Catherine fell back into her body with a jolt, and nothing was distant any more. The air was stifling. She was choking on panic and disbelief. She ordered herself to be strong, but it was difficult when she could hardly believe this had become her reality.

Was it only yesterday Jest had taken her to the treacle well? Only yesterday when he had kissed her breathless?

‘Lady Catherine Pinkerton of Rock Turtle Cove,’ the King said, all tenderness and joy. His voice magnified in her skull. He knelt before her. His fingers were clammy and thick. ‘Would you do me the great honour of becoming my wife and my queen?’

A delighted gasp burst from the crowd.

Tearing her attention away from the King, Catherine found herself staring at the people she had known all her life. They all looked so happy, so eager.

It was a startling realization to her that the King was right about this. He wanted to pretend the attacks weren’t happening, that the Jabberwock wasn’t a very real nightmare. He wanted his people to feel safe and happy in their beds at night, and to do that, he would take their minds off it with a proposal. A wedding. A new queen – a queen who had battled the Jabberwock and survived.

It was a coward’s solution, but it was working.

She wondered what would become of Hearts after Jest claimed his prize. When her heart was given to him and taken back to Chess and this kingdom was left with a hollow husk of a queen instead.

She imagined they would all go about their lives and pretend nothing had changed. Pretend that all was well. Pretend, like they always did.

Chess needed her. Hearts did not.

She squared her shoulders and faced the King, who was still kneeling with her hand between his damp palms. His face jovial and honest. He did not deserve the ungrateful wife he was going to be trapped with.

She held his gaze and stretched a smile over her lips. ‘I will, Your Majesty.’

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 on to 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 centre of the dance floor. She found herself facing him, staring down at his curled moustache 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 axe.

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.’