She shut her eyes and tamped the thoughts back down, as she did every time they drifted in the direction of illicit caresses. Her mother would implode if she knew Cath was having such improper thoughts about the King’s Joker.
The King, for goodness’ sake. The one she was supposed to dreaming about.
Her nerves were in tatters over it all.
Setting down the pastry bag, she swore that she would not allow herself to be carried away during the tea party. She was a lady, and he was a novelty. If she should see him again—which was unlikely in itself—she would entertain only civilized conversation. None of these flirtations that had carried her away before. There could be nothing improper at all.
Though she was curious to know if she would feel as drawn to the Joker again upon a second meeting, there was a part of her that hoped she wouldn’t. Because what options were given to her even if she did feel it again? Her parents would never allow a courtship with him. She still hadn’t decided what she was going to do about the King. And besides, she was supposed to be focusing on how she could persuade her parents to let her have the bakery, the one dream that had consumed her more than all the others … until the lemon tree, at least.
“Good graciousness, what is that delightful aroma?”
She jumped back from the counter. Cheshire—or rather, Cheshire’s head—had filled up the cuckoo clock’s face on the wall, the hands pointing at his left ear and whiskers, indicating it was just past two o’clock in the afternoon.
“Hello, Cheshire.” She frowned. “You better not have just eaten that cuckoo bird.”
He disappeared in a puff before reappearing, fully formed, on the high windowsill above the counter. The orange tint from the pumpkin pasties had faded from his fur. “I’ve done no such thing,” he said, “although I am presently determining how many of those I can eat when your back is turned without your noticing.”
She eyed him suspiciously.
“Oh, fine. I suppose I don’t care if you notice or not.”
“They are for the King.”
Cheshire rolled his eyes—the pupils bouncing around like a child’s bouncing ball. “They are always for the King.”
Grinning, she picked up the pastry bag, wiped a drip of excess batter on a dishtowel, and resumed her piping. “I meant to thank you for causing the distraction at the ball the other night. Your timing was perfect.”
“Most things that I do are.”
“Were the guests quite upset over it all?”
“Lady Mearle did not seem receptive to the distraction.”
“No, I meant about me leaving. Does everyone know that I was the one the King intended to…” She gulped. “… to propose to?”
“I don’t think it’s become widely assumed yet, though only because most people are so very horrid at paying attention.”
She let out a slow breath, finished piping the last cookie, and thwapped the baking sheet on the counter to level them.
“Besides,” Cheshire said, smiling wide as ever, “the King’s failed proposal was overshadowed by the horrors that came afterward. I trust you heard news of the Jabberwock?”
She dabbed a sleeve across her damp brow. “I did. I suppose I shouldn’t be thinking about some stupid proposal after what happened. I wasn’t even sure I believed that Jabberwocky existed until now.”
“It is a dangerous thing to unbelieve something only because it frightens you.”
Cath popped the sheet into the oven. “But how long has it been since one was seen here?”
“Since long before you or I were born.” His grin never faltered, making for an eerie foil to a dark topic. “Perhaps it has been here all along, lying in wait. Or perhaps it came in through the Looking Glass, though it seems an unlikely venture. I doubt we shall ever know the truth of it, but we do know that the beast is here now, and I don’t suppose we’ve heard the last of its brutality.”
Cath swallowed down the bitter taste in her mouth. “What are we going to do about it?”
“We? I have no intentions of doing anything at all.”
“Fine, not you, then. But someone has to do something. The King should appoint a knight to go after it, like in the old legends.”
Cheshire made a guttural sound in his throat. “Know you of any knights here in Hearts?”
She pondered this. The closest thing they had were the Club guards at the castle, and she doubted any of them would fare much better than the Diamond courtiers had.
“Someone has to do something,” she repeated, though most of her fire had turned to smoke.
“Yes, and that something shall be to ignore such a horrible incident and go on pretending nothing has happened at all.” Cheshire licked his paw and dragged it along his whiskers. “As is our way.”
