Page 52

C ATHERINE DROPPED THE SWORD with an echoing clang.

Pain rushed through her all at once, a burning iron in her ankle, fire shooting through her bones. She wilted down into her dress. Her pulse was a hammer, her fingers hot with rushing blood.

Another gasp from the crowd. A frightened hesitation. No one knew what to do. It was clear they were all waiting for someone else to make a decision. To be the first to move.

A ruler, a leader, a king.

But the King of Hearts stood in their midst, as pale and whimpering as any of his subjects.

Cath realized she was crying. She could feel her nose dripping, but she didn’t swipe at it. Let them see her blotchy skin and torn dress and the mucus that was to be expected after witnessing such a horror. Let them see.

Jest stumbled toward her, ignoring their audience. He had a limp, which was even more peculiar than the smeared mask of kohl.

“Catherine. Catherine. ” He hovered over her, eyes bloodshot. “Where does it hurt? Is it your leg?”

She locked her jaw and nodded—though that slight movement sent her reeling with nausea. She collapsed onto her back and Jest disappeared from view, but she could feel him pushing up the hem of her dress—just a little. Just enough to see .

Cath started to laugh, shrill and hysterical. “Well now—that’s hardly—proper,” she stammered, choking, tears rolling into her tangled hair. “Oh, stuff and nonsense, it hurts. ”

Jest touched her ankle and she screamed. The world turned swarmy and full of flashing light. The touch left her.

“L-L-Lady Pinkerton?”

She groaned. Her head fell to the side and she saw the King and the White Rabbit and Mary Ann stumbling down the stairs. Mary Ann was pale with fear, her apron balled up in both fists, her pretty new bonnet crooked on her head.

“Y-Your Majesty,” she said. She wished they would all go away, leave her alone. She wished for unconsciousness. “The Jabberwock—”

That was as far as she got before another shot of pain had her reeling.

The King hurried down the rest of the stairs and knelt at her side, taking her hand into his.

“You were stunning.” He pulled a handkerchief from some fold of his garb, but rather than offer it to Catherine, he dabbed at his own glistening brow.

Lifting his head, he peered around at the speechless, still-frozen crowd.

“Behold! The treasure of my heart! The keeper of the Vorpal Sword! The most brave and b-b- brilliant Lady Catherine Pinkerton. Behold our future queen!”

“No,” she murmured, but no one heard her over the applause. Her head lolled and she felt a tender hand supporting it. The soft pad of a thumb stroking the arch of her ear. “I’m not—the sword. It isn’t…”

“Your Majesty,” said Jest, his voice cutting through the cheers. “She’s hurt. She needs help.”

The King spun back. Panicked. “Oh. Er. Y-yes. Of course.”

He looked at her ankle and greened.

Cath clenched her teeth, trying to sharpen her focus as her skull pounded. “If I am stunning—and brilliant—and brave”—she swallowed a scream—“then you are useless ! ”

Jest froze. The King shrank back.

“The Jabberwock has been terrorizing us for weeks! And what have you done? What are you doing to stop it?”

Squeaking, the King ducked his head between the velvet folds of his cloak.

“You are the King! You have to do something!”

“Catherine.” Jest settled a hand on her brow, smoothing back her wild hair. “Reserve your strength, Cath—Lady Pinkerton.”

Mary Ann appeared over the King’s shoulder, her expression bewildered until she saw Cath’s ankle.

She pressed a hand over her mouth. It was only momentary, before she steeled herself and turned to the King.

“The pain is driving her mad, Your Majesty. Someone must take her to the Sturgeons. I’ll call a carriage straightaway—”

“A c-carriage, yes,” said the King, his head bobbing, his mustache twitching with each breath. His chest heaved and it seemed he might be sick, but he fought it back.

Cath was crying again, dizzy from the pain. “The beast must be stopped, before anyone else is hurt—”

“I’ll take her,” said Jest. “It will be faster.”

Mary Ann hesitated. “Faster than a carriage?”

“Yes.” He met Cath’s gaze, his eyes tumultuous and vivid and too, too yellow. She saw him gulp before he added, “We’re desperate enough.”

Turning away, he grabbed the Vorpal Sword and thrust it back into his hat, which he yanked onto his head. The bells were too bright, too joyful, and they echoed sharply in Cath’s ears.

Jest swooped his arms beneath her.

“Nonsense! You can’t carry her the whole way!” cried Mary Ann.

“I assure you, I can,” he said, and any further protests were drowned out by the roar of an earthquake beneath their feet, the crash and rumble of the theater floor suddenly erupting.

