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 axe.

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

Cath screamed. ‘Jest! Look out!’

Peter loped forward, preparing to swing his axe.

Jest ducked away. He glanced at the hooded figure stalking towards 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 sceptre 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 axe’s handle.

It was not her fate she was worried about.

She forced her feet to move away from the cottage wall and stumbled towards 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 OK. 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 axe . . . 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 further 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 pumpkin lanterns. He was gripping the sceptre, but it had been splintered in half, making for a pathetically short stick, while Peter still held his axe 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 towards him and swung, but Jest dodged to the side and shot to his feet a safe distance away, holding the broken sceptre 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 towards 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 swivelled around in time to see Jest collapse on to 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 towards him but the Jabberwock snapped, sending her stumbling backwards again.

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