Heartless

  Mary Ann’s lips tightened as she used the poker and wrought-iron tongs to shift the wood around in the flames.

  “I didn’t hear anything outside. I wasn’t going to investigate some mystery.” She took in a long, slow breath, filled with the scent of char and smoke, and let her memory travel back to the beginning.

  A sharp glee began in the pit of her stomach and crawled its way up through her chest and burst as a smile across her mouth. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to contain the giddiness that threatened to burst out of her.

  Mary Ann was watching her now, her irritation replaced with confusion. “Cath?”

  “Oh, Mary Ann,” she whispered, afraid that to speak would be to wake and find that it was all another dream. “I’ve had such a night. I hardly know where to begin.”

  “At the beginning would be advisable.”

  Catherine looked back, past the curtains and the walls and the Crossroads, to a little hat shop filled with revelry and song … and also a glen where nightmares had come to life.

  She shook her head. She didn’t want to frighten Mary Ann with the truth of all that. She would tell her only the joyous things, so she wouldn’t have to worry.

  “I was invited to a tea party.” She felt like she was holding a soap bubble in her palms, afraid to say too much, too quickly, or she would frighten it away.

  “A tea party? With … the King?” Mary Ann ventured.

  Catherine groaned. “No. Good gracious, no. I don’t want to think about the King.”

  “Then who?”

  “The court joker.” She scrunched her shoulders, protecting her heart. “I went to a tea party with the court joker.”

  The silence that followed was punctuated by the popping of wood and a tower of kindling collapsing on itself, sending a flurry of sparks up the flue. Catherine stayed hunched over, bracing herself against whatever reaction Mary Ann might have—disbelief or disappointment or a fierce scolding.

  “The Joker?”

  “His name is Jest.”

  “You mean to say … I don’t … Did you go by yourself?”

  Cath laughed again and sat back up, beaming at Mary Ann for a long moment, before melting back onto the ground. She spread her arms out across the carpet and kicked her shoes off so her cold toes could enjoy the fire’s heat. She traced the shadows on the ceiling tiles and wondered when was the last time she’d lain on the floor. It wasn’t proper. It wasn’t done by young ladies.

  But this viewpoint seemed just right for recounting her story.

  She told Mary Ann everything—at least, everything she dared. Fainting in the gardens. Playing croquet. The rose and the rhyming Raven and the marvelous millinery. The Hatter and his guests. Jest and the dreams and his lemon-yellow eyes.

  She did not tell her about the Jabberwock and the brave Lion.

  She did not tell her that Jest was a Rook for the White Queen, or that he was on a secret mission that could end a war, or that she hoped maybe she would be his reason to come back to Hearts when it was done.

  When she was finished, it felt as though her heart had outgrown her body. It was the size of the house now. The size of the entire kingdom.

  But Mary Ann was not sharing her smile. She was making a grid of matches on the floor, her brow drawn.

  With that look, all of Cath’s happiness started to crumble. She knew that look. She could bet that it was the same look she’d given to Jest when he’d stood here in this very bedroom and asked if he would see her at the Turtle Days Festival.

  No matter how spectacular the night had been, it could not happen again.

  Catherine propped herself up on her elbows. “I know what you’re thinking, and I know you’re right. The King has asked for a courtship and I’ve agreed to it. I would be ruined if anyone knew about tonight and I … It won’t happen again. I’m not a fool. Or … I’m going to stop being a fool. Tonight. Now.”

  “That isn’t what I was thinking at all,” Mary Ann said. “Although you’re right. This would cause such a scandal—an embarrassment not only to you, but to the Marquess and the entire household.”

  Cath looked away.

  “But what I was really thinking was that you talk about him like … like you talk about a piece of decadent chocolate cake.”

  A honk of a laugh escaped Cath before she could help it. “He is not a piece of cake!”

  “No, but I can tell you’re already anticipating the time you’ll see him again, and you’re flushed and smiling the same way you do when you’re perfectly satisfied. And … your mother would forbid them both.”

