“That’s sweet, Cheshire. I promise to be more careful. No more tea parties.” She gulped. “And no more jokers. At least, not until I’ve come to a decision with the King.”
Cheshire stared at her with his slitted eyes and too-many teeth.
“What?”
“You really are taken with him, aren’t you?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. I’m already in a courtship, you know.”
“But is the King the one you wish to be courting?”
“It doesn’t seem to matter what I wish.” She returned the cream to the icebox. “Not who I wish to be courting, not what I wish for my future to hold.”
“You have the chance to be a queen, Catherine. What else is there?”
“Oh, Cheshire, not you too. I don’t want to be the Queen of Hearts. I don’t understand how I’m the only one who doesn’t see the appeal of it.”
“But if you were the Queen, perhaps you could have your cake and eat it too.”
She cocked her head. “What’s the point of having cake if you can’t eat it?”
“I’m only saying that you might be the King’s wife, but who is to say you couldn’t also have more clandestine relations with the Joker?”
Her jaw fell open and she stormed across the kitchen in a blink. “You naughty feline! How dare you suggest such a thing!” She swapped at the cat, but he disappeared and her hand met only air. Her face was strawberry red when she spun around and saw Cheshire floating above the pan rack.
“Calm yourself, dear, it was only a suggestion.” He punctuated the statement with a yawn.
“It was a crude one, and I won’t tolerate such an insult again.” She fisted her hands on her hips. “If I am to be a wife, I will be an honest one.” She cast her eyes toward the ceiling. “And you misunderstand me entirely, Cheshire. My opposition to the King is not only because I’m … because I may be … as you say, just a bit taken with the Joker…”
“Obviously.”
“I’ll beg you to not repeat it.” She scowled. “My opposition is because queens do not start bakeries. And that is what I wish, what you know I have always wished.”
“Ah, yes, the infamous bakery, the most wondrous bakery in all of Hearts.” Cheshire’s whiskers twitched. “The one that, if I’m not mistaken, is no closer to reality now than it was when you first started talking about it, how many years ago?”
She clenched her jaw. “It is closer to reality. We are closer every day.”
“The Marquess has given his blessing, then?”
She turned away, the blush still burning her cheeks, and carried Cheshire’s empty saucer to the pile of dishes left from that morning’s breakfast. “He will,” she insisted, her back to the cat, “once I ask him.”
“Keep telling yourself that. You might soon start to believe it.”
Frowning, she rubbed her hands on a dishcloth.
“By-the-bye, I have another piece of news I thought would interest you and that maid of yours.”
She faced Cheshire again. He had begun to vanish, leaving his bulbous head floating over the pots. A moment later, one disconnected paw appeared in front of Cath’s face with a sharp claw punctured through a piece of weathered parchment. A poster.
She snagged the paper away and smoothed it on the baker’s table. She sniffed. “Believe it or not, Cheshire, I was already aware of the upcoming Turtle Days Festival.”
“But have you seen the schedule of events?”
She scanned the list, from the dreaded lobster quadrille to a battledore tournament to eight-legged races to …
She gasped. “A baking contest?”
“The first annual.” Cheshire’s paw vanished again to, Cath guessed, reconnect with the rest of his invisible body. “Please tell me you’ll make a tuna tart for the contest. Please, please, please.”
“Do you know what the prizes are?”
“First place wins a blue ribbon.”
“Is that all?”
“Is that all? Ribbons are lovely, you know. Not quite as nice as a ball of yarn, but nothing to snub.”
She gnawed at her lower lip.
“Oh—I suppose there was something about a purse. Twenty gold crowns, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Twenty!” Her heart sped up.
With twenty gold crowns in her possession, she wouldn’t have to sell her dowry. She wouldn’t need a loan or permission from her parents …
The recognition alone would be worthwhile. A big blue ribbon hanging in the bakery’s front window, and a plaque—
GRAND WINNER
OF THE FIRST ANNUAL
TURTLE DAYS BAKE-OFF
“I, for one, am devastated that I wasn’t invited to be a judge.”
