‘Would be devastated, and the King too. The Joker would likely lose his employment, and your reputation, along with any hopes you have for a proper match, would be ruined.’

‘I don’t care about my reputation, but I don’t want to hurt my parents, or the King, or . . . or Jest.’

‘You should care about your reputation. You know how people are. No matter how tasty your desserts, none of our lords or ladies would deign to shop at a bakery run by a fallen woman.’

She shrank away. ‘Cheshire. Please.’

‘Don’t give me those puppy-dog eyes. You know how I despise puppy dogs. I won’t tell anyone, though I can’t make promises for the rest of the party guests. I only came to make sure you were unscathed.’

She shuddered. ‘Haigha must have told you about the Jabberwock then.’

‘Yes, my dear. And the brave sacrifice of the Lion, that most noble of felines.’

Cath shut her eyes against the sorrow that hit her every time she remembered the Lion’s final moments. His defiant roar. His golden body braced between her and the monster.

‘The Jabberwock must be stopped,’ she said. ‘First the courtiers, and now this. Surely the King is doing something?’

‘Oh yes, the King is quite busy these days. Penning love letters and such.’

She let out a frustrated noise. ‘These attacks aren’t going to stop on their own. Isn’t there anything we can do?’

‘I don’t care for that royal we, but I’ll advise you to avoid any more late-night excursions. Though the loss of the Lion is tragic, I did not know him personally. Whereas you, Lady Catherine, I might actually feel compelled to miss.’

‘That’s sweet, Cheshire. I promise to be more careful. No more tea parties.’ She gulped. ‘And no more jokers. At least, not until I’ve come to a decision with the King.’

Cheshire stared at her with his slitted eyes and too-many teeth.

‘What?’

‘You really are taken with him, aren’t you?’

‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. I’m already in a courtship, you know.’

‘But is the King the one you wish to be courting?’

‘It doesn’t seem to matter what I wish.’ She returned the cream to the icebox. ‘Not who I wish to be courting, not what I wish for my future to hold.’

‘You have the chance to be a queen, Catherine. What else is there?’

‘Oh, Cheshire, not you too. I don’t want to be the Queen of Hearts. I don’t understand how I’m the only one who doesn’t see the appeal of it.’

‘But if you were the Queen, perhaps you could have your cake and eat it too.’

She cocked her head. ‘What’s the point of having cake if you can’t eat it?’

‘I’m only saying that you might be the King’s wife, but who is to say you couldn’t also have more clandestine relations with the Joker?’

Her jaw fell open and she stormed across the kitchen in a blink. ‘You naughty feline! How dare you suggest such a thing!’ She swapped at the cat, but he disappeared and her hand met only air. Her face was strawberry red when she spun around and saw Cheshire floating above the pan rack.

‘Calm yourself, dear, it was only a suggestion.’ He punctuated the statement with a yawn.

‘It was a crude one, and I won’t tolerate such an insult again.’ She fisted her hands on her hips. ‘If I am to be a wife, I will be an honest one.’ She cast her eyes towards the ceiling. ‘And you misunderstand me entirely, Cheshire. My opposition to the King is not only because I’m . . . because I may be . . . as you say, just a bit taken with the Joker . . .’

‘Obviously.’

‘I’ll beg you to not repeat it.’ She scowled. ‘My opposition is because queens do not start bakeries. And that is what I wish, what you know I have always wished.’

‘Ah, yes, the infamous bakery, the most wondrous bakery in all of Hearts.’ Cheshire’s whiskers twitched. ‘The one that, if I’m not mistaken, is no closer to reality now than it was when you first started talking about it, how many years ago?’

She clenched her jaw. ‘It is closer to reality. We are closer every day.’

‘The Marquess has given his blessing, then?’

She turned away, the blush still burning her cheeks, and carried Cheshire’s empty saucer to the pile of dishes left from that morning’s breakfast. ‘He will,’ she insisted, her back to the cat, ‘once I ask him.’

‘Keep telling yourself that. You might soon start to believe it.’

Frowning, she rubbed her hands on a dishcloth.

‘By-the-bye, I have another piece of news I thought would interest you and that maid of yours.’

She faced Cheshire again. He had begun to vanish, leaving his bulbous head floating over the pots. A moment later, one disconnected paw appeared in front of Cath’s face with a sharp claw punctured through a piece of weathered parchment. A poster.

She snagged the paper away and smoothed it on the baker’s table. She sniffed. ‘Believe it or not, Cheshire, I was already aware of the upcoming Turtle Days Festival.’

‘But have you seen the schedule of events?’

She scanned the list, from the dreaded lobster quadrille to a battledore tournament to eight-legged races to . . .

She gasped. ‘A baking contest?’

‘The first annual.’ Cheshire’s paw vanished again to, Cath guessed, reconnect with the rest of his invisible body. ‘Please tell me you’ll make a tuna tart for the contest. Please, please, please.’