Lacie began to swing from her knees, her long hair tickling Cath’s shoulder. ‘We see many things,’ she said. ‘We know many fates. We have come to make you a deal.’

Cath swiped at her eyes. For a moment, there was hope. Cruel, brittle hope. She hardly dared to breathe the words that formed on her tongue. ‘Can you . . . can you bring him back?’

The girls tittered as one, acting as though Cath had made a joke. Tillie shook her head and pushed aside the branches again, until her whole torso was hanging over the bed. There was a scratch on her cheek from one of the branches, and though it had started to bleed, she didn’t seem to notice. The red blood was a strange contrast to her white skin and hollow black eyes. ‘We cannot bring back the martyr, but we can bring you something else you want.’

Cath began to tremble. ‘What?’

‘Vengeance,’ they spoke in unison.

‘Peter Peter will never be found,’ said Elsie. ‘Your Raven is a murderer, but not a hunter, and no one is even looking for him any more. The King wants it all to go away.’

‘But Peter Peter is desperate,’ said Lacie. ‘His wife is dead and his livelihood in tatters. He will come to us, looking to start a new life in Chess.’

Tillie grinned, showing the gap in her teeth. ‘We can bring him to you, and let your justice be served.’

Cath struggled to swallow, her mouth sticky and dry.

They could be right. Raven had lost track of him, and she knew the King was too pathetic to ever hunt down a killer and kidnapper.

She knew Mary Ann had concocted a story to explain what had happened that night, doing her best to save a reputation Catherine no longer cared for. She told everyone that she had uncovered the truth of Peter’s crimes and gone to stop him and the Jabberwock, and Cath and Jest had come to rescue her.

In death, Jest was absolved of his crimes and made a hero.

That did not pardon Cath, though. She had still run from the castle moments after accepting the King’s proposal. She had been whisked away by another man, in front of everyone. The King was mortified. He would just as soon pretend nothing had happened at all.

Cath had no such option. The truth belonged to her and she couldn’t escape it and would never forget it.

Peter deserved punishment. He deserved death.

For the first time since she’d collapsed in the mud of the pumpkin patch, she felt her heart stir in her chest.

‘What would you want from me?’

Lacie swung her body down and plopped on to the bed linens, crisscrossing her bone-thin legs. ‘We are ill. We have been dying for a long time. We require payments to sustain us.’

Elsie spun around to the other side of the bedpost. ‘A heart could sustain us for a long time. A strong heart, full of passion and courage.’

Tillie stretched forward and trailed a dirty fingernail across Cath’s collarbone. ‘We want the heart of a queen.’

Cath dodged away, pressing her fingers against her chest as goosebumps raced down her arms. ‘I am not a queen.’

Tillie grinned again. ‘Not yet.’

Then the Sisters recited the words that had too often echoed through Cath’s skull – ‘Murderer, martyr, monarch, mad.’

She shook her head. ‘Everyone thinks I’m hysterical and traumatized. The King will never have me now.’

‘Won’t he?’ Lacie plucked a key lime from the branches and offered it to Catherine on her tiny palms.

Cath stared at the fruit, unconvinced that these girls were blameless for what had happened. But they were right. They were not the ones who had swung the axe.

She looked around, meeting each of their fathomless gazes in turn. ‘You will bring Sir Peter to me? And his fate will be mine to decide?’

‘Of course,’ Elsie said. ‘You will be the Queen, after all.’

They all snickered.

Catherine locked her jaw and snatched the key lime away.

Shrill laughter and the rustle of branches jolted her awake. Her eyes snapped open. The Three Sisters were gone, but the tree remained, heavy green fruit drooping over her head.

CHAPTER 50

THE ROYAL FOOTMEN eyed her warily as she swept into the throne room. Even the candlesticks flickered in fear as she passed them, her head high as a swan’s and her billowing black mourning gown fanned out behind her. She carried a box wrapped in red paper and tied with a red velvet bow.

The throne room was all ruby-encrusted chandeliers, pink gilt mirrors, and rose quartz pillars. There was no carpeted aisle, and each footstep echoed off the walls and up to the arched cathedral ceiling.

Her attention didn’t stray from the King of Hearts, who was fidgeting on his throne, his fingers twitching with every thundering clack-clack of her heels.

Catherine knew how she must look in her head-to-toe black, including the black lace veil that partially covered her face. She had seen herself in the mirror before she left, pale as a ghost with crazed, bloodshot eyes. She didn’t care.

She knew the King. She knew how to get from him what she wanted.

The White Rabbit’s voice trembled when he introduced her. ‘L-Lady Catherine Pinkerton of Rock Turtle Cove, requesting an audience with His Royal Majesty, the King of Hearts.’

She waited a beat, before turning to the nearest member of the court – the Queen of Diamonds – and dropping the red-wrapped package into her hands. The woman gasped and barely caught it before the box smashed on the floor.

Turning back to the King, Catherine stretched her lips as far as she could and dipped into her finest curtsy. ‘Thank you for seeing me, Your Majesty.’