Jest glared at Hatta, then turned back to her and whispered, ‘It isn’t like that. There’s no shame in asking someone else to perform for you, especially at your first tea party.’ He held out his hand.

She knew he was trying to alleviate the pressure Hatta was putting on her, but she felt a bit of a sting. Right or not, how could he be so sure that she had nothing to contribute?

She studied his hand, slender fingers that weren’t as smooth as hers, yet not as rough as a gardener’s or servant’s, either. She liked the way he had called it her first tea party, insinuating there might be more to come.

‘I’ll do it,’ she heard herself saying, from very far away.

A grin spread over Hatta’s face, but she couldn’t tell whether it was encouraging or taunting. ‘The lady is next!’ he bellowed before she could change her mind, then swept his hand towards the hats on the wall. ‘Choose a hat, my lady. You’ll find that it helps.’

‘Helps how?’ She tried to look casual as she strolled down the wall of bonnets and top hats, netted veils and silk turbans.

‘Think of it like wearing a costume. Or . . . perhaps to you, a very fine gown.’ Hatta ran his fingers along the brim of his own top hat. ‘A finely crafted hat makes a person . . . bolder.’

Cath wasn’t sure she agreed. Her very fine gowns had done little to make her feel any bolder in the past, but everyone else had worn a hat while they performed, so who was she to argue? The crowd waited to see what she would choose, but Cath knew she was only stalling for time as she fingered a gold clasp here and an ostrich plume there.

She must have some talent. Any talent that wouldn’t embarrass her.

Most of the hats were far more extravagant than those she was used to. Her favourite so far had been a breathtaking pink-and-green-striped carousel, complete with nickering ponies that galloped around and around. But it had been worn by the Lion during his operatic performance, and she noticed with some disappointment that he had yet to take it off.

‘Might I suggest one of the red ones?’ said Hatta.

She startled and looked back at him. ‘Why red?’

He gave her a one-shouldered shrug. ‘It would suit your skin tone, beloved. How about that one, there?’

She followed his gesture to a wide-brimmed flop hat, its multitude of frills and gathers done in wine-red silk and ornamented with sprigs of white and yellow poppies. Cath wrinkled her nose. It was a beautiful hat, but not at all what she would choose for herself.

However, beside it was a white cooking bonnet tied with a wide black ribbon. Catherine snatched it off its wooden peg and put it on her head before she could second-guess herself.

‘Ah, a hat for making unconventional decisions.’ Hatta narrowed his eyes. ‘Interesting choice.’

When she dared to look at Jest, he seemed indifferent to the hat. He again offered her a hand.

Cath tightened the black ribbon beneath her chin and accepted his assistance as she stepped on to a chair, then up on to the table.

While she had been making her decision, the hat shop had fallen quiet, a stark difference from the chaos she’d grown used to. The guests watched her, hushed in curiosity.

Cath was curious herself. Her hands had begun to tremble.

She found a spot amid the chipped saucers and overturned biscuits and inhaled a long breath, glancing around at the waiting faces. Slitted snake eyes and double-lidded lizard eyes and bulging fish eyes all stared back at her. The hem of her skirt collected spilt tea and crumbs.

‘Sing a song, lovely lady!’ suggested the Lion, as the carousel ponies pranced above his mane. ‘Sing us a ballad of old!’

‘No, dance for us. Perhaps a ballet?’

‘Can she serve tea like a geisha?’

‘Paint with her toes?’

‘Do a cartwheel?’

‘Tell our fortunes?’

‘Tie a knot in a cherry stem with her tongue?’

‘Don’t be a ninny – that’s impossible!’

‘Catherine.’

She turned and realized she was still holding Jest’s hand. He smiled, but it carried some concern. ‘You don’t have to do this.’

She wondered whether he was embarrassed for her, or for himself – for bringing her. A lady. A member of the gentry. Someone with soft hands and a head full of emptiness. Someone who was not mad enough to belong at the Hatter’s tea parties.

She yanked her hand away and faced the Hatter. His heels were on the table again, his fingers fiddling with his cravat.

Her father was known throughout Hearts as a great storyteller, a gift that had been passed down through her family over generations and yet had somehow skipped her over. Now Catherine struggled to remember one of his tales. The ones that could enchant a school of wayward fish. The ones that could make the clouds cry and bring mountains to their knees.

‘Once . . . once upon a time . . .’ she started, but had to stop when the words caught in her throat.

She rubbed her damp palms on her skirt – and discovered a crackling lump in her pocket.

Her heart flipped.

‘There was . . . there was a girl. She was the daughter of a marquess.’

The corners of Hatta’s mouth tilted downward.

‘Though she was raised to be a lady,’ Cath said, turning away and scanning the enraptured guests—or at least, guests who were waiting and willing to be enraptured, ‘and taught all the things a lady ought to be taught, she was only good at one thing. It was not a big thing, or an important thing, or even a ladylike thing, but it was what she really loved to do.’