Heartless

  Catherine squeezed the arm of her seat, her body still rotated to face Jest. Mary Ann watched from the corner, pretending to be invisible. “To be honest, it wasn’t my favorite of the letters you sent. After all, I’m a lady, not a dessert.”

  Jest’s cheek twitched. Cath didn’t bother to look at the King.

  “In fact,” she continued, “poetry and gifts may have their place, but I find I’m more keen on those acts of courtship that retain an element of foolishness, and hint at impossibilities.”

  A silence descended over their private booth. Jest’s lips thinned. He stared back at her and squeezed his scepter. His eyes filled with quiet despair.

  She’d said too much, and even if she’d said nothing at all, surely the truth of her emotions was scrawled across her face.

  “My sweet,” the King whispered. She grimaced and braced herself for what must be the end of this night, this nonexistent romance. She dared to face him, ready to accept his decision to call off their courtship. But she did not see a crushed spirit or annoyance or even confusion. She saw only joy in the King’s eyes.

  He took her hand. She jumped, her back stiffening.

  “I feel the same way,” he said, and looked as if he would cry. Her hand was a limp fish in his grip, but he held it like a precious gem.

  “Er—Your Majesty—”

  Behind them, Jest yanked off his jester’s cap. The bells jingled. “I realize I haven’t yet offered my congratulations on your engagement,” he said, bowing. “You seem a most perfect match, and I wish you both the joy of a most contented heart.”

  Catherine tried to shake her head, her emotions in tatters.

  The chandeliers dimmed and Jest settled his hat back on his head. “Enjoy the show. Your Majesty. Lady Pinkerton.” He turned to the back row. “Miss Mary Ann.”

  Cath squeezed the arm of her chair and tried to convey to him how much she wanted him to stay, how she would give anything to be at his side, not the King’s.

  Jest tore his gaze away and swept from the theater box, Raven still perched on his scepter.

  Miserable, she turned back to face the stage. Her hand was cold, but the King’s was hot and damp. He didn’t let go. She could catch glimpses of his pleased mug in the corner of her vision.

  The curtain began to rise. An orchestra blared and the first act tumbled out onto the stage. The audience cheered, the King loudest of all.

  CHAPTER 33

  CATHERINE WAS WEARY, in her head, in her limbs, down to the toes pinched inside her finest boots. Her head was full of fantasies of going home and crawling beneath her covers and not coming out again until she’d achieved the longest sleep of her life. The wish was so powerful she wanted to weep from longing.

  She could tell the performance was commendable, judging by the frequent gasps and cheers from the audience, but she could barely keep her stinging eyes open enough to enjoy the show, and the storyline muddled in her head by the second scene.

  It was only when a fool appeared on the stage that she willed herself to pay attention. But it wasn’t Jest, only an actor, done up in familiar black motley, doing cartwheels across the stage and spouting bawdy jokes that left the audience in hysterics. He poked fun of the King, he peeked up the skirts of the passing actresses, he wagged his hat until the jingle of the bells was all Cath could hear inside her head.

  As the crowd broke into another bout of laughter, Cath launched to her feet. “I need to use the powder room.”

  The King took no notice as she inched past, too enthralled with the fake joker, but Mary Ann started to rise to come with her. Cath gestured for her to stay. “I’m fine. I’ll be right back.”

  The stairs into the lobby echoed with her footsteps as she rushed down to the main level, gripping the banister to keep from tripping on her skirt. Only once her feet had hit the final step and she’d spun around the rail did she hear Jest’s rumbling voice—followed by the higher-pitched, snooty tone of Margaret Mearle.

  Catherine reeled back, ducking behind a pillar.

  “—about as pigheaded as they come!” Margaret was saying.

  “An apt description,” agreed Jest, though he sounded tired, “but stubbornness is not always a flaw, particularly in matters of love.”

  Margaret guffawed. “Love?”

  “Indeed, love, or so it seems from my perspective. You ought to see how his eyes follow you around a room. Small and beady they might be, but they overflow with affection, nevertheless.” Jest cleared his throat. “The moral of that, of course, is that ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder.’”

