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“S O YOU CAME BACK to finish it?” Peter growled, his lips curled back to show yellowing teeth. Cath recoiled at the smell of rotting pumpkin on his breath, but he held her firm against the cottage’s side.

“I—I came for Mary Ann,” she stammered, wishing she could have sounded courageous, but her words came out a squeaking rush. “P-please let us go. We don’t wish you any harm… We just…”

“Where is it?” Peter said, ignoring her pleas as he thumped his big hands down Cath’s hips, pressing down the voluminous fabric, searching. “Where’s the sword?”

Cath squirmed against the wall. “I don’t have it, I swear. I just want to get Mary Ann and leave, and you’ll never see either of us again, I promise!”

“Give it to me!” Peter yelled, spittle flicking against Catherine’s cheeks.

A black shape appeared in the corner of her eyes, then a roar as Jest flung himself toward them and locked his scepter beneath Peter’s chin. “Let her go!”

Whether it was the command or the scepter or mere surprise, Peter did release her. Cath slid down the wall, grasping at her bruised shoulder.

No. No, Jest couldn’t be here.

The charcoal drawings flashed through her thoughts.

Peter was a head taller and twice the girth of Jest, and with a snarl he had grabbed the scepter with his free hand and tossed Jest over his shoulder .

But Jest—blithe, magical Jest—turned the movement into a cartwheel, landing easily on his feet.

Hope fluttered through Cath’s rib cage, but then her eye caught on another shadowy figure.

Someone large and unfamiliar, each step built upon a threat.

It was a man, tall and lean and wearing a black hood that hung low, concealing his face.

A leather belt was strapped over his black tunic, and tucked into it was a massive, curve-bladed ax.

The inked drawing. The hooded figure. The ax brandished over Jest’s headless form.

Cath screamed. “Jest! Look out!”

Peter loped forward, preparing to swing his ax.

Jest ducked away. He glanced at the hooded figure stalking toward them. “It’s all right, Cath,” he panted, tumbling away from Peter again. “It’s only Raven.”

Her heart sputtered, and this did nothing to alleviate her panic. Murderer, martyr…

Jest snatched his scepter off the ground where Peter had thrown it and danced out of reach. It occurred to Cath that he was leading Peter away from her. Protecting her.

“He won’t hurt you,” Jest yelled again, his eyes glued to Peter. “He just looks threatening because, well…” He ducked. Spun. “He used to be an executioner for the White Queen.”

She looked back at the hooded man. Watched as he set his enormous hand, cloaked in a leather glove, atop his ax’s handle.

It was not her fate she was worried about.

She forced her feet to move away from the cottage wall and stumbled toward Raven, intercepting him before he could get too near to Jest, before he could interfere. Jest was quick and agile and clever. Peter was crazed and slow.

She had to believe that Jest would be okay. But if the Sisters’ prophecy came true…

“Raven!” she cried, clutching his arm. She caught a glimpse of ink-black eyes glinting in the shadows of his hood. Otherwise, she could see nothing of his face or form. Just an empty hood, dark eyes peering out of dark nothingness.

“Raven,” she said again. “Please—you have to help Mary Ann.”

The hood shifted, and she felt, rather than saw, his attention latching on to her.

“Peter has her trapped in a pumpkin and I don’t know how to get her out. But with your ax… you could… Please , Raven. He’s going to feed her to the Jabberwock!”

His attention shifted to Jest. Pondering. Calculating.

“Raven,” Cath whispered, desperate, “think of the Sisters’ drawing. We can’t let it come true. You shouldn’t be here. Neither of you should have come back.”

His chest and shoulders rose with a deep inhale, and the hood fluttered with a nod.

Cath slumped with relief. “She’s behind the cottage.”

He pulled his hood farther over his face and retreated, disappearing into the mist.

She turned back to the brawl. Jest was crouched on the ground, his face contorted and his hair matted to his forehead.

His jester’s hat had fallen off during the fight and now sat atop one of the Jack-O’-Lanterns.

He was gripping the scepter, but it had been splintered in half, making for a pathetically short stick, while Peter still held his ax in both fists.

Jest looked like he was in pain—from what injury Cath couldn’t tell—but he was also alert and composed. While Peter, larger and better armed, was panting heavily.

Cath’s gaze dropped again to the hat. A single thought ricocheted through her head.

The sword.

“This isn’t necessary,” Jest said, disarmingly polite. “Let us go and you’ll never see us again. We’re only here for Mary Ann. ”

“You came to kill her!” Peter roared.

Jest frowned. “Who?”

