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S HE WAS GROWING IMPATIENT. Her hatred was burning a hole through her stomach, and it flared hotter every day that passed.

Her fury burbled beneath the surface of her skin, often flaring in bouts of unexpected temper.

Servants began to avoid her. The King dwindled into nothing more than a babbling idiot in her presence.

All the members of the gentry that had doted on her after the wedding stopped making their calls.

Cath despised court days the most. She was the Queen and she had envisioned her iron word falling down on the people of Hearts. Laws would be executed, wrongdoers punished.

Instead she was trapped in a courtroom of absurdity and pandemonium. The jury, which had no purpose other than to squawk at one another and interrupt the proceedings, was made up of herons and badgers, kiwi birds and otters and hedgehogs, and not one of them with a bit of sense.

Not that it mattered, given the cases. A mouse who thought it was unfair that his brother had gotten a longer tail, a stork who thought it species profiling that she was forced to be the kingdom’s sole baby carrier, and so on and so forth. Court days were agony.

Catherine spared a sympathetic look for Raven, who was perched on the rail that boxed in the thrones. His head was tucked between his neck feathers, his beak tight with disgust .

The Rabbit blew his trumpet. “Calling to the court the Most Noble Pygmalion Warthog, Duke of Tuskany, and Lady Margaret Mearle, daughter of the Count and Countess of Crossroads.”

Cath lifted an eyebrow and watched as Margaret approached, her arm linked with the Duke’s. They both appeared nervous. Margaret was wearing that stupid rosebud hat.

They bowed. Margaret’s eyes darted to Catherine before lowering again.

“Good day,” chirped the King, who looked extra absurd wearing an enormous powdered wig beneath his lopsided crown. “What is your request?”

“Your Majesty,” said the Duke, “we wish for you to marry us.”

A rustle of surprise flittered through the crowd.

The King wobbled gleefully. “Oh, I love these ones!” He plastered on his almost-serious face and leaned forward, clearing his throat. “Is the lady under the jurisdiction of her father?”

“I am, Your Majesty,” said Margaret.

“And what has he said to your request?”

“He has blessed the union.”

“And for what reason do you wish to be married?” asked the King.

The Duke smiled around his tusks. “Because we love each other.”

The King beamed. The crowd swooned.

Cath rolled her eyes.

“What does the lady say?”

Margaret gripped the Duke’s elbow and lifted her chin.

Her eyes were glowing, with nerves, yes, but also joy.

In that moment she looked not just pretty, but nearly beautiful.

“He speaks the truth. I have come to understand that Lord Warthog is the only man I could ever entrust the protection of my most championed integrity to, a man who upholds himself to the same rigorous standards which I deem to be of utmost value, and for this, I love him very much. We love each other very much. ”

Catherine scoffed, but everyone ignored her.

The King gestured for Margaret to come closer. When she was close enough, he whispered, “You are aware that he’s a pig, yes?”

Her mouth fell open in outrage. “Your Majesty! What a crude thing to suggest!”

A long, awkward silence followed, until the King started to giggle, embarrassed. “Er—my mistake! Never mind!” He waved his hands and sent her back to her groom’s side. “As I see no reason to deny this request, I now deem you—”

Catherine shoved herself to her feet. “Wait.”

There was a nervous squeak from the onlookers and several of the smaller creatures dove off their chairs and cowered beneath them. Margaret paled.

“Margaret Mearle, I have known you my whole life, and in that time I have heard you refer to the Duke as arrogant, rude, and excruciatingly dull. Now you expect us to believe you wish to marry him. Not for his wealth or his title, but because you claim to love him.”

Margaret gaped at her, cheeks blotchy with mortification.

Cath leaned forward. “Do you know what the moral of that is, Lady Mearle?”

Lips thinning into a line, Margaret barely managed to shake her head.

“The moral of that”—she inhaled sharply—“is that ‘you can’t judge a book by its cover.’”

Margaret said nothing for a long time, as if waiting for Cath to say more. Finally, she drew her brows together into an uncertain frown. “All due respect, Your Majesty, but that sounds like nonsense.”

“Oh, it is,” said Catherine. “I suppose what I mean to say is that you are well suited to each other.”

Margaret was still frowning, like she was waiting for Catherine to deny their marriage request. But when the audience cheered and Cath sat down again, a grin shifted over Margaret’s face. She peered up at the Duke and the look that passed between them was almost magical.