  Cath swallowed, her spirits dampened.

  “It’s a shame you can’t feel this way about the King.”

  “I can’t.”

  “I know.”

  Cath sighed. “It won’t matter. I can’t do anything until this courtship is resolved.” She shook her head. “And nothing has changed. It was just a single night, one fun night. I wanted to know what it was like to be … someone else, for once.” Reaching over, she took hold of Mary Ann’s hand, and pulled her down to lie on the carpet beside her. Even after all these years she was surprised to feel the calluses on her friend’s palm. “What’s most important is that everyone who was there tonight will be avid patrons of our bakery. They loved the macarons, every one of them. So that’s what I need to be focusing on now, and that’s plenty enough to be thinking about without kings and jokers and tea parties getting into the mix.”

  Her statement was followed by a stretched-thin quiet, before Mary Ann turned her head and gave Cath’s hand a gentle squeeze. “It may be true that you can’t be a baker and a lady, or a baker and a queen … but there is no rule that you can’t be a baker and a wife. If you truly are fond of the Joker, perhaps it isn’t so hopeless after all.” Her brows furrowed. “That is … if he would still want you, if you were no longer the heir to Rock Turtle Cove.”

  “For shame, Mary Ann! Do you mean to say that his interest could lie more in my dowry and title, when I’m so utterly charming?” Cath said it as a joke, though there was also a sting of naïveté in the back of her thoughts. How had it not occurred to her that her family’s wealth could, indeed, be his motivation?

  No, she couldn’t believe it. He seemed to like her. Truly, honestly like her. He had even implied that she could be reason enough for him to stay in Hearts … but he also knew she was being courted by His Majesty. He knew there were people who believed she was going to be the next Queen of Hearts.

  And still he had dared to ask to see her again.

  Did he want her, or did he want something from her?

  She shook her head, shoving the thoughts away. Jest had shared a great secret with her. What reason did she have to doubt him?

  “I mean to say,” amended Mary Ann, “that I do not know him. And despite how willingly you’ve gone gallivanting about with him after dark, I am not convinced that you know him, either.”

  Cath hummed, thinking of the dream. His dimpled smile, receding farther and farther away. The hollowness in her chest. Her hands reaching after him, trying to take back what he had stolen, but he was always out of reach.

  “You’re right,” she said. “I suppose I don’t know him very well at all.”

  A Joker. A Rook. A mystery.

  Perhaps she didn’t know him, but she was more certain than ever that she desperately wanted to.

  CHAPTER 23

  THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED were among the most torturous Cath had ever known.

  It became habit to check her window for white roses and peer into the tree boughs for black ravens, but there was no sign of Jest or his companion. Jest did not try to steal her away for another midnight rendezvous. Nor did he come to her door and ask to speak to her father and make a case for why he should be allowed to court her.

  Which was, of course, a good thing—practically speaking. And yet she couldn’t stopper the fantasies of him doing just that, and her father somehow, miraculously, impossibly agreeing to it.


  The King’s courtship, on the other hand, had begun in earnest, and the courtship meant constant nagging from her mother. Why hadn’t His Majesty invited Catherine to another gathering? Why wasn’t Catherine doing more to put herself in his path? When was he going to propose? What flowers should they choose for the bridal bouquet? On and on and on.

  “Another delivery for Lady Catherine,” said Mr. Penguin. Their butler was dwarfed by a humongous flower arrangement, with only his webbed feet and black coattails visible beneath.

  Cath sighed and set down the book she’d been reading. A week ago she would have looked at the flowers with hope—were they from Jest? Was he thinking about her half as much as she was thinking about him?

  But the gifts never were from Jest, and one look at the bouquet of red roses, red carnations, and red dahlias confirmed that this was another gift from her doting suitor.

