‘Then how could you possibly know it’s real? How could you possibly know what will or won’t happen?’ She turned back to Jest, unwilling to hear whatever excuse Hatta would make next. She lifted Jest’s hand and pressed a kiss into his palm. ‘Stay here,’ she said. ‘Wait for me.’

Pulling away, she faced the massive gate, wrapped her fingers around the bars, and pushed her way through.

CHAPTER 46

HER FEET SANK into the muddied ground of the pumpkin patch. Mist swirled around her, clinging to her skin. The patch felt like a place that had never known light or warmth. She wished she’d kept Hatta’s coat, wished she hadn’t let her emotions carry her away, even if he had been insufferable at the time.

To her left she could see the enormous pumpkin with its carved-bar windows. Mary Ann’s cries had quieted, but Cath could still hear her sobs carrying over the otherwise-silent patch.

To her right was the cottage, this time without the smell of wood smoke and the welcoming light behind the windows. It seemed deserted.

She could no longer see Peter in the distance.

Picking up her skirts, Catherine trampled through the overgrown vines, hurrying towards the pumpkin where Mary Ann was being kept prisoner, casting terrified glances over her shoulder at every noise. The shrieking wind. The rustle of leaves. The squish and slurp of her nicest boots pulling from the mud.

The Sisters’ refrain haunted her thoughts.

Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater,

Had a pet and couldn’t feed her;

Caught a maid who had meant well –

What became of her, no one can tell.

She tripped suddenly and fell, sprawling into a mud puddle. Her hands sank to her wrists, filth coating the front of her dress. Cath sat panting for a moment, feeling the hectic thrum of blood in her veins. Her teeth chattered. Pushing back on to her knees, she glanced around again and tried to catch her breath.

Still no sign of Peter.

Then her eyes took in the uneven ground that had caused her to trip.

Catherine scurried backward, hoping her eyes were mistaken – but no. It was a footprint planted into the mud, the edges dried and cracked. It could have been days old, or weeks, undisturbed until Cath had tumbled into it.

A three-clawed footprint was pressed into the mud. The puncture of talons dug deep holes into the ground. Pumpkins and vines had been crushed beneath the weight of some enormous creature.

Heart galloping, Cath scrambled to her feet and wiped her hands as well as she could on her ruined gown.

Mary Ann’s cries had dwindled to sniffs and wavering gasps.

Cath lifted her skirt and ran the rest of the way.

‘Mary Ann,’ she whispered, throwing herself at the window with its pumpkin-flesh slats. ‘Mary Ann! It’s me!’

The sniffling quieted and Mary Ann appeared at the window, her eyes bloodshot. ‘Cath?’

‘Are you all right?’

Mary Ann pushed her hand through the bars, reaching for her. ‘It’s Peter. He put me in here and he—he has’ – her voice broke – ‘the Jabberwock.’

Jabberwock.

Somehow, Cath had already known it. The beastly footprint. Peter’s determination to have the Vorpal Sword from her. The tiny wooden horse from the Lion’s hat.

Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater . . .

Cath shook her head to clear it of the haunting melody. ‘How do I get you out of there?’

‘There’s a door in the roof that opens,’ said Mary Ann, pointing up.

Cath stepped back and paced around the pumpkin until she saw it, the jagged saw-cut that made a small square opening beside the pumpkin’s prickly stem.

‘Cath?’ said Mary Ann, as Cath started looking around for some way to get up to the door. A ladder. She needed a ladder . . . or a saw to cut off the window’s bars so Mary Ann could climb through.

‘What is it?’ she said, pressing her hand against the pumpkin’s outer flesh. The wall must have been nearly a foot thick, but if she had a blade that was sharp enough . . .

‘It’s his wife.’

She met Mary Ann’s gaze through the window. ‘What?’

‘The Jabberwock. It’s Lady Peter. I saw her going into the dressing room at the theatre, looking like she was going to be ill, and then . . . the beast came out.’

Cath frowned, thinking of the sickly woman who had been so very desperate for more pumpkin cake.

‘Are you sure?’

Mary Ann nodded, her expression taut. ‘There was no one else in the dressing room, I’m sure of it. And also . . . the pumpkins . . .’

Cath shuddered. ‘The pumpkins,’ she breathed. Lady Peter had won a pumpkin-eating contest. And at the theatre, she’d been so desperate for the cake that Cath had made, the cake that . . .

She swallowed, hard. ‘They changed the Turtle too.’

Mary Ann whimpered, guilt mingling with her distress. ‘We shouldn’t have stolen that pumpkin. It’s our fault. I came here hoping to find a cure, or some evidence that I could take back to the King. Woman or Jabberwock, she has to be stopped.’

‘You came here alone?’ Cath said. ‘What were you thinking?’

Mary Ann’s blue eyes began to fill with tears. ‘I know. It isn’t logical at all, but I thought . . . I thought maybe I would be a hero. I believed I could stop the Jabberwock. Me. Then I could ask the King for a favour and I thought . . . I thought I could get him to pardon your joker. Then maybe you would forgive me.’ Her voice dissolved into renewed sobs. ‘But Peter caught me and now he . . . he means to feed me to her, Cath. He’s going to kill me.’