Cath’s gut had tightened. She knew he was right—though she had never before witnessed something so awful, she knew everyone would be willing to pretend it away rather than upset their pleasant lives.
“What about those poor courtiers?” she murmured. “What is to become of them?”
Cheshire’s grin began to slip, just—the—tiniest—bit. “They have already been found, dear Catherine. Two shreds of cardstock were discovered outside the Nowhere Forest yesterday morning.”
She recoiled from him. “No … maybe it wasn’t…?”
“It was them. Part of a diamond was visible on one of the shreds.”
She grimaced and turned away, squeezing her eyes tight. She felt suddenly childish and small. Chastised, though no one had chastised her but herself. Two days spent dreading a run-in with the King and daydreaming over the Joker, and all the while, two courtiers were dead, and a monster on the loose.
“I called on the Duke of Tuskany yesterday,” she said. “He had a wound from the Jabberwock. Was anyone else hurt?”
“I don’t believe so, and quite lucky that. It was very nearly Lady Margaret Mearle.”
“What do you mean?”
“When the great beast crashed through the window, it seemed—why, I hate to sound self-absorbed, but it seemed as though it were heading for me. And I was still on top of the girl’s head, you see. So I vanished … as prompted by instinct, not at all cowardice, I assure you.”
“Naturally.”
“I came to on the other side of the ballroom just in time to see Lord Warthog launch himself in between Lady Mearle and the beast.”
Her jaw fell open. “How heroic!”
“Fascinating, isn’t it, how often heroic and foolish turn out to be one and the same. That beast had claws like carving knives and nearly took off the Duke’s head. He’s most lucky it was only a surface wound, I daresay.” He scratched behind one ear. “Rather pigheaded he can be.”
“But the Jabberwock didn’t kill him.”
“No. It turned its attention toward the feasting table and the two courtiers standing beside it. Grabbed them and took off, flew right over the balcony. It all happened very of-a-sudden.”
She slumped against the baker’s table. “I never dreamed such a thing could happen here.”
Cheshire’s yellow eyes slitted as he held her gaze for one beat, two. Then he began to unravel from the tip of his tail, a slow unwinding of his stripes. “These things do not happen in dreams, dear girl,” he said, vanishing up to his neck. “They happen only in nightmares.”
His head spiraled and he was gone.
CHAPTER 11
THE MOMENT CATH STEPPED through the garden arbor onto the sweeping green lawn of Heart Castle, she was searching for him. She couldn’t help it, try as she might. Her eyes skimmed over the guests, hunting for a three-pointed jester’s hat amid the bonnets and wide-brimmed sun hats. Her entire body was bating its breath, waiting for the moment she would see him—should he even be present. Did jokers attend garden parties? She didn’t know.
She felt like an idiot, curtsying to the lords and barons, ladies and countesses, all the while letting her attention scurry off to each new arrival, each glimpse of black amid the col
orful clothing of the nobility. She knew she should be looking for the King. Her mother had been adamant that Catherine make herself known to the King immediately upon arrival. She was to give him the delicate rose-flavored macarons that were tucked into her skirt pocket and she was not to leave his side until either the party was over or she had a gem on her finger.
To Cath’s relief, as she made one complete turn around the lawn, the King was nowhere in sight.
To her disappointment, neither was Jest.
Stupid dreams. Stupid fantasies. Stupid lemon tree and white roses and—
What if he didn’t come at all? It felt like it would be a wasted outing in her prettiest day dress. She hadn’t realized until that moment that she’d chosen it specifically for him.
“My dear Catherine, how appropriately attired you are today.”
She swiveled around to see Margaret Mearle gamboling across the grass, clutching two battledore rackets in her hands. She was dressed all in sunflower-yellow and on her head was a fascinator that looked like an enormous yellow rosebud waiting to bloom.
Catherine cocked her head. There was something different about Margaret today. Something difficult to place. If Cath hadn’t known better, she would have thought that today, in that hat, in this light, Margaret looked almost …
Well, not pretty. But unoffensive to the eyes, at the least.