  “I’ve never heard such a moral, and as I’m sure you’re well aware, I am most knowledgeable in the matter of morals.”

  “I think I read it in a book.”

  “Well.” There was a long hesitation. “It is a decent sort of moral, I suppose.”

  “There was another too. Something about the depth of skin … not as apropos, I fear.”

  “He is both thick-skinned and thick-headed.”

  “Two of the Duke’s finer qualities. I might also add that he’s an impeccable dresser.”

  Margaret hummed, unconvinced.

  “And brave,” Jest added, “as showcased when he stood between you and the Jabberwock at the ball. And also loyal and compassionate, even to his servants—I hear he refuses to let go of his cook, though I’m told she’s quite dreadful.”

  “But I don’t understand it. He’s always been so rude toward me. I’ve never felt so judged in all my life than when I’m in his presence, with that snooty look he gives everyone, and the way his nose turns up.”

  “Could it be, Lady Mearle, that you’ve judged him unfairly? What you call rudeness might be nothing more than his inability to speak easily with a girl he admires.”

  “Do you really believe he feels this way?”

  “He told me so himself, Lady Mearle. What reason would I have for leading you astray?”

  “It just seems so … so sudden.”

  “I assure you it’s been brewing for longer than you realize. Here, he asked that I give you this.”

  Catherine heard the crinkle of parchment.

  “What is it?”

  “An invitation to join him in his theater box tonight, if you’d care to, along with your chaperone, of course. He said he would leave a seat available, in hopes you might accept the invitation.”

  Margaret let out a delighted oh. The paper crisped some more. “I … well. I suppose it couldn’t hurt … just for an evening … after all, I am not the sort of lady to dally about indecisively when faced with a man’s well-intentioned admiration.”

  “I wouldn’t dare suggest such a thing, Lady Mearle. I hope you’ll enjoy the rest of the performance.”

  Catherine pressed herself to the pillar, inching around to its far side as she heard Margaret’s footsteps approaching. She ducked beneath the stair’s banister as Margaret floated past, and was just letting out a breath when a flurry of feathers assaulted her face and a caw blared in her ears. Catherine stumbled away from the pillar, flattening herself against the wall and beating at the ferocious bird.

  Raven twisted away and flew upward to alight on the sculptured bust of a stern-looking playwright.

  “Raven!” Jest scolded. “That wasn’t nice at all.”

  “No, no, I’m sure I deserved it,” said Cath, trying to smooth back her hair. “I shouldn’t have been eavesdropping.”

  Raven turned his head away, his beak stuck into the air, and it became clear that he now shared Hatta’s low opinion of her. She was, after all, the charlatan who had played Jest for a fool while being courted by the King.

  “Regardless, you didn’t need to frighten her, Raven. You should apologize.”

  “Nevermore!” said the Raven.

  “Raven!”

  “It’s all right. I’m the one who’s sorry, for sneaking around so.”

  Cath stepped around the staircase and saw Jest leaning against a wall, holding his hat in one hand and the ebony sce
pter in the other. Half his hair was matted to his head and he looked like a vagabond who had claimed the theater for his own. If it weren’t for the thumping drumbeat coming through the closed doors, the place would have felt abandoned but for them.

  “Thank you for what you said to Margaret just now,” she said. “You didn’t have to help me.”

  He tugged the hat back on. “Let us imagine I did it not for you, but for true love.” He shrugged. The gesture wasn’t as nonchalant as she thought he intended it to be. “I had the honor of speaking to His Grace at the tea party—the King’s tea party—and I believe he cares a great deal for Lady Mearle.” His eyes narrowed as he glanced up the staircase where she had gone. “I’m not entirely sure why.”

  “It baffles me as well. But … what do you think will happen when she finds out the things you said weren’t true? I think your intentions are commendable, but it might do more harm than good.”

  Jest cocked his head. “What makes you think I said anything that wasn’t true?”