  Their courtship, thus far, had been undemanding, though mostly because Cath was avoiding him. She had dismissed a number of requests for chaperoned walks through the palace gardens, trips to the opera, and invitations to tea. As far as the King knew, she had been afflicted with a week-long headache, and she was hoping he would soon deem her too sickly to pursue further.

  Her beau (as her mother called him) had made up for their lack of companionship through a constant stream of gifts. Each one filled Catherine with dread, knowing the King could not have bestowed such generosity on anyone less grateful. Her mother, on the other hand, was delighted with each delivery.

  She received cakes and pies and tarts from the palace pastry chefs, and Cath did her best not to be too critical of them … on the rare occasions when her mother actually let her sample the desserts at all. She received diamond earrings and ruby brooches and golden pendants, all decorated with the crown’s signature hearts, as if the King’s intentions weren’t obvious enough. She received fine silk gloves and music boxes and even a curled lock of prickly white hair tied with a red velvet ribbon. That particularly appalling gift had even come with a poem:

  Roses are red, violets are blue,

  I would even trim my mustache for you!

  She had memorized the short stanza against her will and the words had nauseated her on multiple occasions since.

  Worst of all were the gifts beneath which she could envision Jest’s involvement. The occasional poem that warmed her soul. The letters that touched her on a deeper level. The words that she could imagine uttered in Jest’s voice, perhaps even penned by his hand … yet always, at their end, signed by the King.

  She knew the King was seeking Jest’s advice on this courtship and each of these cards was a needle in her heart. She found herself poring over those words, imagining Jest crafting them with her in mind, and pretended that he meant every word.

  A painful, bittersweet reality. Jest was wooing her, but only in the name of the King.

  “Our house is beginning to smell like a florist,” she muttered, taking the linen card out of the newest bouquet.

  “Would you like me to put it with the others, Lady Catherine?”

  “Please. Thank you, Mr. Penguin.” The butler left, taking the flower arrangement down to her mother’s sitting room, where the only person who appreciated the bouquet could admire it.

  Breaking the wax seal, Cath unfolded the letter. She kept hoping, with each new delivery, that this would be the letter in which the King would apologize and confess their courtship was not up to expectations and he was forced to end their arrangement.

  She should not have allowed such optimism.

  At least it wasn’t one of the letters that made her tremble, lifting off the page in Jest’s voice. This one was entirely His Majesty.

  To my dearest, darlingest Sweetling—

  Your eyes are like ripe green apples sprinkled with cinnamon. Your skin shimmers like buttercream frosting. Your lips are a ripe raspberry. Your hair is dark chocolate melted on the castle drawbridge on a very hot day. You smell better than a loaf of fresh bread in the morning. You are more beautiful than a birthday cake. You are sweeter than vanilla honey vanilla and honey mixed together. With sugar on top.

  Yours most ardently, with all my gushingest, ooziest admiration—

  The King’s signature and postscripts were in a different penmanship. This had been the case with most of the cards he’d sent. She pictured Jest, quill in hand as the King dictated the letter. Flinching from the overwrought prose, politely biting his tongue.

  The King of Hearts

  (Not that there are any other kings around. Especially kings that call you their Sweetling. At least, I hope not!)

  (Tee-hee-hee!)

  P.S. Can I have some more tarts?

  Gagging, Cath tumbled onto the divan and slid the letter into the pages of her book, hoping it would be forgotten there ever after, when a second note fell from the envelope’s folds—a piece of white parchment printed with a red heart. It reminded her of the slip of confetti she’d caught in the ballroom, what seemed like ages ago.

  Her heart skipped when she turned it over. The note was written in the same flourishing penmanship as the King’s letter.

  Dear Lady Pinkerton,

  Let us fault His Majesty not for his good intentions, but only for his inability to put such longing into words. For certain your charm would turn even the most articulate of men into bumbling fools. I will beg you to think kindly on our wretched attempts to flatter one whose praises could only be spelled out in the poetry of ocean waves and the song of distant thunder .

  Yours,

  A most humble Joker

  P.S. Can I have some more macarons?

