‘I know,’ said Hatta. ‘I saw.’

Hatta ushered her past Haigha, whose eyes were glistening with tears. She heard Raven’s wings beating behind them. She spotted the Turtle’s shell past the Crossroads door. Everyone was waiting for them on the other side, clustered together on the black-and-white tiles. Their frightened eyes began to turn away when they realized that one of their party had been lost.

The Crossroads felt too quiet, too ordinary, too safe after the horrors of the glen.

‘He’s gone,’ Cath stammered. ‘He . . . he saved me.’

‘He was a king among beasts,’ said Jest. It sounded like a memoriam.

‘He was indeed,’ said Hatta. ‘Some might call that a checkmate.’

CATH PUT UP NO ARGUMENT when Jest offered to take her home. Though there was a sense of protection in the Crossroads, with its mismatched doors and access to all corners of the kingdom, as soon as they stepped on to the shores of Squeaky Creek, Cath felt the same terror wash over her.

Hearts was not safe. The Jabberwock was real and it was here and they were not safe.

‘My lady,’ said Jest, his voice heavy. They had hardly spoken once the other guests had scattered and headed for their own homes. Even Raven had seemed happy to abandon them, flying off into some unknown corner of Hearts. ‘I am so very, very sorry. I put you in danger. I—’

‘You had no control over the Jabberwock.’ She stopped and turned to face him. The creek burbled behind her. ‘Did you?’

Their hands were intertwined and had been the entire walk, but it didn’t seem as romantic as it had when they had left her home earlier that evening. Rather, there was a need pulsing through her fingertips. For touch. For security. She felt safe with him there, whether or not it was warranted.

‘If not for me,’ said Jest, ‘you would have been safe in your bed, and wouldn’t have had to witness something so dreadful.’

She looked down at their fingers. Hers so pale against the black leather of his glove.

‘Perhaps tomorrow, when my senses are clear, I will feel that the whole night was a mistake. But I don’t feel that way now.’ She took in a long breath and raised her eyes again. ‘Monsters notwithstanding, I enjoyed my first real tea party.’

A ghost smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. ‘And I enjoyed taking you to one. Monsters notwithstanding.’

‘Then let us not end our night with talk of dreadful things,’ she said, and though there was a sting of guilt at her words – how could she dismiss what had become of the brave and gallant Lion? – it was refreshing to think back on the music and the hats and the tea that had come before.

‘As it pleases you, my lady,’ said Jest, and he, too, seemed willing to think of more pleasant things. He tugged her up the bank of the creek. ‘I didn’t have a chance to compliment your performance. The macarons were marvellous, just as you said.’

She pressed her lips against a proud smile and shrugged. ‘Why, thank you, Sir Joker.’

‘Where did you learn to bake?’

She considered the question. Baking had been a part of her life for so long, it was difficult remembering a time when she hadn’t enjoyed digging her fingers into a bowl of cake batter or warm, rising dough. ‘Our cook started teaching me when I was a child, but mostly I taught myself, using what recipe books I could find, and experimenting from there. I like the idea of taking ingredients that are unappetizing on their own – chalky flour and oily egg whites and bitter dark chocolate – and making something irresistible with them. This might sound mad, but sometimes it feels as though the ingredients are speaking to me.’ She flushed. ‘Which must be nonsense.’

‘I rather enjoy nonsense. What else can you make?’

‘Most anything once I’ve seen a recipe for it. Pies. Tarts. Biscuits. Seed cakes, even – do you think Mr Raven would care for one of those? I noticed he didn’t seem tempted by the macarons . . .’ She hesitated and cast a suspicious look at Jest from the corner of her eye. ‘Or, would you like a seed cake? I’m not yet certain whether you’re more man or bird.’

Jest laughed. ‘Unfortunately, if Raven were to sample your seed cakes and find that he enjoyed them, it might ruin his impeccable ability to brood.’ One of his fingertips traced the back of Cath’s hand. ‘As for me, I trust I would like most anything you made, if the macarons are any indication.’

She risked a bashful glance at him. Jest returned the look, before continuing, ‘The King mentioned some tarts you brought to the ball. I didn’t give it much thought at the time – I’d assumed your cook had been the one to make them, but now . . . I understand why he’s so drawn to you. You aren’t only talented, but . . . do you know, you’re extra beautiful when you talk about baking. You know you’re good at it, and that knowledge lights you up.’

Cath’s defences shivered and she had to look away, flattered and flustered and . . .

Newly miserable.

She hadn’t thought of the King all night, what with Jest and the party and . . . and what had come afterward.

He was no longer simply the King, though. He was her suitor.

Now that the evening was at its end, no longer full of potential and impossibilities, her decisions seemed unbearably foolish. What could she be thinking, sneaking about with the court joker? Her parents would be mortified if they found out. Her reputation would be ruined.