It was the two of spades.

Jest gave it to the young card, who looked like he’d never been given anything half so special in his life.

‘Do you like him?’

Cath jumped. She’d forgotten all about the King.

Heat flooded her cheeks. ‘N-no . . . I don’t—’

‘I think he’s perfect.’

She pressed her lips shut.

‘I think he could be the best court joker this kingdom has ever seen, and that’s including Canter Berry, the Comely Comedian.’

Catherine had no idea who that was, but was glad to be able to let out a breath. Of course the King was asking her if she liked the Joker. His tricks and his jokes, his illusions and games.

Not the man.

And she didn’t.

Like the man.

She barely knew him, after all.

She gulped.

‘He’s very . . . fun to watch,’ she confessed.

‘Did you see his performance at the ball?’

She knotted her fingers together. ‘Yes, Your Majesty. It was spectacular.’

‘It was, wasn’t it?’ The King bounced. ‘Come, I shouldn’t have sent him away so hastily. We’ll have a bit of entertainment!’

‘Wha – no!’

But the King was already pushing through the shrubbery. ‘Jest, oh, Jest!’ he singsonged.

Jest started. The Raven was allowing the young card to pet his wings, but as soon as they saw the King, the card threw himself on to his face out of respect and the bird took flight into the trees. The King did not seem to notice either of them.

Catherine lagged behind, tempted to hide behind the bushes.

‘Another good day,’ said Jest, his kohl-lined eyes landing on Catherine, full of questions.

She straightened her spine, inch by inch, aware that she’d been slumping.

‘We were just speaking of your performance the other night,’ said the King, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. ‘Lady Pinkerton is quite an admirer!’

Catherine flinched.

Jest glanced at her, not attempting to hide his amusement. ‘I’m flattered, Lady Pinkerton.’

‘Not too much, I hope.’

His dimples stretched down either side of his face.

‘Won’t you entertain us?’ said the King.

‘Oh no, you don’t have to.’ Catherine waved her hands. ‘I’m sure you have other guests . . . and for a mere crowd of two . . .’ She trailed off.

Jest was peering at her like she’d offered him a challenge. ‘With great pleasure, Your Majesty,’ he said, not taking his attention from Catherine. ‘But first, perhaps it would be prudent to excuse the young squire.’ He rolled his fingers towards the Two of Spades, still prostrated on the ground.

The King blinked, as if he hadn’t noticed the card was there. ‘Oh! Oh yes, yes, you’re dismissed,’ he said, adjusting his crown.

The card hopped to his feet, bowed quickly, then ran out of the garden as fast as he could, clutching the card Jest had given him.

Unable to come up with a logical reason to excuse herself, Catherine let the King tug her down on to a stone bench. She kept a proper amount of space between them, yet her heart still fluttered like a bumblebee’s wing. Did Jest know the King was planning to ask for her hand? Did he care?

‘Do you have a preference on entertainment, Your Majesty?’ Jest asked.

‘No, no. Whatever the lady would like.’

Cath could feel the King looking at her and she squeezed her hands in her lap, determined not to look back. ‘Surely you know your trade best. Whatever pleases you will no doubt please us as well.’

He met her awkwardness with that relaxed, crooked grin of his, and slipped the deck of cards into his sleeve. ‘Nothing pleases me more than bringing a smile to the face of a lovely lady. But something tells me you will not make that task as easy as it was the eve of the ball.’

She flushed.

‘Oh, she thought you were spectacular at the ball,’ interjected the King. ‘She told me so.’

‘Did she?’ said Jest, and he seemed truly surprised.

‘I did,’ Cath confessed, ‘though now I’m wishing I would have chosen my words more carefully.’

He chuckled. ‘It’s my role to be spectacular. I shall do my best not to disappoint.’ Tipping off the black three-pointed hat, he reached inside and produced the silver flute she’d seen him playing in the gardens that night. His smile widened when he saw that she recognized it, and he whispered, ‘Try not to faint.’

Cath crossed her arms, unbearably aware of the King at her side. Watching. Listening.

He was not a clever man, she reminded herself, for once glad that he was so dim. He is not a clever man.

Jest replaced his hat and lifted the flute to his mouth. He licked his lips, and Cath cursed herself for mimicking the action, glad that Jest’s eyes were closed and he couldn’t have noticed.

The music that followed was its own sort of magic.

The lilts and the skips, the dancing notes that swept over Catherine and the King and the hedges and the flowers. The bluebells stopped ringing so they could listen, the breeze stopped whistling, the finches stopped chittering. Catherine took in a breath and held it, feeling as though the flute’s music were seeping into her skin, filling up every space in her body.

It wasn’t a song she recognized. The notes were happy and sad all at once, and she imagined flowers blooming anew in the wet spring dirt, leaves unfurling for the first time on winter-ravaged boughs, the smell of rain in the air, and the feel of cool grass beneath her toes. The melody hinted at newness and rebirth and beauty and eternity . . .