removed his hat and swooped it toward the retreating King.

  “After you, my lady.”

  CHAPTER 13

  CATHERINE ALLOWED HER favorite hedgehog to sit on her shoulder, so long as it stayed calm and agreed not to poke her neck with its quills. Beside her, a flamingo stood with one stick-leg tucked up into its feathers. It had horrible shrimp breath and Cath kept trying to sidestep slowly away.

  The King, Margaret Mearle, and Jack were all taking their turns simultaneously, making for a crowded court. Jest’s hedgehog had rolled off grounds some time ago and Cath had lost sight of him over one of the rolling hills. Margaret’s flamingo had the bone structure of a noodle and she wouldn’t stop screaming and shaking the limp thing, so her progress had so far been painfully slow. Jack seemed only interested in trying to croquet everyone else’s hedgehogs off course.

  The King had started out the game well enough—his hedgehog was indeed fond of him—but his flamingo had since turned unpredictable. Catherine watched as he swung at his hedgehog for the third time in a row, and again his flamingo curled up its long neck at the last moment and missed the hedgehog entirely. The King let out an annoyed huff and shook his flamingo by its scrawny legs. “We practiced this, you foul fowl! You can’t have stage fright now.”

  “His poor Majesty,” Catherine mused to herself.

  The flamingo beside her rolled its beak a couple of times, and drawled, “Ah like yer pink dress.”

  Cath shot it a withering smile and tugged at her cotton eyelet dress, the same pale pink as the bird’s feather
s.

  Flamingos were such stupid creatures.

  Finally, on the fourth swing, the King smacked his hedgehog on the rump and it went flying over the croquet court, scampering just by the foot of the Six of Clubs without rolling beneath his arched back.

  Balling his fists, the King stomped unhappily on the grass. “Useless thing!”

  Cath, still on the sidelines, thought this boded well for her strategy. One of the guards had fallen asleep while in a backbend and she suspected he would make for an easy target if she got to him before he collapsed.

  She turned her head and winked at her hedgehog. “Shall we?”

  “Conspiring with the game pieces, I see,” Jest said, startling her. She turned to see him leaning against a garden statue with his own flamingo draped over one shoulder. “I’m not sure that’s allowed, Lady Pinkerton.”

  She smoothed down her skirt. The paper-wrapped macarons crinkled in her pocket. “Are you a sore loser, Mr. Joker?”

  He cocked his head. “Am I losing, Lady Pinkerton?”

  Shrugging, Cath scanned the lawn. “I’m not sure you’re even still playing. Where has your hedgehog gotten off to?”

  “Over there.” He pointed his flamingo toward the corner of the court, where Margaret was attempting to croquet his hedgehog with hers, to rather no avail.

  Her screams floated toward them—“YOU BLOODY BIRD, CAN’T YOU AIM STRAIGHT FOR ONCE?” She swung, and the flamingo’s beak glanced off the hedgehog, sending it a fair few inches to the side of Jest’s.

  “Maybe you are winning,” Catherine mused.

  “I see that not every game piece is in play. Won’t you be joining us?”

  “I’m waiting for the court to open up. I like to have a clear shot.” Catherine scratched her hedgehog on its soft-tufted chin.

  “Then I shall leave you to your plotting.”

  She was a little disappointed as Jest meandered back onto the court.

  Margaret had made it to the next hoop, leaving Jest’s hedgehog with a straight pathway. He wasted no time, just shook out the flamingo, lined up the hedgehog with the hoops, swirled the bird in one pinwheel and thunked the hedgehog with precision, sending it beneath two of the arched Clubs.

  He had a noticeable swagger as he returned to Catherine’s side a moment later, leaving his hedgehog where it had landed.

  “Nice shot,” she said.

  “I confess, I am not the type of gentleman to blithely let a lady win.”

  She laughed—the sound so sharp it startled her hedgehog and one of its tines poked her beneath her ear. She ducked her head away. “A memory regarding corset laces has me questioning whether you’re a gentleman at all, Mr. Joker.”

  He pressed a hand to his chest, feigning a wound. “At least, if I am to be a rake, I’ll be an honest one. Whereas you, Lady Pinkerton, haven’t been entirely forthright.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You had me convinced that you really had no idea the King was in love with you.”

  She flushed and stepped closer so she could lower her voice. “He is not in love with me.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “I may look like a fool, but I assure you I’m not.”

  “He may wish to marry me, or think he does, but that is not the same thing as being in love.”

  His frown shifted. “I’ll accede that point. But if you don’t think he fancies you beyond what is required in a marriage of convenience, then you are as oblivious as Lady Mearle.”

  “Oh, look!” Cath interrupted. “Jack has just croqueted the King off the court. I’d best go take my shot.”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “No, I’m playing croquet.” She grabbed her bad-breathed flamingo and marched onto the court.

  “Lady Pinkerton?”

  She froze and glanced over her shoulder.

  Jest had a gentle look, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “I believe he honestly cares for you, as well as he can. You needn’t be so humble about it. Doubtless, many of the present ladies would be delighted to catch the eye of our venerated sovereign.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “And you gave me a difficult time over playing matchmaker.”