  “Well, only that the Duke…” She hesitated. Brave. Loyal. Always impeccably dressed, though it was sometimes difficult to tell with his girth and awkwardness. Her brow knit together. “Would you believe I’ve known him nearly all my life? How is it possible that you have somehow come to know him better, so quickly?”

  He turned his focus down to the scepter, idly rubbing his fingers along the polished-smooth orb. “You should go back to your seat, Lady Pinkerton. Go back to your beau.”

  “Please don’t call him that.”

  “What shall I call him?”

  “Just the King, if you would.”

  He wouldn’t look at her. Though they stood a mere dozen paces away, it felt like miles and miles.

  “Nothing has gone as I thought it would,” he said, and she wondered whether he was speaking to her or himself, or even to Raven. “I thought this would all be much, much easier.”

  “Your mission?” she ventured, dropping her voice. “From the White Queen?”

  Raven let out a surprised squawk, but Jest ignored him. Ignored her question too. “His Majesty is going to propose soon, you know. I almost expect him to do it tonight.”

  Grimacing, Cath glanced back up to the first tier, glad she wasn’t up in that dark box, pretending to be enjoying herself. Waiting for the King to ask for her hand.

  “If you’re asking me whether or not my feelings have changed,” she said, “they haven’t.”

  “No, that much is clear.” Jest scratched beneath the brim of his hat. “I’m sorry if I’ve been cold to you tonight. Even knowing you don’t fancy him like that, seeing you with him makes me uncannily jealous.”

  Her heart skipped. “Does it?”

  His expression turned wry as he finally looked at her. “That cannot possibly surprise you.”

  She tried not to sway too much from satisfaction.

  Raven let out a disgusted choking noise and flew up into one of the chandeliers. He started cleaning himself, as if soiled.

  “You should go back,” said Jest. “In case anyone should come out here. We wouldn’t want them.… It would seem…”

  Her lips twitched. It was such an unusual thing for him to be out of words.

  “You’re right,” she said, backing away from him. She drifted around the staircase banister, placed a hand on the rail, and looked up the long staircase. Her heart began to sink, like an anchor had been chained to it.

  Back to the King. Back to her beau.

  A cheer rumbled through the theater, drawing her attention to the closed doors.

  “Lady Pinkerton?” said Jest.

  She glanced back.

  “Have you decided what you will say once he asks?”

  Inside the theater, more cheers exploded, louder still. The Raven let out a shrill caw.

  “Do you think I could possibly say yes?” she asked, for in this moment, it seemed impossible to her.

  Jest was expressionless for a moment, before it turned to pain, the kohl creasing around his eyes. “I think you have to say yes,” he whispered, and it sounded like he was pleading with her, but the words sent an arrow into her heart.

  She took half a step toward him, but stopped again. “Why, Jest? Why do you keep doing this? You say you’re jealous, or mesmerized, or that I could be your reason to stay in Hearts, yet in the very next breath you encourage me to accept the King. I don’t understand you.”

  His expression was pained when he opened his mouth to speak again, but suddenly the building shook. Cath jolted, ducking at the distant crash of breaking glass.

  A door burst off its hinges on the second floor. A wave of heat flooded the lobby, along with the smell of smoke.

  Catherine reeled back but Jest was already beside her, catching her. She realized that what she’d thought were cheers were actually screams, and applause the stampede of feet.

  Through the sizzling door, a creature burst onto the lobby’s second level, all black skin and scales and dark, rabid eyes.

  Cath froze.

  It was the Jabberwock.

  CHAPTER 34

  A GREAT SHUDDER COURSED through Catherine as she stared at the enormous beast. Though it had terrified her in the glen outside Hatta’s shop, it had been too dark then to get a clear look at the beast. But now it towered over her, all claws and scales and rolling muscles. She could see the saliva clinging to its fangs. She could smell its rotted breath.

  “Cath, back away, slowly,” Jest whispered.

  The beast fixed its burning eyes on them and hissed. Catherine stumbled back and Jest shifted, putting himself between them. “Run.”

  She gripped the railing, but her body wouldn’t move. The Jabberwock crawled toward her on its massive limbs. Steam hissed from its nostrils.