With a battle cry, Peter rolled toward him and swung, but Jest dodged to the side and shot to his feet a safe distance away, holding the broken scepter like a shield.

“I won’t let you touch her!” Peter yelled.

“We don’t wish to harm anyone…”

Peter’s back was turned to Cath. Her gaze attached to the three-pointed hat. She clenched her jaw, grabbed her muddied skirt in both fists, and ran.

The mud slopped and slurped, dragging her heels down, but she didn’t stop. Her focus was on the hat and the weapon it might have inside it.

A sword. Jest had a better chance of defending himself with a sword…

A screech spiked in her head and Cath stumbled, throwing her hands over her ears. Dead leaves and withered vines fluttered beneath a massive pair of wings.

The Jabberwock crashed to the ground, blocking her path.

Cath staggered backward.

The beast curled its serpentine neck toward the sky and snorted, its nostrils steaming. Her nostrils steaming, Cath thought, picturing the frail woman. A victim of too many poisoned pumpkins.

The Jabberwock’s right eye had healed over, sealing it forever shut, but the left was still an ember of coal. The beast tilted her head to the side, eyeing Cath as her massive claws scraped across the ground.

“Cath!” Jest screamed. Then, louder still, with an edge of hope—“Hatta!”

His yell was cut short by a thump and a groan. Cath’s head swiveled around in time to see Jest collapse onto his side. The pumpkin Peter had thrown shattered on the ground beside him. Cath cried out, horrified. In the broken shell pieces she could see a single triangle eye .

Jest was all right. He had to be all right. He was groaning, one hand pressed to his head. Cath took a step toward him but the Jabberwock snapped, sending her stumbling backward again.

She spotted Hatta now, running toward them at full speed, his colorful shirt too vibrant for the gloomy patch. His gaze flicked to the Jabberwock, to Jest, to Peter, more horrified with every heartbeat.

Peter spotted him and snarled. His grip tightened around the ax handle. “ You! ”

The Jabberwock prowled closer to Cath, tongue slithering between razor teeth, leaving a trail of saliva in the mud. Cath stumbled backward.

“Hatta,” she said, her voice warbling. “Jest’s hat. It might have the sword.”

Hatta was shaking his head, as if denying that any of this were happening, as if wondering why he’d ever left the comfort of his hat shop. “We should not have come back,” he murmured, but in the next moment he was sprinting toward the hat, scooping it into his hands.

The Jabberwock swiped at Catherine. She screamed and jumped away.

One claw caught on her muddied gown, drawing a great tear across the front of the skirt and into the heavy petticoat, barely missing her knees.

Catherine wondered whether she was lucky, or whether the beast liked to toy with its food before devouring it.

Hatta cursed, still digging through the hat.

A pile of assorted joker’s tricks grew around him.

Bright juggling balls. A deck of cards. A bundle of scarves knotted together.

Silver hoops. Fireworks and sparklers. Smoke bombs.

A stuffed rabbit. A single white rose, its petals turning brittle.

“It’s not here!” He pulled out his arm and bunched the hat in his fist. “It has to be you!” His eyes pierced Catherine beneath the Jabberwock’s outstretched wing. “It answers only to royalty, love.”

“But I’m not—”

He threw the hat. It landed a couple of yards away. She couldn’t get to it without edging closer to the Jabberwock .

“ YOU! ”

Peter’s howl was so sharp and loud even the Jabberwock swiveled her head toward him.

Seizing her chance, Cath darted toward the hat. She snatched the hat off the ground and thrust her arm inside, still running. As before, her fingers curled around the bone-studded handle and the sword emerged, gleaming.

Cath halted and spun back to face the monster.

The Jabberwock snarled and hunkered her head in between muscled, scaly shoulders. She took a step back, her single burning eye studying the sword like a lifelong enemy.

Cath raised the weapon with both hands. It was heavy, but determination strengthened her arms. Resolve pumped through her veins.

The beast took another step away.

Cath dared to glance at Jest, afraid it was already too late, that she would see the vision from the drawings…

But no, he was alive, and had managed to get back to his feet. One hand was pressed to the side of his head. He seemed dazed. His feet kept stumbling out from beneath him as if he couldn’t hold his balance. If he noticed Cath standing there with the Vorpal Sword, he showed no sign of recognition.

“How dare you show your face here?” Peter yelled. His face was flaming red, his nostrils flared with rage.

“Such a pleasure to see you again, as well,” said Hatta, seemingly unsurprised that the pumpkin grower looked ready to tear him apart. “How is business?”