  Her whole body felt stiff as she approached the start of the course. She saw that three of the Club arches had wandered off and were placing bets on the sidelines, but she hoped they would return by the time she needed them. The King was still chasing down his hedgehog. Margaret and Jack were nearly tied, with Jest still in the lead. As she stood at the start of the course, she spotted Jest returning to the game as well, some bounce missing from his step.

  Catherine blew a lock of hair out of her face, frustrated with her behavior from the past few days. All those dreams, all those fantasies, all that time spent wandering in a giddy daze—all over what? A boy she’d barely met, hardly spoken to, and who, it was quite clear now, had not spent half as much time thinking about her. Who would just as soon see her married off to the King!

  He was right. He may be the one dressed like a fool, but it seemed the title was reserved for her.

  She noticed Jack stalking toward her, one fat fist strangling his flamingo’s neck. His expression was dark and Cath stiffened before he could reach her.

  “You haven’t even started yet!” Jack accused. “What were you doing, talking to the Joker all this time? Are you playing or not?”

  “It’s no concern of yours who I talk to,” she spat. “And I was just about to start my turn. If you’ll step aside…”

  Jack snarled and turned to look at the Joker with his good eye. Jest, however, was paying them no attention. “You think he’s funny or some such?”

  Cath rolled her eyes. “Well, I don’t know, Jack. He is a joker.”

  “I think he’s funny looking.” He faced her again. “And so are you, Lady Pinkerton!”

  She waved her free hand exasperatedly. “Thank you for clarifying that. Could you kindly move so I can take my turn now?”

  His face had gone red, but he didn’t move. “Did you bring any sweets?”

  Cath thought, briefly, of the macarons in her pocket, but shook her head. “Not this time, I’m afraid.”

  The Knave seemed caught momentarily between staying and going, like he wanted to say more but could think of nothing else worth saying.

  Finally, he raspberried his tongue at her, then took off across the court at a quick jaunt.

  Cath’s shoulders dropped. Her weariness came on fast, her annoyance with Jest and the King and now Jack all burning in her veins. She was glad for the distraction of the game.

  She took the hedgehog into her palm. “Let’s get on with it, then,” she said, setting him in front of the first hoop—the Nine of Clubs. The hedgehog curled himself into a ball.

  Cath lifted the flamingo so they were eye to eye, and tried not to breathe in too deeply. “I propose a deal. You help me win this game, and the next time I come to the palace I’ll bring you coconut shrimp cakes.”

  “Ah likes shrimp,” said the flamingo.

  “I can tell.” Wrinkling her nose, Cath flipped the flamingo upside down and took hold of its legs. She lined its head with the hedgehog. Aimed. Swung.

  The hedgehog galloped through the first two hoops, rounded smoothly to the right, over one hill, darted right by the King’s retrieved hedgehog, swooped back to the left and beneath two more hoops and finally tumbled to a stop. He flopped onto his belly, grinning at Catherine.

  She gave him an approving nod, feeling better already.

  “Bravo, Lady Pinkerton!” said the King. The audience that was watching from the sidelines started to cheer as well, having picked up on the King’s preference.

  “It’s not who wins or loses!” Margaret shrieked. “It’s how one stays the same!”

  “Well said, Lady Mearle!” cheered the Duke, standing alone to the side of the crowd.

  “No one asked you!” she yelled back.

  Ignoring them all, Cath made her second shot, surpassing Jest on the court.


  “Nice shot,” he said, echoing her previous words back to her as she passed by.

  She preened. “Why, thank you.”

  “Will you wish me luck on my next play?” he asked. “It seems I’ll need it, if I’m to take the egg.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “I will do no such thing.”

  He started walking backward toward his hedgehog. “You are a tough adversary.”

  Cath’s eyes widened as his heels nearly collided with one of the in-play hedgehogs—Jack’s, she thought—but even walking backward Jest knew when to hop over it. He chuckled at her surprise and turned away.

  Shaking her head, Catherine yelled, “I hope your hedgehog goes into early hibernation!”

  “All the easier to hit him,” he called back.

  Catherine’s eye caught on a squat figure hurrying toward her. The King’s face was rosy with excitement and a sheen of sweat had formed on his brow.

  “Lady Pinkerton!” he said, dabbing at his forehead with the corner of his cloak. She considered offering him a handkerchief, but decided to pretend that he wasn’t sweating instead. “Did you see?”

  “Um…”

  “My hedgehog went—scheeew!—right through three hoops.” His hand gestures mimicked the roll and bounce of his last shot. “It was glorious! Didn’t you think so?”

  Cath resisted the urge to pat him on the head and offer him a biscuit for a job well done. “You were splendid, Your Majesty.”

  Beaming, the King turned to watch Jest take his shot. Cath glared at Jest’s hedgehog, willing it to go off course.

  “What were you and Jest talking about, anyhow?” asked the King.

  “Oh. Uh—you, Your Majesty. And your phenomenal croquet—”

  There was a kathunk as Jest sent his hedgehog rolling toward wide-open grass … at least it was wide open until all three of the absent Clubs raced over and threw themselves into arches just in time for the hedgehog to roll beneath them.

  “—skills,” Cath finished, glowering.

  The King sighed, looking equally deflated. “Well, it does seem that I’m outmatched.”

  After three continuous swings, Jest had gotten his hedgehog nearly to the end of the course. One more half-decent play would hand him the win, for sure. He drifted leisurely toward his hedgehog, swinging the flamingo back and forth like a pendulum.