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T HE H ATTER ’ S TEA PARTY was not so much a tea party as a circus.

Chairs were constantly swapped and shifted, and whichever guest ended up on Hatta’s right was deemed the next performer.

In turn, each guest would stand up, select one of the vibrant headpieces from the surrounding walls, and proceed to entertain the others however they saw fit.

The Parrot and the Cockatoo performed a comedy routine about a mime and a mimic.

The Lion sang a perfect alto solo from a renowned opera.

The gray-haired woman sat cross-legged on top of the table and drilled out an impressive drum solo using her knitting needles and an assortment of upturned dishes.

The young Turtle recited a love sonnet with a warbling voice and shy, stammering words—once during his recitation, he glanced at Catherine and blushed deep green and was unable to look at her again for the rest of the night.

Maybe there was something in the tea—which she deemed the most delicious tea she’d ever tasted once she finally got a cup—because once Catherine relaxed, she found that she couldn’t stop laughing and cheering and tapping her toes beneath the table.

She learned that Hatta was prone to ordering everyone around, though most of his guests paid his orders little attention.

She learned that the Dormouse used to be the liveliest one of the group, but he’d gone into hibernation a year and a half ago and had yet to come out of it.

She learned that Jest felt guilty about his bat trick tangling up her hair, he confessed as he soothed back a curl and sent goose bumps down her skin.

Flustered, she batted him away.

Each time they moved, Jest stayed at Cath’s side, helping her navigate around the flurry of activity, coaxing her away from the performer’s chair.

It was a relief to not be forced into the center of attention, yet Catherine couldn’t help racking her brain for some talent she could impress them with.

A fantasy crept into her head of wowing them all, of being even more awe-inspiring than Jest with his illusions and tricks.

But how? She could not sing or dance or juggle.

She was not an entertainer. She was only a lady.

When everyone had performed and Hatta again commanded them to move down, Jest was first to move toward the performance seat and keep Catherine free of it.

Before he could sit, though, Hatta smacked his cane over the chair’s arms. “Patience, my friend. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of seeing anything from your lady yet.” Hatta slid his haughty gaze to Catherine.

Jest nudged the cane away. “She’s here to enjoy our hospitality, not have you turn her into a spectacle.”

Catherine held Hatta’s look, refusing to fidget.

Jest rolled his eyes and turned back to Catherine. “Don’t let him bully you. I’m happy to perform in your stead if you’d like.”

“It’s only a little stingy,” Hatta interrupted. “To take and take for your own entertainment, and offer none of yourself.” His words dripped with disapproval.

Jest glared at Hatta, then turned back to her and whispered, “It isn’t like that. There’s no shame in asking someone else to perform for you, especially at your first tea party.” He held out his hand.

She knew he was trying to alleviate the pressure Hatta was putting on her, but she felt a bit of a sting. Right or not, how could he be so sure that she had nothing to contribute ?

She studied his hand, slender fingers that weren’t as smooth as hers, yet not as rough as a gardener’s or servant’s, either. She liked the way he had called it her first tea party, insinuating there might be more to come.

“I’ll do it,” she heard herself saying, from very far away.

A grin spread over Hatta’s face, but she couldn’t tell whether it was encouraging or taunting. “The lady is next!” he bellowed before she could change her mind, then swept his hand toward the hats on the wall. “Choose a hat, my lady. You’ll find that it helps.”

“Helps how?” She tried to look casual as she strolled down the wall of bonnets and top hats, netted veils and silk turbans.

“Think of it like wearing a costume. Or… perhaps to you, a very fine gown.” Hatta ran his fingers along the brim of his own top hat. “A finely crafted hat makes a person… bolder.”

Cath wasn’t sure she agreed. Her very fine gowns had done little to make her feel any bolder in the past, but everyone else had worn a hat while they performed, so who was she to argue?

The crowd waited to see what she would choose, but Cath knew she was only stalling for time as she fingered a gold clasp here and an ostrich plume there.

