‘Do you know what the prizes are?’

‘First place wins a blue ribbon.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Is that all? Ribbons are lovely, you know. Not quite as nice as a ball of yarn, but nothing to snub.’

She gnawed at her lower lip.

‘Oh – I suppose there was something about a purse. Twenty gold crowns, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘Twenty!’ Her heart sped up.

With twenty gold crowns in her possession, she wouldn’t have to sell her dowry. She wouldn’t need a loan or permission from her parents . . .

The recognition alone would be worthwhile. A big blue ribbon hanging in the bakery’s front window, and a plaque –

GRAND WINNER OF THE FIRST ANNUAL TURTLE DAYS BAKE-OFF

‘I, for one, am devastated that I wasn’t invited to be a judge.’

‘Maybe if you didn’t keep requesting tuna tarts.’ She folded the poster and tucked it into her dress pocket. ‘I wonder what I’ll make. Maybe an apple pie or a berry trifle or . . . oh! I know. I’ll make something with pumpkin. They’re so trendy these days, and just the right season for it.’ She tapped a finger against her lip. ‘Who are the judges?’

‘Let me think. Jack was one, I seem to recall.’

‘Ugh, not the Knave. He hates me.’

Cheshire’s eyes widened. ‘Are you sure?’

‘He tells me every time he sees me.’

The cat made a vague noise in his throat, and Cath wondered how he could, having no throat at the moment. ‘If you say so. Also judging are the Duke of Tuskany and that shoemaker, Mr Caterpillar.’

‘That old curmudgeon? It’s amazing he can taste anything the way he smokes that hookah all the time.’

‘Be that as it may. Who else? Oh, a representative of the turtles, of course. Some friend of Haigha’s and the Gryphon. You may have met him at the party?’

‘I did. Sweet young turtle. I quite liked him, and he was fond of my macarons.’

‘And the last judge, in a lucky twist, is already one of your biggest fans.’

‘Oh?’

‘In fact, he may be your biggest fan. Well . . . he may actually be one of your smallest fans, but let us not hold that against his superior judgement skills.’

Her enthusiasm began to wilt. ‘No.’

‘Yes.’

Cath wilted. Of course it would be the King. Of course it would be the one person she was most determined to avoid.

CHAPTER 24

‘I DO NOT WANT to be here,’ Mary Ann whispered as the footman helped them from the carriage.

Cath’s gaze swept to the top of the black iron gate before them, all curled bars and jagged-teeth finials. Pumpkin lanterns were staked along the top of the gate, their grotesquely carved faces staring down at the road, strings of their internal pulp stuck to the bars underneath.

On the opposite side of the gate, acres of dark mud were spotted with vines and leaves and gourds – most were goldish-orange, but others were ghost-white or yellow-green or speckled with crimson. There were pumpkins as small as Catherine’s ear and some the size of the carriage. There were smooth pumpkins and warted pumpkins, fat pumpkins and narrow, caved-in pumpkins that lay like beached whales in the mud. Fog had rolled in from the nearby forest, covering the ground in misty grey. Though Catherine was wearing her heaviest shawl, she felt chilled to the bone as she looked out on to the gloomy patch.

‘I’m beginning to have second thoughts myself,’ she confessed.

‘Let’s leave,’ Mary Ann prodded, latching on to Catherine’s doubts with renewed enthusiasm. ‘We’ll get pumpkins at the market like everyone else. They’ll probably be more cost effective anyway. Or, better yet, let’s not make a pumpkin dessert at all. Why not something with peaches? Everyone likes peaches.’

‘Pumpkins are seasonal right now, and seasonal desserts are always best. And they do say that Sir Peter’s sugar pie pumpkins are the sweetest in the kingdom.’

‘Fine, but – why not currants? Currants are seasonal. Or apples? You make a fine apple crumble . . .’

Catherine chewed on her lower lip. ‘I do make a fine apple crumble,’ she agreed. Sighed. Roughly shook her head. ‘We’re being silly. We’re here, and I’ve already chosen a recipe, and we might as well get this over with. He’s a farmer, isn’t he? He’ll be glad for our business.’

‘Are you sure? It’s not very welcoming.’ Mary Ann eyed the piked pumpkin lanterns. ‘In fact, he could really use a business adviser.’

‘Too bad your expertise is already spoken for. Come on, we’ll be in and out in the flutter of a hummingbird’s wing.’ Cath inched closer to the gate. She could see a small cottage situated to the north side of the patch, with a curl of smoke coming out of the chimney and firelight flickering through the windows. ‘They seem to be home.’

The gate squeaked on its reluctant hinges as she pushed it open.

‘Oh, fine,’ Mary Ann muttered. ‘Wait one moment while I grab my bonnet.’ She rushed back to the carriage.

Knotting her hands together, Catherine stepped on to the path that bordered the pumpkin patch. She inhaled the smell of fresh-churned dirt and growing things, but beneath the freshness was also something akin to mould and rot. She grimaced. It was impossible to imagine anything pleasant coming from this land, but the rumours about Peter’s famed pumpkins were unmistakable.