‘Yes, and that something shall be to ignore such a horrible incident and go on pretending nothing has happened at all.’ Cheshire licked his paw and dragged it along his whiskers. ‘As is our way.’

Cath’s gut had tightened. She knew he was right – though she had never before witnessed something so awful, she knew everyone would be willing to pretend it away rather than upset their pleasant lives.

‘What about those poor courtiers?’ she murmured. ‘What is to become of them?’

Cheshire’s grin began to slip, just – the – tiniest – bit. ‘They have already been found, dear Catherine. Two shreds of cardstock were discovered outside the Nowhere Forest yesterday morning.’

She recoiled from him. ‘No . . . maybe it wasn’t . . . ?’

‘It was them. Part of a diamond was visible on one of the shreds.’

She grimaced and turned away, squeezing her eyes tight. She felt suddenly childish and small. Chastised, though no one had chastised her but herself. Two days spent dreading a run-in with the King and daydreaming over the Joker, and all the while, two courtiers were dead, and a monster on the loose.

‘I called on the Duke of Tuskany yesterday,’ she said. ‘He had a wound from the Jabberwock. Was anyone else hurt?’

‘I don’t believe so, and quite lucky that. It was very nearly Lady Margaret Mearle.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When the great beast crashed through the window, it seemed – why, I hate to sound self-absorbed, but it seemed as though it were heading for me. And I was still on top of the girl’s head, you see. So I vanished . . . as prompted by instinct, not at all cowardice, I assure you.’

‘Naturally.’

‘I came to on the other side of the ballroom just in time to see Lord Warthog launch himself in between Lady Mearle and the beast.’

Her jaw fell open. ‘How heroic!’

‘Fascinating, isn’t it, how often heroic and foolish turn out to be one and the same. That beast had claws like carving knives and nearly took off the Duke’s head. He’s most lucky it was only a surface wound, I daresay.’ He scratched behind one ear. ‘Rather pigheaded he can be.’

‘But the Jabberwock didn’t kill him.’

‘No. It turned its attention towards the feasting table and the two courtiers standing beside it. Grabbed them and took off, flew right over the balcony. It all happened very of-a-sudden.’

She slumped against the baker’s table. ‘I never dreamed such a thing could happen here.’

Cheshire’s yellow eyes slitted as he held her gaze for one beat, two. Then he began to unravel from the tip of his tail, a slow unwinding of his stripes. ‘These things do not happen in dreams, dear girl,’ he said, vanishing up to his neck. ‘They happen only in nightmares.’

His head spiralled and he was gone.

CHAPTER 11

THE MOMENT CATH STEPPED through the garden arbor on to the sweeping green lawn of Heart Castle, she was searching for him. She couldn’t help it, try as she might. Her eyes skimmed over the guests, hunting for a three-pointed jester’s hat amid the bonnets and wide-brimmed sun hats. Her entire body was bating its breath, waiting for the moment she would see him – should he even be present. Did jokers attend garden parties? She didn’t know.

She felt like an idiot, curtsying to the lords and barons, ladies and countesses, all the while letting her attention scurry off to each new arrival, each glimpse of black amid the colourful clothing of the nobility. She knew she should be looking for the King. Her mother had been adamant that Catherine make herself known to the King immediately upon arrival. She was to give him the delicate rose-flavoured macarons that were tucked into her skirt pocket, and she was not to leave his side until either the party was over or she had a gem on her finger.

To Cath’s relief, as she made one complete turn around the lawn, the King was nowhere in sight.

To her disappointment, neither was Jest.

Stupid dreams. Stupid fantasies. Stupid lemon tree and white roses and—

What if he didn’t come at all? It felt like it would be a wasted outing in her prettiest day dress. She hadn’t realized until that moment that she’d chosen it specifically for him.

‘My dear Catherine, how appropriately attired you are today.’

She swivelled around to see Margaret Mearle gambolling across the grass, clutching two battledore rackets in her hands. She was dressed all in sunflower-yellow, and on her head was a fascinator that looked like an enormous yellow rosebud waiting to bloom.

Catherine cocked her head. There was something different about Margaret today. Something difficult to place. If Cath hadn’t known better, she would have thought that today, in that hat, in this light, Margaret looked almost . . .

Well, not pretty. But unoffensive to the eyes, at the least.

Perhaps she was seeing her in a new light, knowing how fond the Duke was of her.

‘Good day, Lady Margaret,’ she said, curtsying.

‘Good enough, one supposes,’ said Margaret, ‘though unwarranted optimism is unwise for one who wishes to eschew disappointment. Nevertheless, I do hope it shall be a better day than the ball, at the least. Have you heard of my trauma?’ She clutched the rackets against her chest.

‘Oh yes, I heard all about the Jabberwock attack. I can only imagine how horrifying it was! I’m so glad to see you unharmed.’ Catherine, upon saying it, realized that it was true.