Around them. Under them. A tower of stones thrust upward, trapping Jest and Catherine in its center.

Her breath caught as she stared at the walls that cocooned them, where far, far above her she could see a jagged parapet and the theater chandeliers, getting farther and farther away.

They were sinking, but for the rumble of the ground, it felt as though they weren’t moving at all.

“How?” she breathed, sure she was hallucinating. “How are you…?”

Jest’s brows were drawn tight as he peered down at her face. “I’m a Rook,” he said, as if this were answer enough. Then he whispered, “And I’m sorry for this.”

He lifted her into his arms.

Agony crashed through her all at once, a red-hot poker jammed into her leg. She screamed—

Dizzy, throbbing, raw sparks shot up her limbs. Cath awoke crying and disoriented. The hard floor of the theater lobby was now soft, cool grass. She tasted salt on her tongue, felt the crumbly leftovers of tears on her cheeks.

She was surrounded by trees and shrubs that towered palatially above her. The world smelled of dirt and growing things, plus a hint of something sweet, like warm molasses and ginger biscuits.

She heard a creaking rope and grinding pulleys, but that could have been all the noise in the world. No birdsong, no crickets, no chattering voices.

Head drooping to the side, she squinted open her eyes.

She was in a meadow of sorts—the sharp blades of grass pressing into her temple. The world felt still—no breeze among the wildflowers, no birdsong chiming from the trees. Though it had been evening when they’d arrived at the theater, the light was reddish gold here, trapped between day and night.

Through her bleary lashes she spotted an ancient well in the glen’s center, its stones worked through with moss and a family of mushrooms growing around its base.

Jest stood beside it. His hat was on the ledge and his sleeves were pushed up past his elbows, revealing tan skin above his dark gloves.

He pulled on the rope, lifting the water bucket one crank at a time.

From how he groaned, it was clear that either the bucket was very heavy or the gears were very old or his arms were very, very tired.

He’d carried her here.

How far was that?

Cath had no idea where here was or how much time had passed.

Another shot of pain had her whole face tightening up. She whimpered.

“Almost there, Catherine,” Jest said through his panting.

He tied off the rope and she could hear the slop of liquid as he pried the bucket off the hook.

“Here we are.” He teetered toward her. Something spilled over the bucket’s side and Cath could see years of buildup on the wood—something sticky and caramel colored. Not water.

“This isn’t the beach,” she said, trying to focus on something other than the pain. “You were supposed to take me—”

“This is better.” He set the bucket beside her. “Much faster than the Sturgeons, I promise. Can you sit?”

Dizziness threatened her as Jest helped her sit and for the first time she saw her leg.

He had cut away her boot. The stocking, too, had been trimmed off at her calf, leaving her ankle bare.

It hardly looked like her ankle at all. It was swollen and purple.

Her foot was turned at an odd angle and there was a massive lump on one side—the bone, she suspected, just shy of pushing through the skin.

She whimpered again. Seeing the reality of it made the pain flare up all over again.

“Here,” said Jest, reaching for a wooden cup inside the bucket. The dark liquid squelched and sucked as he pulled it out, dribbling like honey down the sides. “Drink this.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“Treacle. ”

“Treacle? That isn’t—”

“Just drink it, Catherine.” He sat beside her as she took the cup in her weak hands, her fingers sticking to the sides. Jest was so close his knee was pressed against her thigh, his hands ready to assist her if she needed it.

The treacle well—another impossible tale. A place where sweetened syrup bubbled up from the depths of the earth, containing mythical healing properties.

And Jest had found it. Jest knew where it was. How…?

Her mind was too hazy to think. She drank, because she couldn’t think of any reason not to, though drinking the treacle was a slow, thick process. Like slurping down spoonful after spoonful of the thickest, sweetest, richest syrup.

It was delicious.

Oh, what she wouldn’t give to make a treacle-bourbon-pecan pie with it.

Or that clootie dumpling, just to prove to Mr. Caterpillar that he was wrong and the well did exist after all.

As the syrup filled her stomach, its warmth seeped into her body. It spread through her limbs, growing hotter, like her muscles had been set aflame. It was its own sort of pain, but nothing like her shattered ankle.

“It’s working,” said Jest.

She hardly felt it. The slow straightening of the joint, the shrinking of the lump, the gradual reduction of her swollen flesh.

She slumped forward as the pain became bearable, then bordered on slight discomfort, then disappeared altogether.

Jest brushed a strand of hair off her brow. “How does it feel?”