Almost impossible.

Catherine looked away when their marriage was granted.

The couple rushed from the courtroom to vigorous applause, tripping over themselves in their glee. Catherine’s shoulders slumped once they had gone.

The celebration quieted and the creatures returned to their seats, though many were still beaming and congratulating one another over nothing.

Cath noticed Raven watching her.

“What?” she snapped.

Raven started to shake his head, but stopped and puffed up his feathers.

His voice was melancholy when he spoke—even more melancholy than usual.

“Once I was a lonely Rook upon a distant shore, and I would murder for my queen so we might win a war. Now mine eyes see the heart that once we did search for, and I fear this heart shall be mended, nevermore.”

Cath’s nostrils flared. “Your fears are correct. Such a heart can’t be mended. I hope I won’t be tasked with keeping such a useless artifact for much longer.”

The White Rabbit blew his horn, saving her from the bitter taste that was crawling up her throat. “Next to the court is Sir Milton Mulro—”

The doors at the end of the courtroom slammed open, letting in a gust of chilled air.

An owl swooped in through the double doors, its wings spread to their full span as it glided down the aisle. Three more silhouettes emerged in the doorway. A sleek red fox and a sly raccoon, each of them holding a chain that attached to a bedraggled figure between them.

Cath’s heart thumped. She didn’t remember standing, but she was on her feet as the arrivals marched down the aisle. Her stomach twisted. Her breaths came faster.

When they reached the front of the courtroom, the creatures deposited their prisoner on the floor. He seemed smaller than Cath remembered—bruised and covered in mud.

Fury throbbed inside her, filling the hollowness she’d grown accustomed to.

Finally. Peter Peter had been found.

As one, his captors reached for their faces and shed their masks and skins like Cath might shed a winter cloak. The Three Sisters stood before her, their small hands gripping Sir Peter’s chains, their black eyes peering up at the Queen.

“We had a bargain,” said Tillie.

“We made a deal,” said Elsie.

Lacie’s pale lips stretched thin. “We have come to take our toll.”

“Wh-wh-what is this?” the King stammered, looking at the Sisters like they were a nightmare turned real.

“That is Sir Peter,” Catherine answered. The name tasted like iron and filth.

Peter Peter snarled at her.

Mr. Caterpillar, one of the jurors, blew out a ring of smoke that swirled around the Sisters’ heads. “And who ,” he asked, “are you ?”

Elsie clasped her hands together, as if she were about to recite a poem. “There were once Three Sisters who lived in a well. They were very ill.”

“They were dying,” clarified Lacie.

Tillie nodded. “They were dying for a long time.”

“But they knew,” continued Elsie, “that one day there would be a queen who would have a heart she had no use for. Such a heart could sustain them.”

“That queen is here,” said Tillie. “That time is now. ”

In unison, the girls drawled, “We have brought your vengeance, and we shall have your heart in return.”

Cath’s attention didn’t lift from Peter Peter. “Take it. As you said, I have no use for it.”

The Sisters’ wretched smiles glinted and Lacie stepped forward, her long white hair swaying against her ankles. She pulled out a jagged knife, from where Cath couldn’t tell.

Choking, the King pushed back his throne, putting more space between himself and the child. But Cath didn’t move. She held Lacie’s gaze and listened to the rush of blood in her ears.

Lacie climbed up the Queen’s box with the grace of a fox. She sat back on her heels, her bare, dirt-crusted toes curled around the wooden rail. Cath smelled the treacle on her skin.

She raised the dagger and plunged it into Cath’s chest.

Catherine gasped, and though there were screams in the courtroom, she barely heard them over the cackle of the Three Sisters.

Cold seeped into her from the blade, colder than anything she had ever known. It leached into her veins, crackling like winter ice on a frozen lake. It was so cold it burned.

Lacie pulled out the blade. A beating heart was skewered on its tip. It was broken, cut almost clean in half by a blackened fissure that was filled with dust and ash.

“It has been bought and paid for,” said the Sister.

Then she yipped and launched herself back to the courtroom floor.

She was joined by her sisters, cackling and crowding around the Queen’s heart.

A moment later, a Fox, a Raccoon, and an Owl were skittering out the door, leaving behind the echo of victorious laughter.