‘Yes.’

‘How did you manage to get the corset off?’

Catherine looked away. ‘The ties had come loose during the ball. All that dancing . . .’ She trailed off, accepting the improved cup of tea, and deigned to change the subject. ‘I think we should go and look at the cobbler’s shop this morning. I want to see the home of our future bakery.’

Mary Ann smiled, but there was restraint behind it. ‘That sounds like a nice outing, Lady Catherine.’

For the first time, Cath could see that she, alone, believed wholeheartedly their plan could work. Would work. She had never thought she might have to persuade Mary Ann of it too.

But then she pictured the King of Hearts standing before her, holding her hand. She grimaced to think of that small, clammy hand in hers. And then, his request. To be his bride. To be his wife. There would be no passion, no romance, no love. But she could picture precisely how he would smile at her, so hapless. So hopeful.

Her stomach roiled.

Could she ever say yes to that?

As she took a sip of tea, a more important question struck her.

Could she ever say no?

CHAPTER 9

CLOSING SALE, read the wooden sign posted in the cobbler’s window. WALK IN BEFORE THE SHOES WALK OUT.

Catherine and Mary Ann stood beneath Cath’s lace parasol, admiring the storefront across the street and building their courage to go inside.

‘It’s perfect,’ Cath whispered, the first to break the silence. She pointed at the large picture window. ‘Imagine a collection of crystal cake plates there, with wedding cakes and birthday cakes and, oh, the best unbirthday cakes. Plus a centrepiece – a five-tiered showpiece done all in latticework and scalloping, with sugared berries and flowers piled on top.’

Mary Ann leaned into her. ‘I would have to measure the window dimensions to be sure, but I bet we could display upward of a dozen cakes right up front. That would attract plenty of foot traffic, and if we posted flyers throughout town . . . Oh, Cath. I’m sorry I called it silly. This really is our bakery, isn’t it?’

‘Of course it is. We’ll paint a banner on the glass to read SWEETS AND TARTS: THE MOST WONDROUS BAKERY IN ALL OF HEARTS.’

They shared a unified sigh. A passing froggy footman gave them an odd look, before licking his eyeball and continuing on.

The shop was on a cosy street lined with flower boxes and thatched roofs, a cobbled road that clattered with passing carriages. The morning was fair and the town seemed more crowded than usual. Passing baskets overflowed with onions and turnips from the nearby market. A crew of carpenter ants were whistling along with the beat of their hammers as they erected a schoolhouse around the corner. Overheard bits of conversation bustled with news of the Jabberwock, though they talked of it more like a long-passed fairy tale than a recent horror, which was the way of the people of Hearts.

Cath had the overwhelming sense that she would be happy to come here every day. To live a simple life here on Main Street, away from the manor at Rock Turtle Cove, away from Heart Castle.

Her attention caught on a street performer on the corner – a trumpetfish, playing for the passersby with an open case gathering coins in front of his musical mouth. Normally the sound of his music would have brought to mind the White Rabbit, but now Cath’s first thought was of Jest and his silver flute.

A new dream weaseled its way into her thoughts, unbidden and unexpected.

Her and Mary Ann. Their bakery. And . . . him. Entertaining their customers, or returning home after a day of making merriment at the castle.

It was so absurd she immediately chastised herself for the thought. She barely knew the court joker and had no reason to think he would ever be anything to her beyond a couple of unusual dreams.

And yet, if she was only a simple baker, and not the daughter of a marquess, and not the King’s intended . . . then the thought of the court joker becoming something more to her no longer sounded so impossible.

Could this be her future? Could such be her fate?

She was surprised at how encouraged she was by the prospect.

‘Cath?’

She jumped. Mary Ann was watching her with a furrowed brow, her face shaded by the parasol.

‘Do you know him?’ Mary Ann asked.

‘Who?’

‘The trumpetfish?’

‘Oh no, I just . . . thought it was a pretty tune.’ She dug a coin from her purse. ‘Let’s go inside and take a look around, shall we?’

She didn’t wait for Mary Ann to respond, dropping the coin into the trumpetfish’s case as she made her way towards the cobbler’s shop.

The moment they opened the door, a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke spilled over them and drifted into the street. Cath waved it away with her hand and stepped inside. There was a bell on the door handle, but it was fast asleep and only went on snoring even as they shut the door behind them.

Taking down the parasol, Cath let her gaze drift around the smoky, haze-filled shop. The floor was covered in shoes of all sizes and shapes, from ballet slippers and riding boots to iron horseshoes and flipper covers, piled like snowdrifts and spilling into the pathways. The plain beige walls were sparsely hung with painted advertisements that showed foot-dressings thirty years outdated. The lighting was dim and dusty; the air smelled of blacking and leather and dirty stockings.

Behind a counter, Mr Caterpillar, the cobbler, was perched on a stool and smoking from a large hookah. He blinked sleepily at Cath and Mary Ann as they made their way through the mess. A pair of leather-soled boots sat on the counter in front of him, and though he seemed more interested in the pipe than the shoes, Cath busied herself by giving the space a closer inspection, not wanting to interrupt his work.