“Is there something…?” Catherine took a step toward the pumpkin, but Peter put himself in her path. He was as big and unmovable as a boulder.
“Were my uneducated words not clear enough for all your fancy learning?” he said. “I do believe I told you to get off my land.”
“But—”
“Catherine.” Mary Ann tugged at her elbow. “He doesn’t want our business. Let’s just go.”
Cath ground her teeth, meeting Peter’s glare with one of her own, part of her wanting to shake off Mary Ann and slap this man for his crude behavior, the other part of her grateful for Mary Ann’s intrusion and a reason to leave.
She glanced once more at the large pumpkin, which had fallen silent. She allowed the tiniest of respectful nods. “I’m sorry to have bothered you. Please give Lady Peter my regards.”
“I’ll give her no such thing,” he growled, but Catherine pretended not to hear him as she and Mary Ann began picking their way back along the gravel path, pebbles and beetles scattering in their wake.
It was not until they had turned the cottage corner again that Mary Ann let out a strained breath. She took to tying knots into her new bonnet’s yellow ribbons. “That’s the last time I let you drag me here,” she said. “The very last time.”
“That won’t be a problem. What a horrible, horrible man. And that strange noise—what could it have been?”
“An animal of some sort, I’d guess,” said Mary Ann, shaking her head. “With those windows cut into it, the pumpkin reminded me of a cage. But why would anyone keep a pet inside a giant pumpkin?”
They passed by the scorched picket fence and Cath’s eye caught on a spot of orange amid the wreckage. She came to a halt.
Mary Ann turned back. “What?”
“I think I saw…” She hesitated. “Wait here.”
The fence was short enough that she could climb over it when she lifted her skirts.
“Cath!” Mary Ann glanced back toward the cottage. “What are you doing?”
“One moment.” She picked her way through the squishing mud and scattered ashes, the coils of burnt vines. A pile of brush was in the corner, vines and leaves hacked to pieces. They all but crumbled in her hand as she pushed them to the side, uncovering the small orange pumpkin that had caught her eye.
A sugar pie pumpkin, with bright, unblemished skin and not a wart in sight. It was a beautiful, dazzling survivor amid the destruction.
Beaming, she dug the kitchen knife from her boot—she’d come prepared to harvest her own in case Peter proved less than helpful—and hacked away the sturdy green vine that tethered the pumpkin to its smashed kindred.
Cradling the dirt-smudged pumpkin against her dress, Catherine picked her way back through the ashes and hauled herself over the fence.
“Are you mad?” Mary Ann asked. “He’ll kill us if he notices it missing.”
“He won’t notice. This patch was obviously meant to be destroyed. And look.” She held the pumpkin up in the dim light breaking through the fog. “It’s perfe—ow!” Something hard and sharp jabbed her through the thin sole of her boot. “What was that?”
Mary Ann leaned over, bracing herself on her knees, and picked something out of the mud with a slurp. Whatever Cath had stepped on, it was small, small enough to fit into Mary Ann’s palm.
She held it aloft. “A … pony?”
Cath inched closer, trying to keep the weight off her throbbing foot. Her eyes widened. The tiny pony was run through with a metal peg, hints of gold paint visible beneath the filth. “A carousel pony,” she murmured, unable to meet Mary Ann’s eye. For she recognized it, sure as salt.
It was from the Lion’s carousel hat, the one he’d been wearing the night of the Hatter’s tea party. The one he’d been wearing when the Jabberwock had carried him into the night.
CHAPTER 25
CATHERINE AWOKE THE MORNING of the festival with dried cake batter under her nails and a smear of frosting discovered behind one ear. It had been well after midnight by the time her spiced pumpkin cake had cooled enough to be frosted.
Though she was anxious about the contest, she wasn’t afraid. She and Mary Ann had done a test run with a pumpkin from the market, and that first cake had been exactly what she’d hoped it would be—moist and rich, with hints of nutmeg and brown sugar mixed together with sweet roasted pumpkin that melted lusciously in the mouth, all layered with velvety, decadent cream cheese frosting and—on a whim—she had topped it off with shreds of toasted coconut, adding a hint of crunch and extra sweetness.