“Maybe if you didn’t keep requesting tuna tarts.” She folded the poster and tucked it into her dress pocket. “I wonder what I’ll make. Maybe an apple pie or a berry trifle or … oh! I know. I’ll make something with pumpkin. They’re so trendy these days, and just the right season for it.” She tapped a finger against her lip. “Who are the judges?”
“Let me think. Jack was one, I seem to recall.”
“Ugh, not the Knave. He hates me.”
Cheshire’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”
“He tells me every time he sees me.”
The cat made a vague noise in his throat, and Cath wondered how he could, having no throat at the moment. “If you say so. Also judging are the Duke of Tuskany and that shoemaker, Mr. Caterpillar.”
“That old curmudgeon? It’s amazing he can taste anything the way he smokes that hookah all the time.”
“Be that as it may. Who else? Oh, a representative of the turtles, of course. Some friend of Haigha’s and the Gryphon. You may have met him at the party?”
“I did. Sweet young turtle. I quite liked him, and he was fond of my macarons.”
“And the last judge, in a lucky twist, is already one of your biggest fans.”
“Oh?”
“In fact, he may be your biggest fan. Well … he may actually be one of your smallest fans, but let us not hold that against his superior judgment skills.”
Her enthusiasm began to wilt. “No.”
“Yes.”
Cath wilted. Of course it would be the King. Of course it would be the one person she was most determined to avoid.
CHAPTER 24
“I DO NOT WANT to be here,” Mary Ann whispered as the footman helped them from the carriage.
Cath’s gaze swept to the top of the black iron gate before them, all curled bars and jagged-teeth finials. Jack-O’-Lanterns were staked along the top of the gate, their grotesquely carved faces staring down at the road, strings of their internal pulp stuck to the bars underneath.
On the opposite side of the gate, acres of dark mud were spotted with vines and leaves and gourds—most were goldish-orange, but others were ghost-white or yellow-green or speckled with crimson. There were pumpkins as small as Catherine’s ear and some the size of the carriage. There were smooth pumpkins and warted pumpkins, fat pumpkins and narrow, caved-in pumpkins that lay like beached whales in the mud. Fog had rolled in from the nearby forest, covering the ground in misty gray. Though Catherine was wearing her heaviest shawl, she felt chilled to the bone as she looked out onto the gloomy patch.
“I’m beginning to have second thoughts myself,” she confessed.
“Let’s leave,” Mary Ann prodded, latching on to Catherine’s doubts with renewed enthusiasm. “We’ll get pumpkins at the market like everyone else. They’ll probably be more cost effective anyway. Or, better yet, let’s not make a pumpkin dessert at all. Why not something with peaches? Everyone likes peaches.”
“Pumpkins are seasonal right now and seasonal desserts are always best. And they do say that Sir Peter’s sugar pie pumpkins are the sweetest in the kingdom.”
“Fine, but—why not currants? Currants are seasonal. Or apples? You make a fine apple crumble…”
Catherine chewed on her lower lip. “I d
o make a fine apple crumble,” she agreed. Sighed. Roughly shook her head. “We’re being silly. We’re here, and I’ve already chosen a recipe, and we might as well get this over with. He’s a farmer, isn’t he? He’ll be glad for our business.”
“Are you sure? It’s not very welcoming.” Mary Ann eyed the piked Jack-O’-Lanterns. “In fact, he could really use a business adviser.”
“Too bad your expertise is already spoken for. Come on, we’ll be in and out in the flutter of a hummingbird’s wing.” Cath inched closer to the gate. She could see a small cottage situated to the north side of the patch, with a curl of smoke coming out of the chimney and firelight flickering through the windows. “They seem to be home.”
The gate squeaked on its reluctant hinges as she pushed it open.
“Oh, fine,” Mary Ann muttered. “Wait one moment while I grab my bonnet.” She rushed back to the carriage.
Knotting her hands together, Catherine stepped onto the path that bordered the pumpkin patch. She inhaled the smell of fresh-churned dirt and growing things, but beneath the freshness was also something akin to mold and rot. She grimaced. It was impossible to imagine anything pleasant coming from this land, but the rumors about Peter’s famed pumpkins were unmistakable.