She must have some talent. Any talent that wouldn’t embarrass her.

Most of the hats were far more extravagant than those she was used to.

Her favorite so far had been a breathtaking pink-and-green-striped carousel, complete with nickering ponies that galloped around and around.

But it had been worn by the Lion during his operatic performance, and she noticed with some disappointment that he had yet to take it off.

“Might I suggest one of the red ones?” said Hatta.

She startled and looked back at him. “Why red?”

He gave her a one-shouldered shrug. “It would suit your skin tone, beloved. How about that one, there?”

She followed his gesture to a wide-brimmed flop hat, its multitude of frills and gathers done in wine-red silk and ornamented with sprigs of white and yellow poppies. Cath wrinkled her nose. It was a beautiful hat, but not at all what she would choose for herself.

However, beside it was a white cooking bonnet tied with a wide black ribbon. Catherine snatched it off its wooden peg and put it on her head before she could second-guess herself.

“Ah, a hat for making unconventional decisions.” Hatta narrowed his eyes. “Interesting choice.”

When she dared to look at Jest, he seemed indifferent to the hat. He again offered her a hand.

Cath tightened the black ribbon beneath her chin and accepted his assistance as she stepped onto a chair, then up onto the table.

While she had been making her decision, the hat shop had fallen quiet, a stark difference from the chaos she’d grown used to. The guests watched her, hushed in curiosity.

Cath was curious herself. Her hands had begun to tremble.

She found a spot amid the chipped saucers and overturned biscuits and inhaled a long breath, glancing around at the waiting faces. Slitted snake eyes and double-lidded lizard eyes and bulging fish eyes all stared back at her. The hem of her skirt collected spilled tea and crumbs.

“Sing a song, lovely lady!” suggested the Lion, as the carousel ponies pranced above his mane. “Sing us a ballad of old!”

“No, dance for us. Perhaps a ballet?”

“Can she serve tea like a geisha?”

“Paint with her toes?”

“Do a cartwheel?”

“Tell our fortunes?”

“Tie a knot in a cherry stem with her tongue?”

“Don’t be a ninny—that’s impossible!”

“ Catherine. ”

She turned and realized she was still holding Jest’s hand. He smiled, but it carried some concern. “You don’t have to do this.”

She wondered whether he was embarrassed for her, or for himself—for bringing her. A lady. A member of the gentry. Someone with soft hands and a head full of emptiness. Someone who was not mad enough to belong at the Hatter’s tea parties.

She yanked her hand away and faced the Hatter. His heels were on the table again, his fingers fiddling with his cravat.

Her father was known throughout Hearts as a great storyteller, a gift that had been passed down through her family over generations and yet had somehow skipped her over.

Now Catherine struggled to remember one of his tales.

The ones that could enchant a school of wayward fish.

The ones that could make the clouds cry and bring mountains to their knees.

“Once… once upon a time…,” she started, but had to stop when the words caught in her throat.

She rubbed her damp palms on her skirt—and discovered a crackling lump in her pocket.

Her heart flipped.

“There was… there was a girl. She was the daughter of a marquess.”

The corners of Hatta’s mouth tilted downward.

“Though she was raised to be a lady,” Cath said, turning away and scanning the enraptured guests—or at least, guests who were waiting and willing to be enraptured, “and taught all the things a lady ought to be taught, she was only good at one thing. It was not a big thing, or an important thing, or even a ladylike thing, but it was what she really loved to do.”

She slid her hand into her pocket and pulled out the package of macarons. The wax paper had crinkled throughout the day, though the twine bow securing it had held. Around the table, the guests tilted forward.

“I…” She hesitated. “I make confections, you see. ”

“Did she say confessions ?” the old lady murmured. “Oh dear. I fear I have done a lot worth confessing this year.”

Cath smiled. “No, confections. ” She opened the wax paper, revealing five rose macarons, a little crumbled around the edges, but otherwise intact.

A silence descended onto the table.