Perhaps she was seeing her in a new light, knowing how fond the Duke was of her.
“Good day, Lady Margaret,” she said, curtsying.
“Good enough, one supposes,” said Margaret, “though unwarranted optimism is unwise for one who wishes to eschew disappointment. Nevertheless, I do hope it shall be a better day than the ball, at the least. Have you heard of my trauma?” She clutched the rackets against her chest.
“Oh yes, I heard all about the Jabberwock attack. I can only imagine how horrifying it was! I’m so glad to see you unharmed.” Catherine, upon saying it, realized that it was true.
But Margaret only huffed. “Yes, yes, quite horrifying, but before that, have you heard tell what your awful cat did?”
“My … cat? You mean Cheshire? I wouldn’t call him mine, precisely.”
“Nevertheless, he is a nuisance that should not be suffered among civilized society. I hope you left him at home today.”
Cath cocked her head, feigning ignorance. “What has he done?”
“Oh dear, I find it difficult to believe that word has not yet reached your ears. It was dreadful. The mongrel appeared from nowhere, in that uncanny way he does, and plopped right down on my head.” She shuddered.
“I’m sure Cheshire meant no harm. I actually think he’s rather fond of you.”
Margaret pouted. “I hope not. My one solace is that everyone was distracted by the Jabberwock and that has overshadowed my torment—ah, my mortification!”
“Yes, we can hope.” Catherine wrung her wrists and buried a remark about the poor Diamond courtiers. “Is it true, do you know, that the King also made mention of a … a bride at the ball?”
“He was about to propose before all turned chaotic. You did miss much that night, Lady Catherine.”
“My loss, to be sure. And has there been much speculation as to who it might be?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m not one to gossip. Gossiping always leads to spoiled milk.”
“Of course. That’s a very good rule to live by.” Cath was nodding sagely when she spotted Lord Warthog taking a turn around the lawn with the Dowager Countess Wontuthry. The Countess had her hand on the Duke’s elbow, the other gripping a cane that kept sinking into the soft grass. She was speaking fervently on some topic, but the Duke’s gaze was darting from Catherine to Margaret to the ground and back to Margaret. His jowled face was warped with anxiety.
Clearing her throat, Catherine leaned closer to Margaret, like a conspirator. “Tell me more about the Jabberwock attack,” she whispered. “Were you very frightened?”
“Oh! Must we speak of it?” Margaret placed a hand to her brow. “I feel faint at the memory. Did you know—that beast broke through the windows and headed straight for me! I cannot be sure why. One is made to wonder if a creature with such wicked propensities might not be naturally drawn to one of goodness and pristine moral values, such as myself.”
“Er, yes,” said Catherine. “One is made to wonder.”
“Indeed, and the nightmares shall haunt me unto my deathbed. Even now I see its jaws when I shut my eyes, still hear the click-clacking of its enormous claws.”
Catherine gripped her elbow for support. “Yes, but … you were rescued, were you not? I heard the Duke was very heroic. Is it true that he threw himself in between you and the beast?”
Margaret sniffed. “More like he couldn’t get out of the way fast enough. That man has all the grace of a wild boar.”
She squinted. “Actually, I think wild boars can be quite quick and athletic…”
“Oh! There he is! Wave, quickly, or he’ll think we’ve been talking about him.” With a look that was as much grimace as smile, Margaret wiggled her fingers at the Duke and the Countess.
The Duke immediately looked away, ducking his large chin behind a green cravat.
Margaret grunted. “Such arrogance.”
“I’m beginning to think he might just be shy…”
“We mustn’t encourage such ill behavior, Catherine. That is just like paying the cart in carrots before the horse gets his gift.”
Cath tried to puzzle this out for a moment, but quickly gave up. “How I do wish I could find fault with your wisdom, Margaret.”
Margaret scoffed. “Why—I daresay the Countess is flirting with him! What a vile woman.”