  Cath laughed, her cheeks warming. She slipped the note back into the envelope and shut the book, hiding both letters between its pages.

  “You aren’t going to respond to your sovereign?”

  She startled, but it was only Cheshire, lounging on the windowsill overhead. She released a slow breath. “Must you always sneak up on me like that?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Lady Catherine. I sneak up on everyone like that.” Lifting a back leg, Cheshire began to clean himself in an inappropriately cat-like manner.

  Catherine rolled her eyes and settled into the divan again, shuffling the book pages to try and find her spot. “No, I do not intend to respond to my sovereign’s letter. I am trying not to encourage his attentions as much as can be helped.”

  “Has that proved to be an effective technique?”

  “Not terribly, but I am determined.”

  “It seems that so is he. What are you reading?” His exuberant smile appeared above Catherine’s knee and his striped tail flicked out, lifting the book so he could see the cover. She snarled at him, but he pretended not to notice. “Gullible’s Travels? Never heard of it.”

  Cath snapped the book shut—the cat barely got his tail out in time. “Are you here for a reason, Cheshire?”

  “Why, yes, I would enjoy a cup of tea. I take mine with lots of cream, and no tea. Thank you.”

  With another sigh, Cath set down the book and headed to the kitchen. Cheshire was there waiting for her when she arrived and started to purr when she pulled a bottle of cream from the icebox.

  “How is the royal courtship progressing?”

  “This is the extent of it. He sends me gifts, I give them to my mother.”

  “How romantic.” Cheshire lifted the saucer in both paws and downed the cream in a single swallow.

  Catherine leaned against the counter and waited for Cheshire to finish licking his lips. “I have no need of romance,” she said, before adding, quieter, “at least, not from the King.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that you may have other prospects, though I would not have expected you to be thus charmed.”

  She stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  “I had a delightful spot of milk with Haigha yesterday—he’s a Hare, and mad as march, but he did recall a lovely girl in attendance at the Hatter’s most recent tea party, a guest of none other than the court joker. Woul
d you believe she had with her the most delectable macarons he had ever enjoyed? Now, who, pray tell, could he have been referring to?”

  For a heartbeat, Cath thought to deny everything, but Cheshire was not the sort worth denying. Gossipmonger though he might be, he was also dedicated to obtaining reliable sources for his rumor mill.

  “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

  Cheshire dug a claw in between his front teeth, as if worried he might have some cream stuck there. “Who would I tell?”

  “Everyone. You would tell everyone, but I’m asking you not to. Please, Cheshire. My parents—”

  “Would be devastated, and the King too. The Joker would likely lose his employment, and your reputation, along with any hopes you have for a proper match, would be ruined.”

  “I don’t care about my reputation, but I don’t want to hurt my parents, or the King, or … or Jest.”

  “You should care about your reputation. You know how people are. No matter how tasty your desserts, none of our lords or ladies would deign to shop at a bakery run by a fallen woman.”

  She shrank away. “Cheshire. Please.”

  “Don’t give me those puppy-dog eyes. You know how I despise puppy dogs. I won’t tell anyone, though I can’t make promises for the rest of the party guests. I only came to make sure you were unscathed.”

  She shuddered. “Haigha must have told you about the Jabberwock then.”

  “Yes, my dear. And the brave sacrifice of the Lion, that most noble of felines.”

  Cath shut her eyes against the sorrow that hit her every time she remembered the Lion’s final moments. His defiant roar. His golden body braced between her and the monster.

  “The Jabberwock must be stopped,” she said. “First the courtiers, and now this. Surely the King is doing something?”

  “Oh yes, the King is quite busy these days. Penning love letters and such.”

  She let out a frustrated noise. “These attacks aren’t going to stop on their own. Isn’t there anything we can do?”

  “I don’t care for that royal we, but I’ll advise you to avoid any more late-night excursions. Though the loss of the Lion is tragic, I did not know him personally. Whereas you, Lady Catherine, I might actually feel compelled to miss.”