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C ATHERINE ALLOWED HERSELF A HUFF. Sir Peter’s presence, combined with the strangling corset, had nearly suffocated her. “A right pleasure indeed.”

“He’s a sore thumb, isn’t he?”

She turned and spotted a silver tray floating in the air above the table, overflowing with golden-crusted hand pies, neatly crimped on one edge.

“Ah, hello again, Cheshire,” said Catherine, filled with relief that she might have one encounter this evening that didn’t leave her weary and vexed. Though with Cheshire, it could go either way. “Are you supposed to be here?”

“Not likely.”

The cat appeared with the tray resting on his tummy, his striped tail like a lounging chair beneath him. His head came last—ears, whiskers, nose, and finally his enormous toothy grin.

“You look absurd,” Cheshire drawled, taking a pastry between two sharp claws and popping it into his gigantic mouth. A cloud of savory steam erupted from between his teeth, smelling of sweet squash.

“The dress was my mother’s idea,” said Catherine. Placing a hand on her abdomen, she took in the largest breath she was capable of. She was beginning to feel light-headed. “Are those pumpkin pasties, by chance? Lady Peter was asking after them. They smell delicious.”

“They are. I would offer you one, but I don’t want to. ”

“That’s not polite at all. And unless you have an invitation, you might want to put them down and disappear again before someone sees you.”

Cheshire grunted, unconcerned. “I just thought you might like to know…” He yawned exaggeratedly. “… that the Knave is stealing your tarts.”

“What?” Cath spun around, casting her glance around the feasting table, but Jack was nowhere in sight. She frowned.

When she turned back, Cheshire’s humongous cheeks were bulging with the entire tray’s worth of pasties.

Cath rolled her eyes and waited for him to chew and swallow, which he made quick work of with his enormous teeth.

Cheshire burped, then dug a nail into the space beside his front molar. “Oh, please,” he said, inspecting the nail and finding a bit of pumpkin filling stuck to it. “You don’t think those tarts would have lasted this far into the evening, do you?”

She spotted the familiar tray, then, near the edge of the feasting table. All that remained of her lemon tarts were a few crumbs, a drift of powdered sugar outlining three empty circles, and a smear of sunshine yellow.

It was as bittersweet as dark chocolate, that empty tray. Catherine was always pleased when her desserts were enjoyed, but, in this case, after the dream and the lemon tree… she would have liked to try at least a tiny bite for herself.

She sighed, disappointed.

“Did you try them, Cheshire?”

The cat tsked at her. “I had an entire tart, my dear. Irresistible as it was.”

Cath shook her head. “You would have made a better pig.”

“How vulgar.” He twisted in the air, rolling over like a log on the ocean, and vanished along with the now-empty dish.

“And what do you have against pigs?” Cath said to the empty space. “Baby piglets are almost as cute as kittens, if you ask me.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. ”

She swiveled around again. The cat had reappeared on the other side of the table. Or, his head and one paw had, which he began to lick.

“Though I’m sure Lord Warthog would appreciate the sentiment,” he added.

“Do you know if His Majesty had a chance to try the tarts?”

“Oh yes. I saw him sneaking a slice—and then a second, and then a third—while you and Mary Ann were chatting about the pumpkin eater.” The rest of his body materialized as he talked. “Shame on you, to gossip so.”

She lifted an eyebrow. Cheshire was an expert gossip. It was part of the reason why she enjoyed talking to him, though it also made her nervous. Catherine did not want his gossip-milling to ever turn on her. “Does that make you the pot or the kettle?”

“Still a cat, my dear, and not even an unlucky one.”

“Actually…” Catherine cocked her head. “You may not be a black cat, and yet your pedigree is something changed. You’re looking rather orange of a sudden.”

Cheshire curled his tail, newly oranged, in front of his crossed eyes. “So I am. Is orange my color?”

“It looks fine, but doesn’t match the night’s color scheme. What a pair we must make.”

“I imagine it was the pumpkin pasties. A shame they weren’t fish.”

“You want to turn fish-colored?”

“Rainbow trout, maybe. You should consider adding fish to your baking next time too. I’d love a tuna tart.”

“Tuna tartare?”

“Why, you’ll make a stuffed bird laugh if you go on like that.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“By-the-bye, have you heard the rumors?”

“Rumors…” She searched her memory. “You mean, about Mr. Caterpillar moving to a smaller storefront? ”

Cheshire’s head spun upside down. “How slow you are tonight. I was speaking of the rumors surrounding the new court joker.”

She perked up. “No. I haven’t heard anything about him.”

“Neither have I.”

She furrowed her brow. “Cheshire, that is the opposite of a rumor.”

“Contrariwise. I haven’t the faintest idea who he is or where he came from.

It’s all very odd.” Cheshire licked his paw and cleaned behind his ear, which struck Catherine as impolite, being so close to the table.

“They say he walked right up to the palace gates three days past, already dressed in fool’s motley, and asked for an audience with the King.

He performed a magic trick or two—something about shuffling the Diamond courtiers and asking His Majesty to pick one card out of the set…

I couldn’t follow the details. In the end, he was given the job. ”

Catherine pictured the Joker lounging on that suspended silver hoop, almost as if he expected the King’s guests to entertain him, not the other way around.

He had been so poised. Though she hadn’t questioned it before, Cheshire’s curiosity piqued hers.

Hearts was a small kingdom. Where had he come from?

“Have you heard the other rumors?” continued Cheshire.

“I’m not sure. What other rumors?”

