Page 23

T HE DINING ROOM was still for a beat, two beats, three—before Cath’s mother launched herself from the table.

“Whealagig! What are you waiting for? Get out there and greet him!”

“Er—right. Of course, darling.” The Marquess tossed his napkin onto the table and followed Mr. Penguin to the parlor.

“We’ll be right there! Do not let him leave!” The Marchioness rounded on Catherine, plucking some of her dark hair forward to hang in wavy locks over her shoulders. She pinched Cath’s cheeks. Dipped a napkin corner into the nearest water glass and scrubbed at Catherine’s mouth.

Catherine squirmed. “Stop it! What are you doing?”

“Making you presentable! The King is here!”

“Yes, but he hasn’t asked for an audience with me. ”

“Of course he hasn’t asked for an audience with you, but that’s clearly why he’s here!” Cupping Cath’s face in both hands, her mother beamed. “Oh, my precious, precious girl! I’m so proud of you!”

Cath frowned. “Just a moment ago, you were—”

“Never mind a moment ago, the King is here now.” Pulling away, her mother shooed at her with both hands. “Come along. To the parlor. Here, chew on this.” She plucked a mint leaf from a bouquet on the sideboard and shoved it into Catherine’s mouth .

“Mother,” she said, chewing twice before pulling the mint leaf out. “I’m not going to kiss him.”

“Oh, stop being such a pessimist.”

Catherine blanched at the very idea of it.

She was bustled through the doors and past her father’s library, into the main parlor where her father was standing with the King and the White Rabbit and two guards—the Five and Ten of Clubs—and…

Her heart leaped, but she silently chastised it until it sank back down again.

Jest stood at the back of the King’s entourage in full black motley, his hands behind his back. Though he’d been inspecting a painted portrait of one of Catherine’s distant ancestors, he straightened when Catherine and her mother entered.

A drumbeat thumped against the inside of her rib cage. She barely had time to catch her breath before a trumpet blared through the room and she jumped.

Jest’s yellow gaze fell to the floor.

The White Rabbit lowered the trumpet. “His Royal Majesty, the King of Hearts!”

“Your Majesty!” cried the Marchioness. Cath followed her mother into a curtsy, trying to gather her scattered composure. “Your visit honors us! Would you care for some tea? Abigail! Bring the tea! ”

The King cleared his throat, smacking his fist against his sternum a few times.

“Thank you warmly, Lady Pinkerton, but your husband already offered and I already declined the kindness. I do not wish to take up too much of your time.” He was smiling, like usual, but it was an awkward, nervous smile, not the joyful one Cath was used to.

He would not look at her.

She felt sick to her stomach and was glad, for once, that her mother had sent the dessert away .

“Oh, but won’t you at least sit, Your Majesty?” The Marchioness gestured at the nicest chair in the room—usually the Marquess’s seat.

Whipping his red cloak behind him, the King nodded gratefully and sat.

In unison, the Marquess and Marchioness sat on the sofa opposite him. Only when her mother reached up and yanked her down did it occur to Catherine to sit as well.

The guards stared at the wall, their club-tipped staffs held at their sides. The White Rabbit looked a little crestfallen that he hadn’t been invited to sit too.

And Jest—

Mute and still and impossible for Cath to keep her eyes away from. Rake and flirt he may be, but against her better senses, she felt as drawn to him as ever. She stole glimpses of him again and again, like gathering unsatisfying crumbs in hopes they could be re-formed into a cake.

When the King did not immediately speak, Cath’s mother leaned forward, beaming. “How we enjoyed your tea party this afternoon, Your Majesty. You indulge us so in this kingdom.”

“Thank you, Lady Pinkerton. It was a splendid gathering.” The King pushed the crown more securely onto his round head. He seemed to be preparing himself.

Catherine, stick straight and uncomfortable on the edge of the sofa’s cushion, prepared herself as well.

He would ask for her hand.

Her father would agree.

Her mother would agree.

That was as far as her thoughts would go.

No, she must imagine it all. It was happening. It was here.

The King would ask for her hand.

Her father would agree .

Her mother would agree.

And she …

She would say no.

The silent promise to herself made her dizzy, but she remembered the determination she’d felt during the croquet game and tried to summon it again.

She would be a picture of politeness, of course.

She would deny his proposal with as much grace as possible.

She would be obliging and flattered and humbled and she would explain to him that she did not feel suited to the role of queen.

She would say there was certainly a better choice, and though her gratitude for his attentions was limitless, she could not in good conscience accept him—

No, no, no.