Great baking began with exceptional ingredients. And she needed to win this contest.
“I feel like we’re trespassing,” Mary Ann said, shutting the gate behind them.
Cath turned, about to agree, but stopped short. Mary Ann’s bonnet was one she’d never seen before. Simple but beautiful, made of crisp blue-dyed muslin that matched Mary Ann’s eyes. It was tied with a sunflower-yellow ribbon.
“You have a new bonnet.”
“Yes, I bought it yesterday. At Hatta’s Marvelous Millinery.” Mary Ann looped the ribbons into a bow.
Cath’s eyes widened. “You didn’t!” she said, trying to imagine Mary Ann browsing through the shop where she’d drank tea and stood on the table and cowered from a monster attack.
“What?” said Mary Ann, grinning cheekily. “I simply had to see it after you told me about the tea party. Besides, it’s hardly your secret to keep. All the town’s gossip has been about the extraordinary new hat shop. Now there’s a man who knows how to market to his customers. What do you think?”
“It’s … lovely,” Cath answered. “You’re lovely in it.”
Mary Ann shrugged modestly. “It’s by no means the most elaborate piece that was on display, but the moment I saw it I felt like it was just right. Wearing it makes me feel almost…” She hesitated a long moment. Too long.
“What?” Cath prodded.
Mary Ann looked away. “Whimsical,” she murmured.
It took Catherine a moment to realize her friend was blushing.
Mary Ann never blushed.
“Whimsical,” Cath repeated.
“It’s silly, I know. But you’re always dreaming of roses and lemon trees, and the Marquess has such a grand imagination when it comes to the stories he tells, and even Cheshire is passionate over tuna and cream. Whereas, to me, life is all numbers and logic. Profit and loss. Practical and safe. I thought it might be nice to let myself just … dream. For once.” She fidgeted with a yellow ribbon. “With this hat, it seems possible. Why”—her eyes brightened—“this morning, I even had a fantasy that I’d single-handedly balanced the budget for the royal treasury, and all of Hearts saw me as a hero.”
Cath shook her head, baffled. “Had some villain knocked the budgie off balance?”
“Never mind that. It was the hero part that was important. All my life, I never dreamed I could be anything but a maid, just plain old me.”
“Oh, Mary Ann.” Cath pulled her into an embrace. “I never knew you felt that way. I would share all my dreams with you if I could.”
“I know, Cath. And you do. You share the most important dream with me … our dream.”
Cath smiled. “Yes, and this is the beginning of it. These pumpkins, this baking contest, and those twenty gold crowns. Of course, I’ll need my brilliant business partner to tell me what to do with those crowns once we have them. I would be sure to make horrible decisions if left to my own devices.”
“You would,” said Mary Ann, without apology. “But have no fear. The bonnet doesn’t seem to affect my head for basic mathematics.”
“Good. Then let’s go find the best pumpkins in this patch, shall we?”
They picked their way toward the cottage, their boots squishing into the ankle-deep mud. To their right, they passed a picket fence—or what had once been a picket fence—though now it looked more like a series of uneven, half-rotted wooden boards with crackled, peeling paint. It surrounded a smaller patch, set off from the farm’s main acreage, bearing signs of recent destruction and still smelling of smoke. Charred vines piled on top of one another, blackened stumps that may have once been pumpkins, blistered paint where flame had touched the fence boards. This corner of the patch looked abandoned.
The dirt path turned to loose gravel and weeds as they approached the cottage. Their footsteps crunched in the eerie quiet.
Cath plastered on a friendly smile and knocked on the door. They waited, their shoulders pressed together for warmth, but the only noise inside was the pop and crackle of a lonely fireplace. Catherine knocked again, harder, but was met with more silence.
After a third knock, she began to wonder if Peter Peter and his wife weren’t home after all. She took a step back and searched the windows, but they were hung with a mesh of pumpkin vines.
“I suppose they’re not home,” Mary Ann said, sagging with relief.
Catherine scanned the patch. The pumpkins were like baubles disappearing into the fog. She had half a mind to grab a few and run.
“Do you hear that?” said Mary Ann.
