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He was not a clever man, she reminded herself, for once glad that he was so dim. He is not a clever man.

Jest replaced his hat and lifted the flute to his mouth. He licked his lips, and Cath cursed herself for mimicking the action, glad that Jest’s eyes were closed and he couldn’t have noticed.

The music that followed was its own sort of magic.

The lilts and the skips, the dancing notes that swept over Catherine and the King and the hedges and the flowers.

The bluebells stopped ringing so they could listen, the breeze stopped whistling, the finches stopped chittering.

Catherine took in a breath and held it, feeling as though the flute’s music were seeping into her skin, filling up every space in her body.

It wasn’t a song she recognized. The notes were happy and sad all at once, and she imagined flowers blooming anew in the wet spring dirt, leaves unfurling for the first time on winter-ravaged boughs, the smell of rain in the air, and the feel of cool grass beneath her toes.

The melody hinted at newness and rebirth and beauty and eternity…

… and by the time it was over, Cath had tears on her cheeks.

Jest lowered the flute and opened his eyes and Cath swiped away the tears, unable to look at him. She fished for a handkerchief from inside her pocket, her hand bumping against the forgotten package of macarons.

The King sniffled too, then began to applaud. “Bravo! Bravo, Jest!”

Jest bowed. “Your Majesty honors me.”

The King’s cheers were met with equal enthusiasm from all the creatures that had come to listen.

Cath forced herself to look up once she’d finished dabbing at her eyes.

She expected smugness, but what she saw was a hopeful question in his bright yellow eyes.

It quickly turned into another grin, his real grin, she suspected.

Whatever he’d seen in her face had satisfied .

The King was still clapping enthusiastically. “That was wonderful! Absolutely wonderful! Lady Pinkerton, wasn’t that wonderful?”

She cleared her throat and conceded, “It was indeed. What is the song? This was the first I’ve heard it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know, my lady,” said Jest. “It came to me just now.”

Her eyes widened. Impossible.

“Perhaps you are my muse,” he added, and the joking tone had returned. “I shall dedicate it to you, Lady Catherine Pinkerton, if it pleases.”

The King squealed. “Oh yes, that’s perfect! I shall have you play it again at our—” He cut off sharply.

Cath stiffened, clenching the handkerchief in one fist.

Jest’s suspicious look returned.

The King fidgeted with the clasp of his velvet-lined cape, and his excitement was replaced with mumbled bashfulness. “At, er… the royal wedding.”

Cath wished she could disappear down a rabbit hole.

“It would be my pleasure, Your Majesty,” Jest said, with new tension in his voice. “I had heard rumors of an upcoming wedding. What a lucky joker I am, to have such a queen for whom to compose all manner of ballads and poetry.”

Twisting the handkerchief in her lap, Cath forced herself to look at the King with as much ignorance as she could manage. “I wasn’t aware you had chosen a bride, Your Majesty. I look forward to bestowing many congratulations on our future queen.”

The King’s round face was as red as the ruby heart in his crown. “Er—that is… well… I have not… exactly proposed yet, you see… but with you here, Lady Pinkerton—”

“Oh, how clever you are!” she said, cringing internally at the shrill in her tone. From the corner of her vision she could see that Jest had frozen, and the King, too, had a new wide-eyed visage. “It is so smart of you not to hurry. I’m sure the lady is most grateful. ”

The King gawped at her. “Er. Well, actually…”

“Nobody likes to be rushed into these things, after all. Courtships and marriage proposals should be taken slowly if they’re to, er… result in mutual happiness. I find that men are too quick to ask for a lady’s hand, not realizing that we prefer it to be a long… rather arduous process.”

The King continued to stare at her.

“Of course. Lady Pinkerton is correct,” said Jest, and his voice was measured and patient compared to Cath’s desperation. She and the King swiveled their attention back to him.

“I am?” said Catherine.

“She is?” echoed the King.

“Absolutely, but you are a wise man to know it already.” Jest threaded the flute between his belt and tunic.

“Er—yes. I mean, I am, naturally . Wise, that is. But, er, what do you mean?”

“As Lady Pinkerton was saying, all ladies enjoy the dance of courtship, the rush of new love, the anticipation of a yet-unknown happiness.” He hesitated, as if searching for the proper words, before continuing, “The courtship period is the foundation upon which a happy marriage will stand, and should not be hurried by any devoted lover—not even a king.” Jest inclined his head.

“But it seems you know all this, Your Majesty.”

“Y-yes,” stammered the King. He looked bewildered. “That’s what I’ve always said. The courtship is the… the foundation…”

Cath’s chest was expanding—with relief, with gratitude. Jest glanced at her and raised his eyebrows, as if in question. As if he was concerned that his involvement would not be appreciated.

But it was, more than she could express.

“The Joker has explained it perfectly,” she said. “Wedding proposals, after all, should not come as a shock.” She laughed, and hoped it didn’t sound as frenzied to them as it did to her. “I can see that advice-giving is among your talents. ”

Jest’s grin turned teasing. “I live to serve.”

Suddenly, the King hopped to his feet. “I know,” he said, beaming with renewed courage. “Let’s play croquet!”

“Croquet?” said Cath.

“Yes! Croquet! It is my best sport. I’m not much of a dancer, you see. And I can’t compose ballads or poetry. But… but the hedgehogs are fond of me.” He said it more like a question, and his eyes were shining when he looked at Cath. “You’ll see, Lady Pinkerton.”

He stomped off with purpose toward the croquet court, his fur-lined cloak fluttering behind him and his scepter held high.

Cath turned to Jest. If he shared any of her agitation, it didn’t show.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Whatever for?”

Before she could stammer out some response, he removed his hat and swooped it toward the retreating King.

“After you, my lady.”