“Unconventional indeed,” Hatta drawled, brow drawn with suspicion. “But what do they do?”

Catherine didn’t retract her hand. “They don’t do anything. They won’t make you smaller, or larger. But… I do hope they might make you happier. These were meant to be a gift for the King himself, but I… I was distracted today. I forgot to give them to him.”

She dared not look at Jest.

“A gift for the King?” Hatta said. “That does sound promising.” He waved his cane at Haigha, who reached up and took the macarons out of Cath’s palm. Her breath left her in a rush, relieved to have them gone. She was still shaking with nerves.

Haigha laid the macarons out on a plate and, one by one, cut the sandwiched meringues as neatly as he could. They crumbled and squished under the knife. The crowd gathered close, watching as the buttercream filling oozed and stuck to the paper.

Feeling a tug at her skirt, Catherine turned to see Jest holding his hand toward her again. She allowed him to pull her down from the table.

“You made those?” he whispered.

“Of course I did,” she said, and couldn’t help adding, “and as you’ll see, Hatta isn’t the only one here who can make marvelous things.”

His lips quirked. His eyes had a new intensity, like he was trying to figure out a riddle.

The pieces of macaron were passed around the table, and even offered to Raven sitting darkly on his bust, though he huffed and turned his head away. Catherine and Jest were given the last two bites, leaving a pool of flaky almond meringue crumbs and smeared buttercream behind.

Hatta stood and raised his piece into the air. “A toast to Lady Pinkerton, the finest lady to ever grace our table.”

Cheers resounded throughout the shop, but died out as they started to eat.

Catherine listened to the licking of fingers and sucking of teeth.

Jest’s eyes settled on her again, shining like candlelight, a finger caught between his lips. He blinked in surprise.

Cath beamed and placed her own sample on her tongue. The macaron was sweet and decadent and smooth, with just a tiny crunch from the meringue, and a subtle floral moment from the distilled rose water, all melting together into one perfect bite.

She listened to the gasps, the moans, the crinkle of parchment paper as someone scooped up the buttercream that had gotten missed.

This was why she enjoyed baking. A good dessert could make her feel like she’d created joy at the tips of her fingers. Suddenly, the people around the table were no longer strangers. They were friends and confidantes, and she was sharing with them her magic.

“Well done, Lady Pinkerton,” buzzed the Bumblebee.

Then there was a round of huzzah s bouncing up and down the table.

In the renewed chaos, the Dormouse awoke and looked sleepily around the room.

Someone had left a crumb on his plate, which he popped into his mouth without hesitation.

He chewed and swallowed, grinned dreamily, and returned to his nap still licking his lips.

The Hatter alone was not cheering. Rather, he had tilted back in his chair and covered his face with his hat.

Cath’s elation received a momentary chink. A notch of rejection.

But then Hatta lowered the hat and she saw that he was smiling, and his smile was heart-thumpingly open, honest, beautiful. His lavender eyes sparkled as they found her, then shifted to Jest .

“Fine. Fine!” he said, holding a hand up in surrender. “I suppose I will allow her to stay.”

Cath dipped into a curtsy, still flushed with success. “You are too gracious, Hat—”

The shop suddenly rocked. She slipped, toppling into Jest, whose arms encircled her.

The guests gasped and scrambled to gain their balance. Something clomped on the roof, followed by scratching, like talons scrabbling for purchase. The shop rocked again, sending an array of dishes over one side of the table, tea and cookies splattering onto the floor.

An ear-bleeding screech made the hair stand on the back of Cath’s neck.

Jest glanced up, drawing Cath’s attention toward Raven. The clown bust he stood upon had changed, the jovial grin turning down into a mockery of fear.

Raven tilted his head, as if his black eyes could see right through the beams of the ceiling, and recited in his somber cadence, “’Tis the nightmare of the borogoves, the terror of the slithy toves. Though long believed a myth by all, the Jabberwock has come to call within our peaceful grove.”