She’d been pleased with the trial cake and, after making a few minor adjustments, she was confident that the final product would be even more extraordinary.
Catherine could not wait to see the judges’ faces when they tried it. Even the King’s.
She didn’t have to wear a formal gown, as the festival took place on the sandy, rocky beach and she would most likely be cold and wet by the end of it. But as her family was hosting the annual celebration, she was still expected to don a corset and a full-skirted wool dress that her mother picked out, emerald green and showing more décolletage than she would have liked. She did her best to hide it with a crocheted lace wrap that clung to her neck and shoulders, fastened with an amber medallion. When Catherine saw her reflection, she couldn’t help but think of Jest, and how the amber brooch was almost the same color as his eyes.
The festival was well underway when Catherine and her parents arrived. Their carriage stopped at the top of the white cliffs, with the festival laid out on the shore below. Enormous tents cluttered the beach, their canvas walls painted in harlequin diamonds and stripes and plaids, their pennant flags snapping in the wind. Within the tents were pottery and paintings, pearl necklaces and windup toys, crocheted stockings and hand-stitched books that would forever have pages curled from the salty air.
From atop the cliffs she spied the beluga whale a cappella quartet harmonizing on the beach, and a sizeable crowd awaiting the start of the first seahorse race, and an octopus face-painter industriously painting eight faces at once. Then there were the tents that held Catherine’s favorite part of the festival: carnival food. She could already smell the oil and garlic and applewood smoke. Her stomach rumbled. She’d intentionally skipped breakfast in anticipation of her most beloved festival treats—a savory meat pie, cinnamon-roasted pecans, and a soft sticky bun, the type that melted on her tongue and coated her lips in honey and crushed walnuts.
It was a treacherous climb down the steps that led to the beach, made more so as Catherine kept scanning the crowds below rather than keeping her focus on the path. Her eye skipped over the lobsters and crabs and starfish and walruses and dodo birds and flamingos and frogs and salamanders and pigeons. She was looking only at the people. She was looking for a black tunic and a tri-pointed jester’s hat. She was listening for the telltale jingle of tiny bells. She was expecting a crowd circled around a performer, mesmerized and awed by some breathtaking spectacle.
But she reached the sandy shore without seeing any sign of Jest. In fact, she had not seen the King, either. Perhaps they would arrive together.
The Marquess and Marchioness wandered off to greet their high-society guests, leaving Catherine to explore the tents. She bought her meat pie first, hoping it would settle some of her nerves. Success—the moment she broke apart the flaky crust and breathed in the cloud of seasoned steam, she did feel calmer. A euphoric, drool-inducing calm.
It was a brisk, gray day on the beach, the wind catching at her shawl, but none of the creatures of Hearts seemed anything but jolly. The Marchioness had been a bundle of fears the day before. Word had spread fast after Catherine had told Cheshire about finding the pony from the Lion’s hat, and a search party was sent to scour the areas surrounding the farm for any more signs of the Lion or the Jabberwock, but they’d found nothing. A theory was posed that the Jabberwock might be sheltering itself inside the Nowhere Forest, and the pony had fallen as the monster carried the Lion over the pum
pkin patch.
With tales of the Jabberwock renewed, the Marchioness had worried that people would stay locked up in their homes during the festival, but her concerns seemed unfounded. The crowd bustled and thrived. Catherine smiled her way through the familiar faces, but her mind was distracted, her eyes always searching for the one person she wanted to see.
None of the usual jewels and baubles held any interest to her, though her purse was jangling with coins her father had spared her that morning. Even the spice shop, with its exotic aromas and unusual ingredients, did not capture her enthusiasm as it usually did.
Wishing for a distraction, she headed for the largest tent, where the contest would be held. Mary Ann had brought the cake with her when she and the other servants had come to finish last-minute preparations, and Catherine hadn’t seen her creation since the night before.