Catherine cocked her head and listened. A faint noise—sawing, she thought, the back-and-forth grate of teeth ripping through wood.
“Let’s go see.” She ducked away from the cottage door.
“Must we?” Mary Ann whined, but she followed Cath anyhow, through a tangle of vines that had overgrown their row and crossed over the mud-squelching path.
Rounding to the back of the cottage, Cath spotted a pair of lanterns flickering off the limbs of the encroaching forest, silhouetting the shells of two enormous pumpkins.
They were the biggest pumpkins she’d ever seen. Their severed stems were the width of tree trunks and their orange flesh reached the same height as the cottage’s roof. The pumpkin farthest from them had even been carved to look like a building of sorts, with tiny square windows cut from its flesh and an iron pipe sticking out through the ceiling that could have been a chimney.
Peter Peter was standing on a rickety ladder against the second pumpkin, pushing a saw back and forth through its shell. He was dressed in filthy overalls and sweating, every muscle straining as he pushed the saw in and out, out and in. Watery orange liquid oozed from the cut and dripped down the pumpkin’s side.
Afraid to startle him, Catherine and Mary Ann waited until he’d finished the cut. Hanging the saw from a hook on the ladder, he pushed at the pumpkin’s shell, forcing a tall, thin piece of flesh into the gourd. It left a window barely wider than Catherine’s hand. Inside she could see the stringy guts and seeds dangling from the pumpkin’s ceiling. The smell of fresh-cut squash rolled over them.
Covering her mouth, Catherine coughed.
Peter turned so fast he nearly slipped off the ladder, but caught himself on a vine that hung down the pumpkin’s side.
“What’re you doing here?” he barked.
“Good day, Sir Peter,” said Catherine, curtsying. “We’re so sorry to bother you, but I was hoping I might be able to purchase some of your famed sugar pie pumpkins. I’m entering the baking contest at tomorrow’s Turtle Days Festival and I have my heart set on making a spiced pumpkin cake.”
Peter glared at them and Cath had the horrible vision of him sawing them both into pieces.
She shuddered. Ma
ry Ann glanced sideways at her, and Catherine brightened her smile to hide the horrifying thoughts in her head.
Grabbing the saw, Peter scrambled so fast to the ground Catherine was surprised he didn’t send the ladder flopping into the mud. His eyes darted between them with a discomforting intensity, a barely restrained madness. Catherine and Mary Ann both drew startled steps backward.
“I didn’t ask you here! You’re not welcome, and I’m not about to do business with entitled, condescending trollops like you, what think you’re better than me, no matter I been knighted by the King himself, right as anyone. You want a sugar pie pumpkin, you can grow it yourself, get your own pretty hands all dirtied up for once.”
Heart hammering, Catherine stumbled back another step, pulling Mary Ann with her. Her eyes kept darting to the saw and its rusted teeth.
“I … I’ll beg of you,” Mary Ann stammered, looking almost bricky with her newfound heroism, “not to speak of m-my lady in such a—”
Catherine tightened her grip on Mary Ann’s elbow, silencing her. Mary Ann seemed relieved to be silenced. “I am sorry to have intruded on your privacy, sir, but if I’ve shown less than a tablespoon of respect for you, it’s because of the shameful attitude with which you conduct yourself.” Though her legs felt weak, Catherine held her ground, refusing to be cowed by ill manners. “I was under the impression that this pumpkin patch was open for business and if you’ll behave with decency, I do wish to be a patron of yours.”
Peter bared his teeth at her, which did cow her somewhat.
“I—I don’t wish to take up too much of your time, but I am willing to pay your price if you’ll just show me where the sugar pie pumpkins are. We could harvest our own—”
She was cut off by a loud thump. She jumped and glanced past Peter, to the pumpkin already carved with slitted windows. The thump was followed by scratching, nails carving into rotting wood. The sound reminded her of Cheshire sharpening his claws on her mother’s finest upholstery.
Beside her, Mary Ann squeaked.
“What was that?” Cath asked.
“What’s what?” Peter said, though Cath was certain he must have heard it too. His question was followed by a breathy snort from the pumpkin shell, like a horse struggling against its bit.