‘She was the Jabberwock!’ Cath screamed.

A gasp rose from the crowd.

‘That’s what he isn’t telling you. The wife he was protecting was the Jabberwock. Mary Ann was to be the creature’s next meal.’

‘She should not have come to my patch. Trespassers! Murderers!’

‘You are the murderer!’

‘As are you, and a thief besides! You stole that pumpkin from me, I know you did. She was getting better. The curse was going away, but then she saw that cake and had to have it and when she turned again . . . she wouldn’t . . . she couldn’t turn back again and it’s your fault!’

The King pounded his gavel – each thud like a hammer on Cath’s temple.

‘Now, now,’ said the King, who was sweating profusely. ‘I think perhaps the jury would appreciate one little clarification . . .’ He cleared his throat and adjusted his powdered wig. ‘Sir Peter, you claim that the Jabberwock was your wife?’

The audience rustled and Cath heard more than one member of the jury mention that Peter Peter’s wife had been at the black-and-white ball. Sickly thing. Not at all monstrous.

‘She was poisoned,’ said Peter. ‘Poisoned by bad pumpkins. I saw her eat them – she couldn’t stop. Then she started to get sick. I thought it was just from the overeatin’ but . . . then she started to change.’ A deep wrinkle cut between his eyebrows. ‘It happened the first time after we left your ball, after those courtiers talked to us like we hadn’t earned being there. After you’ – he pointed at Cath – ‘looked at us like scum on your shoe. I watched her turn into the Jabberwock. Saw it with my own eyes.’ He balled his fists. ‘Even when she was herself again, the cravings were too much for her. She’d eat anything orange, anything she thought could satiate her. But nothing did.’

Cath’s jaw ached from clenching her teeth. They said the Jabberwock had gone after Cheshire and Margaret that first night – after Cheshire’s fur had been tinted orange and he probably still smelt of pumpkin pasties.

And in the meadow, she had taken the Lion, with his golden-orange mane. But the monster had probably been there looking for Hatta, the messenger who had brought that first pumpkin from Chess.

And in the theatre, the beast had come after her. Wanting more of her pumpkin cake.

‘After she turned a second time,’ Peter growled, his eyes cast in shadows, ‘I made the pumpkins pay.’

‘If I recall,’ drawled Mr Caterpillar, ‘the Jabberwock was a nuisance. I say, good riddance.’

‘I tried to stop her,’ said Peter Peter. ‘I swear it. Built a cage even, but I couldn’t keep her.’ His expression turned fierce. ‘It wasn’t her fault though. It was the pumpkins what did it!’

Cath squeezed the rail until her fingers ached. ‘This is not a defence. You killed Jest. You cut off his head, right in front of me.’

‘You killed my wife!’

‘You were going to feed Mary Ann to her!’

‘She shouldn’a been on my land in the first place!’

THUD.

THUD.

THUD.

The sound of the King’s gavel interrupted their argument and Cath sank her head in between her tense shoulders.

‘Th-thank you, Sir Peter, for your – er, statement.’ The King’s voice was shaking. ‘We have now heard the defendant’s testimony. Jury, what is your verdict?’

The jury huddled down with their slate tablets and whispers. Catherine heard none of their discussion. Her ears were humming, her brain clouded with visions of Jest in the mud, the axe swinging at his throat, her own heart splitting down the middle.

‘We have reached a verdict, Your Majesty.’ It was a toad who spoke, standing up with a slate in his webbed fingers. On it he had drawn a picture of Peter Peter standing on top of an enormous pumpkin and grinning. ‘We the jury find Peter Peter not guilty!’

The cheer was deafening. All around her, the people of Hearts embraced one another, hollered ecstatically. Even the King giggled with relief.

The Kingdom of Hearts had never seen such a ghastly trial, and everyone was thrilled that it was over. The man was not guilty. They could all go on with their silly, pointless lives.

Except Catherine. From the corner of her eyes she saw Raven puff his feathers.

She snatched the gavel from her husband. ‘SILENCE!’ she screamed, pounding on the railing so hard a crack formed in the polished wood.

The ballyhoo stopped.

A courtroom of faces turned to gape at their Queen. Her reddened face, her livid eyes. A turtle ducked into his shell. An opossum rolled into a ball. An ostrich tried, but failed, to bury its head in the polished quartz floor.

‘I reject the jury’s verdict,’ she seethed. ‘As the Queen of Hearts, I declare this man guilty. Guilty of murder. Guilty of thievery and kidnapping and all the rest, and for his sentence – I call for his head. To be carried out immediately!’

Her words echoed through the courtroom, casting a cloud over the stricken faces. No one dared to breathe.

Catherine had eyes only for Sir Peter, whose face was furious beneath streaks of dirt, whose teeth were bared.

The numbness began to settle over her again.

‘You deserve no mercy,’ she said.

Peter spat again. ‘I want nothin’ from you.’

‘B-b-but, darling,’ said the King. Soft, patient, terrified. His fingers brushed against her arm, but she ripped it away. ‘We . . . we have never . . . In Hearts, we don’t . . . Why, sweetness, we don’t even have an executioner.’