“I’m not sure—”
“I could grab on to any man’s arm, too, if I wanted to pretend to have a crooked spine.”
“To be fair, she does have a crooked spine.”
“Yes, and evidently a desire to add to her wealth. Can you imagine, curtsying to Her Ladyship, the Dutch Countess Wontuthry? Or the Counting Duchess of Tuskany? Who needs that many syllables, anyway?”
“It seems to me that he’s just helping an old lady across the lawn.”
Margaret glowered. “You are observant as a toadstool, Lady Pinkerton.”
Cath scrambled to right the teetering ship of their conversation. “Well, even if the Countess were flirting, I think the Duke is actually taken with—”
“Oh no. Now they’re coming this way.” Margaret turned her back on them. “Let’s look as though we’re caught in a game of Battledore and Shuttlecock so they won’t pester us.” Margaret thrust the extra racket into Catherine’s hand.
“Won’t that be rude?”
Ignoring her, Margaret hustled a fair distance away and threw up the shuttlecock—a needle-nosed hummingbird—striking it in Catherine’s direction. Instinctively, Cath dove to hit it back, but missed. The hummingbird stuck nose-first into the sod.
“Sorry, dearest Catherine!” Margaret preened, loud enough to be heard halfway across the lawn. “You really must take more time to practice.”
Stooping, Catherine pried the bird out of the grass. Its jittery wings buzzed. She glanced up at Margaret, who was adamantly not looking at the Duke, while the Duke, standing not far away, had eyes only for her, now that he was in no danger of being found out.
The Countess continued to prattle on beside him, oblivious to his wandering attention.
“Come on, Catherine,” Margaret urged. “Hit it back.”
Sighing, Cath tossed the bird into the air and batted it toward Margaret. They made it through three passes, Margaret growing more competitive with every hit. Though Catherine would never have considered herself athletic, she was in better shape than her competitor, who was soon wheezing with the effort, her face blotchy and scrunched in concentration. But her lack of skill was made up for in determination, and on her third hit, she sent the bird flying over Catherine’s head. Cath ducked and swiveled to follow its path through the sky—straight towar
d an enormous jet-black raven.
Catherine gasped.
The hummingbird froze mid-flight and backed up fast on its fluttering wings. It hesitated a moment, not knowing what else to do, then turned and flew off toward the hedge maze.
Catherine did not care. Her heart was in her throat, her eyes scouring the crowd. Dresses and waistcoats, top hats and bonnets.
She spotted him amid the tables where the ladies were fanning themselves and sipping at their tea and beaming at the Joker as he strummed a mandolin. Above them, the Raven cawed, and Jest glanced up, still strumming. The Raven soared down and settled on his shoulder.
He hardly seemed to notice at first. Then, as Catherine stared as openly as a child at her first parade, Jest glanced toward her.
His eyes connected with hers in an instant, as if he’d known just where she was.
As if he’d been watching her for some while, and waiting for her to notice.
Even from so far a distance, she thought she detected a faint smile shot her way.
All sensation left her body. No more soft grass beneath her feet. No more racket clutched between her hands. No more hair clinging to the back of her damp neck.
The moment answered one question, at least. She felt as drawn to him as ever, though whether it was mere attraction or some other, stronger force, she had no way of knowing, and no previous experience to draw from.
Jest looked away. The connection snapped and Catherine dragged in a long breath, grateful to be rescued from her own lack of subtlety.
The look had been just long enough to fan the flames of her curiosity, and short enough to put none of them out.
His audience was growing fast. Even some of the Spade gardeners had stopped working to listen to the Joker’s music. Catherine realized with a jolt that her mother was among them, beaming as large as anyone.
The song ended, the notes reaching Catherine over the expanse of lawn, followed by the delighted cooing and clapping of the crowd.
Jest tucked the mandolin against his side and bowed. The Raven took flight again, soaring off in the direction of the herb garden.
“Catherine! You look like a buffoon. What are you staring at?”