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C ATHERINE AWOKE THE MORNING of the festival with dried cake batter under her nails and a smear of frosting discovered behind one ear. It had been well after midnight by the time her spiced pumpkin cake had cooled enough to be frosted.

Though she was anxious about the contest, she wasn’t afraid.

She and Mary Ann had done a test run with a pumpkin from the market, and that first cake had been exactly what she’d hoped it would be—moist and rich, with hints of nutmeg and brown sugar mixed together with sweet roasted pumpkin that melted lusciously in the mouth, all layered with velvety, decadent cream cheese frosting and—on a whim—she had topped it off with shreds of toasted coconut, adding a hint of crunch and extra sweetness.

She’d been pleased with the trial cake and, after making a few minor adjustments, she was confident that the final product would be even more extraordinary.

Catherine could not wait to see the judges’ faces when they tried it. Even the King’s.

She didn’t have to wear a formal gown, as the festival took place on the sandy, rocky beach and she would most likely be cold and wet by the end of it.

But as her family was hosting the annual celebration, she was still expected to don a corset and a full-skirted wool dress that her mother picked out, emerald green and showing more décolletage than she would have liked.

She did her best to hide it with a crocheted lace wrap that clung to her neck and shoulders, fastened with an amber medallion.

When Catherine saw her reflection, she couldn’t help but think of Jest, and how the amber brooch was almost the same color as his eyes.

The festival was well underway when Catherine and her parents arrived.

Their carriage stopped at the top of the white cliffs, with the festival laid out on the shore below.

Enormous tents cluttered the beach, their canvas walls painted in harlequin diamonds and stripes and plaids, their pennant flags snapping in the wind.

Within the tents were pottery and paintings, pearl necklaces and windup toys, crocheted stockings and hand-stitched books that would forever have pages curled from the salty air.

From atop the cliffs she spied the beluga whale a cappella quartet harmonizing on the beach, and a sizeable crowd awaiting the start of the first seahorse race, and an octopus face-painter industriously painting eight faces at once.

Then there were the tents that held Catherine’s favorite part of the festival: carnival food.

She could already smell the oil and garlic and applewood smoke.

Her stomach rumbled. She’d intentionally skipped breakfast in anticipation of her most beloved festival treats—a savory meat pie, cinnamon-roasted pecans, and a soft sticky bun, the type that melted on her tongue and coated her lips in honey and crushed walnuts.

It was a treacherous climb down the steps that led to the beach, made more so as Catherine kept scanning the crowds below rather than keeping her focus on the path.

Her eye skipped over the lobsters and crabs and starfish and walruses and dodo birds and flamingos and frogs and salamanders and pigeons.

She was looking only at the people. She was looking for a black tunic and a tri-pointed jester’s hat.

She was listening for the telltale jingle of tiny bells.

She was expecting a crowd circled around a performer, mesmerized and awed by some breathtaking spectacle.

But she reached the sandy shore without seeing any sign of Jest. In fact, she had not seen the King, either. Perhaps they would arrive together .

The Marquess and Marchioness wandered off to greet their high-society guests, leaving Catherine to explore the tents.

She bought her meat pie first, hoping it would settle some of her nerves.

Success—the moment she broke apart the flaky crust and breathed in the cloud of seasoned steam, she did feel calmer. A euphoric, drool-inducing calm.

It was a brisk, gray day on the beach, the wind catching at her shawl, but none of the creatures of Hearts seemed anything but jolly.

The Marchioness had been a bundle of fears the day before.

Word had spread fast after Catherine had told Cheshire about finding the pony from the Lion’s hat, and a search party was sent to scour the areas surrounding the farm for any more signs of the Lion or the Jabberwock, but they’d found nothing.

A theory was posed that the Jabberwock might be sheltering itself inside the Nowhere Forest, and the pony had fallen as the monster carried the Lion over the pumpkin patch.

With tales of the Jabberwock renewed, the Marchioness had worried that people would stay locked up in their homes during the festival, but her concerns seemed unfounded.

The crowd bustled and thrived. Catherine smiled her way through the familiar faces, but her mind was distracted, her eyes always searching for the one person she wanted to see.