She was wrong, and she hated the knowing of it.

With her father there, and her mother, and the dear, sweet King of Hearts, and all their hopeful eyes focused on her… she knew that she would undoubtedly say yes.

She stopped looking at Jest. Her eyes were suddenly repelled by him. His presence in the room was painful, suffocating.

“I quite enjoyed a game of croquet with Lady Pinkerton at the party,” said the King.

“Oh yes, she was just telling us all about it,” said the Marchioness. “She enjoyed herself as well. Didn’t you, Catherine?”

She gulped. “Yes, Mother.”

“She is a remarkably skilled croquetesse.” The King giggled. “Why, one look from her and the hedgehogs just go— woop! —right where she means for them to go!” He kept giggling.

Cath’s parents giggled along, though she could tell her father wasn’t sure what was so amusing.

“We’re very proud of her,” said the Marchioness. “She is accomplished in so many ways, between the croquet, and the baking.” Her eyes landed on Catherine, full of motherly adoration.

Cath looked away and caught sight of Mary Ann’s pale blue eyes through the cracked door. The maid flashed an encouraging smile.

“Lady Pinkerton and I also, uh, had an enlightening conversation with my new court joker. Do you remember?” The King met her eye for the first time, and between his uneasiness and the mention of the Joker, Cath found herself caught in a mortifying blush that was sure to be misinterpreted.

Her mother elbowed her father.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” she said. “I do remember.”

“Oh yes, very good. He, uh… Jest, that is, has given me some thoughtful advice, for which I’m quite grateful, and I’ve been…

thinking, and… well.” The King pulled the fur collar of his cloak away from his throat.

“I have a very important question for you, Lady Pinkerton. And… and Lord and Lady Pinkerton, of course.”

The Marchioness grabbed her husband’s wrist.

“We are your humble servants,” said the Marquess. “What can we do for you, Your Majesty?”

Cath sank into the sofa. Good-bye, bakery. Good-bye, the smell of fresh-baked bread in the morning. Good-bye, flour-dusted aprons.

The King wiggled. His feet kicked against the chair.

“I have called on you tonight with the purpose of… of…” A bead of sweat slipped down his temple.

Cath followed it with her eyes until the King rubbed it away with the edge of his cloak.

Then he started to speak, fast, like he was issuing an important declaration that had been rehearsed a hundred times.

“… of asking for the honor of entering into a courtship with Lady Catherine Pinkerton.”

Then he burped.

Just a little burp, out of nervousness, or perhaps even nausea.

Catherine, delirious with anxiety, choked back a snort .

Behind the King, Jest flinched, and the small action returned Cath’s attention to him.

He found her in the room.

She couldn’t tell if he was amused or embarrassed for the King, but it was quick to fade, whatever it was. Jest seemed to change as he looked at her. His body lengthening to full height, his shoulders tugging backward, his eyes searching hers.

Cath didn’t know what he was looking for, or what he found. She felt half crazed, delusional with a wish that she was anywhere but here.

“A courtship?” said the Marchioness.

Cath yanked her gaze away from Jest. Her thoughts started to spin, her subconscious dissecting the King’s words.

Courtship. That is what he said.

The King was asking to court her, precisely as Jest had advised.

He was not proposing.

Relief rushed through her, fast as a rising tide through the whistling cove.

She placed a hand over her thundering heart and looked at her mother, whose mouth was hanging open.

“Well,” the Marquess blustered, “you honor us, Your Majesty. I—” He turned to his wife, as if searching for permission to respond.

Shutting her mouth, she kicked his ankle.

“I—uh, give my hearty blessing to such a courtship, but of course the decision lies with my daughter. Catherine? What say you?”

The room fell quiet.

The King, terrified but hopeful.

Her mother, pale with anxiety.

Her father, patient and curious.

Mary Ann, inching the door open so she wouldn’t miss a word.

The White Rabbit, eyeing an expensive vase with yearning .

And Jest. Unreadable. Waiting, along with the others, for her to speak.

“I… am flattered, Your Majesty.”

“Of course you’re flattered, child.” Her mother kicked her this time. “But don’t leave His Majesty waiting for an answer. What say you to this most kind and generous offer?”

Courtship. No obligations. No commitments. Not yet.

And, possibly, time to persuade the King that he did not really wish to marry her at all.

It didn’t feel like she’d been given a choice, not a real choice in the matter—but it didn’t seem so entirely dreadful, either.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said, already exhausted at the prospect. “It would be an honor to be courted by you.”