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Her words had barely left her when the crowd erupted into cheers. All around her, women dabbed the corners of their eyes with handkerchiefs, like they were witnessing something beautiful. Men tipped their hats. The orchestra started up with an enthusiastic song, deafening with celebration.

She sought out her parents. The Marquess stood at her mother’s side, an arm around her shoulders. They both looked so delighted, so proud .

Cath felt like she didn’t even know them.

Her gaze scanned the crowd, searching, searching, but she didn’t see Jest. She wanted to know if he was as miserable as she was. She wanted to know if he understood why she was doing it. She wanted to know if he was grateful for her sacrifice, or angry that she had broken her promise.

The crowd began to swarm onto the stage.

Women she hadn’t spoken to in years grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her into embraces, brushed kisses against her cheeks, adoringly pressed her hands.

She heard the Dowager Countess Wontuthry making a bawdy joke about the wedding night, and a couple of the courtiers placing bets on when the kingdom would have its first prince or princess.

Congratulations whirred through her ears.

You are such a lucky girl…

The Marquess and Marchioness must be overjoyed…

What a pretty queen you’ll make…

She ran her hands down the sides of her stiff skirt, trying to rid them of the touch of so much unwanted kindness. This was her decision, she reminded herself. She had made her choice.

Someone called for a dance, and another cheer filled the ballroom. She and the King were ushered off the dais, down to the center of the dance floor. She found herself facing him, staring down at his curled mustache and twinkling eyes and a grin that could not have looked any happier.

“Oh, Lady Pinkerton, my decadent truffle,” he said, tears gathering in his eyes. “You have made me the happiest of men!”

She felt the twist of guilt in her chest.

She was going to be ill.

How much longer could she keep up this feigned joy? She didn’t think she would last the night, much less the rest of her life.

The orchestra started up again and the King reached for her hands. She shoved her derision down as far as she could and placed her palms into his .

But before the dance could begin, a crash echoed through the ballroom—the massive entry doors being thrown open and colliding with the quartz walls. A gust of wind blew in, extinguishing the chandeliers overhead in a single breath and casting the guests in blackness.

A swath of light from the open doors cut through the ballroom and two shadowy silhouettes stretched along with it, reaching almost to where Cath and the King stood. One silhouette she remembered from that first night in the gardens—a hooded man gripping an enormous curve-bladed ax.

The other shadow wore a three-pointed hat.

Jest stood in the doorway, once again in his joker’s motley, his feathered mask replaced with the dark kohl and dripping heart. Raven was perched on his shoulder.

The King squeaked. “Jest?”

“Jest,” Cath breathed in response, letting her hands fall out of his grip.

Though she could barely make out Jest’s face in the darkness, she knew he was looking at her. Only at her.

“I know a way,” he said, his voice calm and cutting through the stunned silence. “I know a way, Catherine. We can be together and save Chess and you can have your bakery, and all of it.”

Her lips parted, almost not daring to hope.

“You would be giving up all of this,” he said, gesturing at the ballroom and the masqueraders, “but I think you were already willing to do that.” He paused and took in a hesitant breath. “I know another way, my lady.”

“This… this man!” The Marchioness’s high-pitched voice cut through the stillness.

“He is the one who tricked my beloved daughter, who would make your future queen out to be a strumpet. He is deceitful and wicked and he must be stopped!” She stepped out of the crowd and waved her arms at the King. “Your Majesty, do something!”

“O-oh, yes! Guards! Guards!” the King wailed, pointing at the Clubs that lined the ballroom. “Capture him! ”

It took another moment for the guards to shake off their befuddlement and begin to mobilize, their boots clomping against the tile.

Jest never took his attention from Cath. “What do you choose?” he whispered, and though he was so far away, she could hear him plainly. Hope and wanting, so much wanting.

The guards hoisted their weapons and moved toward him, pushing their way through the startled crowd.

“You,” she whispered back to him, and though her voice barely reached even her own ears, she saw the brightness enter his eyes. “Over everything, I choose you.”

He grinned and moved toward the stairs.

Cath grabbed her skirts and began to rush toward him, ignoring the startled cries of the crowd, her mother’s shrieks, the guards’ thundering footsteps. They would reach him before she did, though Jest was swooping down the steps. The guards changed directions. Aimed their spears.

Cath started to run. She could see the collision coming, and she didn’t know if she could make it to him before the guards did, and the King was calling her name and her father was ordering her to stop and Raven was lifting off Jest’s shoulder and soaring overhead.

Something sparked at her feet. Smoke thickened the air.

The guards drew up short.

Cath tripped, but Jest’s arms were already around her, like feathers against her skin, carrying her away.