None of the usual jewels and baubles held any interest to her, though her purse was jangling with coins her father had spared her that morning. Even the spice shop, with its exotic aromas and unusual ingredients, did not capture her enthusiasm as it usually did.

Wishing for a distraction, she headed for the largest tent, where the contest would be held. Mary Ann had brought the cake with her when she and the other servants had come to finish last-minute preparations, and Catherine hadn’t seen her creation since the night before.

In the grandstand tent, the chairs were empty but for a few geese resting their wings after the long migration to make it to the festival on time.

Catherine passed through the rows and up to the case that held the entries, and there, on the second shelf, three desserts from the left, sat her spiced pumpkin cake, the icing scalloped on the sides and woven like a basket on top.

A tiny white ghost pumpkin was settled into the snowdrifts of toasted coconut—Mary Ann’s idea.

She scanned their competition. It was mostly an assortment of fruit pies, a chocolate torte, two dessert puddings, and a small cake with EAT ME spelled out in currants on top. None were so pretty as hers, but that meant nothing for their taste.

“I believe in you, little cake,” she whispered to her creation. “I believe you’re the best.” She hesitated. “I believe we’re the best.”

Feeling more anxious than comforted, she hurried from the tent.

She had just turned down the main row of shops, her sweet tooth awakened and dreaming of those cinnamon-roasted nuts, when someone grabbed the brim of her bonnet and pulled it off her head.

The ribbon caught on her chin and it fell, hanging down her back.

She spun around as another, heavier hat was placed on her head.

Hatta stepped back and crossed his arms, looking not at her but at the hat now atop her head.

He looked too refined for the damp, dirty surroundings, done up in a formal-cut navy suit and an orange-and-purple-striped waistcoat.

His white hair peeked out from a matching orange-and-purple top hat.

A candy stick dangled from his thoughtfully down-turned mouth.

“Hello again,” said Cath.

He tipped his hat to her, swirling the candy stick around to the other side of his lips. “Milady.”

Catherine reached up for the wide brim of the hat he had set on her head, but he stopped her. “Ah-ah,” he said, taking hold of her hand and sweeping her up the steps. “There’s a mirror back here.”

She realized with a start that she was in the Hatter’s shop, the same rickety traveling wagon she’d seen in the forest, with the hand-lettered sign over the door: HATTA’S MARVELOUS MILLINERY. She couldn’t imagine how she hadn’t spotted it earlier among the tents.

One window, she noticed, was still broken from the Jabberwock’s attack, now boarded over with uneven planks and iron nails.

Like before, the shop was larger on the inside than the out, but now the long table and mismatched chairs were gone, replaced with an assortment of display cases and hat stands and mannequin heads, two of which were having a discussion about fashionable cameo necklaces.

The collection of hats had multiplied. There were top hats with ear holes cut out for bunny rabbits.

There were waterproof hats for dolphins and sunbathing hats for lizards and acorn-stashing hats for squirrels.

There were veils made from ostrich feathers and modest bonnets encrusted in rhinestones and one netted hat that would have draped over a person’s body like an enormous birdcage.

Beyond the bizarre and unexpected, there were also simple things, lovely things. Dainty coronets done up in gold and pearls. Wide-brimmed garden hats covered in soft moss and chiming bluebells. Silk headdresses ornamented with intricately spun spiderwebs.

As Catherine passed, admiring them all, Hatta reached for the tie of her bonnet and pulled it off her neck. She spotted a standing mirror in the corner, shining with the light of a lantern on the wall.

Crossing the room, she stood before the mirror and promptly started to laugh.

The Hatter had made for her a replica of a rose macaron. Two meringue cookies were made from cream-colored muslin and speckled with pink sparkles, and the sweet buttercream filling was constructed from layer upon layer of gathered lace.

It was ridiculous and unflattering in every way. Cath loved it immediately.

“Good heavens, Hatta. And here I thought you didn’t like me. ”

“My gifts by their nature do not equal affection, milady.” In the mirror, she saw him scowl. “Rather, let us say that I was inspired by your performance.”

She turned to face him. “So you don’t like me?”

“I like you well enough.” His purple eyes glinted. “I like you better when you’re wearing one of my hats. What do you think?”