In the grandstand tent, the chairs were empty but for a few geese resting their wings after the long migration to make it to the festival on time. Catherine passed through the rows and up to the case that held the entries, and there, on the second shelf, three desserts from the left, sat her spiced pumpkin cake, the icing scalloped on the sides and woven like a basket on top. A tiny white ghost pumpkin was settled into the snowdrifts of toasted coconut—Mary Ann’s idea.
She scanned their competition. It was mostly an assortment of fruit pies, a chocolate torte, two dessert puddings, and a small cake with EAT ME spelled out in currants on top. None were so pretty as hers, but that meant nothing for their taste.
“I believe in you, little cake,” she whispered to her creation. “I believe you’re the best.” She hesitated. “I believe we’re the best.”
Feeling more anxious than comforted, she hurried from the tent. She had just turned down the main row of shops, her sweet tooth awakened and dreaming of those cinnamon-roasted nuts, when someone grabbed the brim of her bonnet and pulled it off her head. The ribbon caught on her chin and it fell, hanging down her back.
She spun around as another, heavier hat was placed on her head.
Hatta stepped back and crossed his arms, looking not at her but at the hat now atop her head. He looked too refined for the damp, dirty surroundings, done up in a formal-cut navy suit and an orange-and-purple-striped waistcoat. His white hair peeked out from a matching orange-and-purple top hat. A candy stick dangled from his thoughtfully down-turned mouth.
“Hello again,” said Cath.
He tipped his hat to her, swirling the candy stick around to the other side of his lips. “Milady.”
Catherine reached up for the wide brim of the hat he had set on her head, but he stopped her. “Ah-ah,” he said, taking hold of her hand and sweeping her up the steps. “There’s a mirror back here.”
She realized with a start that she was in the Hatter’s shop, the same rickety traveling wagon she’d seen in the forest, with the hand-lettered sign over the door: HATTA’S MARVELOUS MILLINERY. She couldn’t imagine how she hadn’t spotted it earlier among the tents.
One window, she noticed, was still broken from the Jabberwock’s attack, now boarded over with uneven planks and iron nails.
Like before, the shop was larger on the inside than the out, but now the long table and mismatched chairs were gone, replaced with an assortment of display cases and hat stands and mannequin heads, two of which were having a discussion about fashionable cameo necklaces. The collection of hats had multiplied. There were top hats with ear holes cut out for bunny rabbits. There were waterproof hats for dolphins and sunbathing hats for lizards and acorn-stashing hats for squirrels. There were veils made from ostrich feathers and modest bonnets encrusted in rhinestones and one netted hat that would have draped over a person’s body like an enormous birdcage.
Beyond the bizarre and unexpected, there were also simple things, lovely things. Dainty coronets done up in gold and pearls. Wide-brimmed garden hats covered in soft moss and chiming bluebells. Silk headdresses ornamented with intricately spun spiderwebs.
As Catherine passed, admiring them all, Hatta reached for the tie of her bonnet and pulled it off her neck. She spotted a standing mirror in the corner, shining with the light of a lantern on the wall.
Crossing the room, she stood before the mirror and promptly started to laugh.
The Hatter had made for her a replica of a rose macaron. Two meringue cookies were made from cream-colored muslin and speckled with pink sparkles, and the sweet buttercream filling was constructed from layer upon layer of gathered lace.
It was ridiculous and unflattering in every way. Cath loved it immediately.
“Good heavens, Hatta. And here I thought you didn’t like me.”
“My gifts by their nature do not equal affection, milady.” In the mirror, she saw him scowl. “Rather, let us say that I was inspired by your performance.”
She turned to face him. “So you don’t like me?”
“I like you well enough.” His purple eyes glinted. “I like you better when you’re wearing one of my hats. What do you think?”
She looked at her reflection and couldn’t help but laugh again. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever worn before.” Reaching up, she squeezed the bottom cookie and found that it was soft and squishable. “I’m quite fond of it, actually.”
“Good. It’s yours.”
“No, no, I couldn’t—” She pulled the hat off her head, surprised at how light it was, despite its girth.