  With a gurgle in its throat, the Jabberwock leaped forward, jaw unhinged. Catherine screamed. Jest braced himself.

  There was a screech and a storm of black feathers. A drop of ink fell from the sky—Raven, fast as a dart, plunged his beak into one of the monster’s ember eyes. The Jabberwock screeched and reared back on its hind legs. When it dropped back to the ground, the entire theater shook and Cath could see that one of the embers in its eyes had been extinguished. Charcoal-tinged blood leaked down the right side of its face.

  With another roar, it swiped its claws toward the sky, but Raven was already out of reach, beating his wings against the theater’s ceiling.

  “Now! Go!” Jest yelled, holding his scepter like a weapon. He leaped onto the stair’s balustrade and dashed toward the beast like running up a slanted tightrope. The scepter twirled. One leather boot pressed off a marble statue. He rolled in the air, landed on the back of the monster’s long neck, and grabbed one of the spindly whiskers that grew from its head as if he were gripping a leash. Jest yanked the monster’s head back. The Jabberwock screeched and bucked but Jest held firm.

  Cath trembled, still rooted to the stair.

  Raven darted again, aiming for the second eye, but the Jabberwock careened away, batting Raven back with a flailing claw.

  “Cath! Run!”

  She managed to tear her eyes away and spin around, but she had taken only a step when her toes caught on the voluminous fabric of her gown. Cath screamed and lurched, felt herself falling, crashing down the stairs in a tangle of satin and petticoats.

  Her ankle snapped.

  Her scream was lost in a torrent of shrieks and the thunder of footsteps. The lobby filled with guests fleeing the theater, surging down the staircase, lobbing themselves over the balcony rails, flooding toward the exit. Catherine curled into the pillow of her gown, her vision white with pain, and hoped not to be trampled.

  “Pinkerton?”

  She looked up through her cascade of tangled hair and spotted Jack a few feet away, his back pressed against the same pillar she’d hidden behind.

  “Jack! Help me—my ankle—I think it’s—” She swallowed back a sob.

  Nostrils flared, Jack took a step toward her, but was halted
by another piercing cry from the Jabberwock. He glanced up and paled. After a moment of indecision, he shook his head. “Not even you’re worth it, Lady Pinkerton!” he yelled, before turning on his heels and bolting toward the exit along with the rest of the stampeding crowd.

  “Jack! Come back here, you knave!”

  But he was gone, lost in the chaos.

  Locking her jaw, Catherine rolled onto her back, trying not to disturb her ankle. The sharp pain had turned to agony, but she didn’t see any blood.

  With stars sparking in the corners of her eyes, she dared to look up. Jest had his scepter hooked around the Jabberwock’s neck and Raven’s talons had left a series of claw marks between the beast’s leathery wings.

  Cath curled her fingers into her gown and thought of the stories she’d heard as a child. Fairy tales in which the beast was slain, its monstrous head cut clean from its shoulders like a gruesome trophy.

  “Off with its head,” she whispered to herself, tossing her gaze wildly around the lobby. There had to be a weapon—something sharper than Jest’s polished-wood scepter. “We have to chop off its head.”

  She had spoken so quietly she could barely hear her own words in the turmoil, yet at that moment, Raven landed on the stair’s railing and cocked his head, his fathomless eyes peering into her.

  Jest grunted, his face contorted with the effort to control the Jabberwock. The beast suddenly hurled itself upward. Jest lost his grip and slipped back, struck by the monster’s whipping tail.

  He flipped in the air, landing on his feet with only a slight stumble.

  The Jabberwock beat its great wings. All around the lobby, candle flames flickered and blew out.

  But one of the monster’s wings was off-kilter.

  It was wounded.

  Raven tore his focus from Catherine and soared upward, targeting the monster’s remaining eye. With a snap of its jaws, the Jabberwock caught a tail feather in its mouth. Raven retreated with a cry.

  The Jabberwock warbled in the air. It reached for a chandelier but missed and crumpled back toward the lobby’s floor. What was left of the crowd scattered. The tiles cracked under the impact. The walls quaked.