Cheshire rolled onto his stomach and cupped his face in his furry paws. “His Congenial Kingness has chosen a bride.”

Her eyes widened. “No! Who is it?” She glanced around the room. Certainly not Margaret. Perhaps Lady Adela from Lingerfoote or Lady Willow from Lister Hill or—

Or …

Her breath hiccupped.

A wash of goose bumps spread down her limbs.

Her mother’s enthusiasm.

The first quadrille .

The King’s flustered grin.

She whipped her head back toward Cheshire. His enormous grin struck her as extra mocking.

“You can’t mean it.”

“Can’t I?” He peered up at the chandeliers. “I thought for sure I was capable of that , at the least.”

“Cheshire, this isn’t amusing. The King can’t—he wouldn’t—”

A trumpet blared, echoing off the pink quartz walls.

Catherine’s head spun. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

“Cheshire! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” cried the White Rabbit, his pitchy voice insignificant after the horn. “His Royal Majesty has prepared a special announcement for this evening.”

“Shall I congratulate you now?” Cheshire asked. “Or do you suppose premature well-wishes could bring bad luck? I can never recall the proper etiquette in these situations.”

A curtain of heat embraced her, from brow to toes. She could have sworn someone was pulling on the staylace of her corset as her breaths grew shorter.

“I can’t. Oh, Cheshire, I can’t.”

“You may want to practice a different response before you go up there.”

The crowd applauded. The King stepped onto the stage at the far end of the ballroom. Catherine cast her eyes around, searching for her parents, and when she found her mother beaming and brushing a tear from her lashes, the reality settled around her.

The King of Hearts was about to propose to her.

But—but he couldn’t. He’d never done anything more than compliment her baking and ask her to dance.

They hadn’t courted… but, did kings have to court?

She didn’t know. She knew only that her stomach had tied itself into triple knots and the idea of marrying him was preposterous.

She had never once considered that the silly man could want anything from her but sweets and pastries.

Certainly not a bride, and… oh heavens, children.

A bead of sweat dripped down the back of her neck.

“Cheshire, what do I do?”

“Say yes, I suppose. Or say no. It matters not to me. Are you sure orange is my color?” He was inspecting his tail again.

Desperation clawed at Catherine’s throat.

The King. The simpleminded, ridiculous, happy, happy King.

Her husband? Her one and only? Her partner through life’s trials and joys?

She would be queen, and queens… queens did not open bakeries with their best friends. Queens did not gossip with half-invisible cats. Queens did not have dreams of yellow-eyed boys and wake up with lemon trees over their beds.

She tried to swallow, but her mouth had dried up like stale cake.

The King cleared his throat. “Fair evening, loyal subjects! I hope you have all enjoyed tonight’s delights!”

More applause, at which the King clasped his own hands together and bobbed up and down a few times.

“I wish to make an announcement. A good announcement, nothing to be worried about.” He giggled at what might have been a joke.

“It has come time for me to choose for myself a wife, and for my subjects… a most adored Queen of Hearts! And”—the King kept giggling—“with any luck, bring our kingdom an heir, as well.”

Catherine stepped back from the feasting table. She couldn’t feel her toes.

“Cheshire…?”

“Lady Catherine? ”

“It is my honor,” continued the King, “to call up the lady I have chosen for my life’s companion.”

“Please,” said Catherine, “cause a distraction. Anything!”

Cheshire’s tail twitched, and he vanished. Only his voice lingered, murmuring, “With pleasure, Lady Catherine.”

The King spread his arms. “Would the ever lovely, delightful, and stupendous Lady Cathe—”

“ Aaaagghh! ”

As one, the crowd turned. Margaret Mearle kept screaming, swatting at the orange-striped cat who had appeared on top of her head, curled up beneath her fur headdress.

Catherine alone turned the other way.

She fled out to the balcony, running as fast as her heeled boots and strangling corset would allow. The cool night air sent a chill racing across her enflamed skin, but every breath remained a struggle.

She lifted her skirts and slipped down the steps into the rose gardens. She heard a splinter of glass and startled cries behind her and wondered what chaos Cheshire must be causing now, but she dared not look back, not even as she reached the gardens.

The world tilted. She paused at a wrought-iron gate, gripping one of the decorative finials for support.

Catching her breath, she stumbled on. Down the clover-filled path between rose arbors and trickling fountains, passing topiaries and statues and a pond of water lilies.

She reached for the back of her dress, desperate to loosen the stays.

To breathe. But she couldn’t reach. She was suffocating.

She was going to be sick.

She was going to faint.

A shadow reared up in front of her, backlit from the blazing castle lights so that the silhouette stretched over the croquet lawns. Catherine cried out and stumbled to a halt, damp hair matted to her neck .

The shadow of a hooded man engulfed her. As Catherine stared, the silhouette lifted an enormous ax, the curved blade arching across the grass.

Trembling, Catherine spun around. A dark shape dropped toward her out of the sky. She screamed and threw her arms up in defense.

The raven cawed, so close she could feel his wing beats as he flew past.

“Are you all right?”

She gasped and withdrew her arms. Her heart was thundering as she peered up into the boughs of a white rose tree.

It took a moment to find him in the dark. The Joker was lounging on a low-hanging branch, a silver flute in his hands, though if he’d been playing it before, she’d been too distracted to notice.

Her lashes fluttered. Half of her hair had fallen from its chignon and draped over her shoulder. Her skin was burning hot. The world was spinning wildly—swirling with lemon tarts and invisible cats and curved axes and…

The Joker tensed, his brow creasing. “My lady?”

The world tilted severely and turned black.