Hatta scoffed. “I said it’s yours, so it’s yours. You can’t give it back once it’s been given. Now put it back on before your head gets cold. I hate to see bare heads.”
“If you insist.” She resisted a smile as she settled the macaron hat back onto her head. Remembering the coins in her purse, she asked, “Can I at least pay you for it?”
“Now you’re just being rude. Consider it an apology, Lady Pinkerton, for the way my humble gala ended in such terror. I usually seek to send my guests home without first endangering their lives.”
“Surely the attack was not your fault.”
He held her gaze a long moment, before replying, “I am glad to see that you made it home safely, Lady Pinkerton.”
“As I did. Thank you for the gift, Hatta. It will be cherished.” She glanced at the mirror one more time. It was impossible not to grin. “There has been a lot of talk about your creations lately. It seems you’re earning a grand reputation.”
“Reputations are fickle. Profits are not.”
She smirked. “That’s something my maid would say.” Cath turned to face him. “It’s an impressive feat, is all I meant, to become so popular so quickly. Your hats are marvelous indeed.”
“I appreciate the compliment. I daresay Hearts was without a proper hatter for far too long.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Cath glanced around at the hats and headdresses that lined the walls. A rainbow of colors, a kaleidoscope of styles, a jamboree of textures. Every one of them seemed half magical. “I vaguely recall one other fine hatter, years ago, when I was just a child. My mother purchased from him regularly. I wonder whatever became of him.”
“He went mad,” said Hatta, with hardly a pause. “Then he killed himself. With a brim tolliker if my memory serves.”
She turned back to gape at him. Hatta was watching her, but his expression was unreadable.
“Haven’t you ever heard the saying, ‘mad as a hatter’?” he asked. “It’s an unfortunate family trait, one that’s been passed down for generations.”
Her lips pursed into a surprised O, but Cath couldn’t form a question or an apology, though both lingered on her tongue.
Finally, Hatta tsked her. “Don’t stand there looking so tragic, love. My father, and his father, and so many fathers back that one could never count them all. Every one a fine, gentlemanly hatter, and every one mad as march. But”—his mouth curved into a sly smile—“I know a secret they didn’t know, so perhaps my fate isn’t as hopeless.”
Cath forced her mouth shut. Now that he had reminded her of the story, she
could recall the tale of the hatter who had killed himself so many years ago. Why—Hatta must have been just a boy. But, like all tragedies in Hearts, it had been hushed and swept away, never to be spoken of again.
Her confusion increased when she thought of Jest’s tale. She had assumed Hatta was from Chess too, but how could he be from Chess and Hearts both?
“May I know the secret?” she asked.
He looked appalled to have been asked. “You do know that telling a secret destroys its secrecy, don’t you?”
“I figured as much.” She wondered, faintly, if there really was a secret at all, or if telling himself so was a part of his inherited madness.
Was he mad already? She couldn’t help inspecting him, newly speculative and curious. He didn’t seem mad. No more mad than anyone else she knew. No more mad than she was herself.
They were all a little mad, if one was to be forthright.
“Well,” she said, trying to push her thoughts back toward civilized conversation, “I’m glad to see your hat shop doing so well. I’m wishing the best for you.”
“Wishes have value, Lady Pinkerton. You have my gratitude.” He tipped his hat toward her. “If it isn’t presumptuous of me, might I suggest wearing the macaron during the baking contest? I trust you’re a participant.”
“Oh—I am, actually.”
“Good.” He leaned closer. “Have you ever noticed how attraction is a subjective thing, difficult to capture in headwear, but charisma, now, that is more universal. I think I’ve accomplished something spectacular. One might even say you look irresistible right now, not unlike the treat that inspired the hat.” He winked, though Cath wasn’t sure what the wink meant.
“I’m not sure I had noticed that,” she confessed.
He shrugged. “Others will, I assure you.”
His statement was punctuated by a trumpet blaring from the beach, reminding Cath that she was still at her family’s festival, and she still had the role of the Marquess’s daughter to play.