‘I think I saw . . .’ She hesitated. ‘Wait here.’

The fence was short enough that she could climb over it when she lifted her skirts.

‘Cath!’ Mary Ann glanced back towards the cottage. ‘What are you doing?’

‘One moment.’ She picked her way through the squishing mud and scattered ashes, the coils of burnt vines. A pile of brush was in the corner, vines and leaves hacked to pieces. They all but crumbled in her hand as she pushed them to the side, uncovering the small orange pumpkin that had caught her eye.

A sugar pie pumpkin, with bright, unblemished skin and not a wart in sight. It was a beautiful, dazzling survivor amid the destruction.

Beaming, she dug the kitchen knife from her boot – she’d come prepared to harvest her own in case Peter proved less than helpful – and hacked away the sturdy green vine that tethered the pumpkin to its smashed kindred.

Cradling the dirt-smudged pumpkin against her dress, Catherine picked her way back through the ashes and hauled herself over the fence.

‘Are you mad?’ Mary Ann asked. ‘He’ll kill us if he notices it missing.’

‘He won’t notice. This patch was obviously meant to be destroyed. And look.’ She held the pumpkin up in the dim light breaking through the fog. ‘It’s perfe—ow!’ Something hard and sharp jabbed her through the thin sole of her boot. ‘What was that?’

Mary Ann leaned over, bracing herself on her knees, and picked something out of the mud with a slurp. Whatever Cath had stepped on, it was small; small enough to fit into Mary Ann’s palm.

She held it aloft. ‘A . . . pony?’

Cath inched closer, trying to keep the weight off her throbbing foot. Her eyes widened. The tiny pony was run through with a metal peg, hints of gold paint visible beneath the filth. ‘A carousel pony,’ she murmured, unable to meet Mary Ann’s eye. For she recognized it, sure as salt.

It was from the Lion’s carousel hat, the one he’d been wearing the night of the Hatter’s tea party. The one he’d been wearing when the Jabberwock had carried him into the night.

CHAPTER 25

CATHERINE AWOKE THE MORNING of the festival with dried cake batter under her nails and a smear of frosting discovered behind one ear. It had been well after midnight by the time her spiced pumpkin cake had cooled enough to be frosted.

Though she was anxious about the contest, she wasn’t afraid. She and Mary Ann had done a test run with a pumpkin from the market, and that first cake had been exactly what she’d hoped it would be – moist and rich, with hints of nutmeg and brown sugar mixed together with sweet roasted pumpkin that melted lusciously in the mouth, all layered with velvety, decadent cream cheese frosting and – on a whim – she had topped it off with shreds of toasted coconut, adding a hint of crunch and extra sweetness.

She’d been pleased with the trial cake and, after making a few minor adjustments, she was confident that the final product would be even more extraordinary.

Catherine could not wait to see the judges’ faces when they tried it. Even the King’s.

She didn’t have to wear a formal gown, as the festival took place on the sandy, rocky beach, and she would most likely be cold and wet by the end of it. But as her family was hosting the annual celebration, she was still expected to don a corset and a full-skirted wool dress that her mother picked out, emerald green and showing more décolletage than she would have liked. She did her best to hide it with a crocheted lace wrap that clung to her neck and shoulders, fastened with an amber medallion. When Catherine saw her reflection, she couldn’t help but think of Jest, and how the amber brooch was almost the same colour as his eyes.

The festival was well underway when Catherine and her parents arrived. Their carriage stopped at the top of the white cliffs, with the festival laid out on the shore below. Enormous tents cluttered the beach, their canvas walls painted in harlequin diamonds and stripes and plaids, their pennant flags snapping in the wind. Within the tents were pottery and paintings, pearl necklaces and wind-up toys, crocheted stockings and hand-stitched books that would forever have pages curled from the salty air.

From atop the cliffs she spied the beluga whale a cappella quartet harmonizing on the beach, and a sizeable crowd awaiting the start of the first seahorse race, and an octopus face-painter industriously painting eight faces at once. Then there were the tents that held Catherine’s favourite part of the festival: carnival food. She could already smell the oil and garlic and applewood smoke. Her stomach rumbled. She’d intentionally skipped breakfast in anticipation of her most beloved festival treats – a savoury meat pie, cinnamon-roasted pecans, and a soft sticky bun, the type that melted on her tongue and coated her lips in honey and crushed walnuts.

It was a treacherous climb down the steps that led to the beach, made more so as Catherine kept scanning the crowds below rather than keeping her focus on the path. Her eye skipped over the lobsters and crabs and starfish and walruses and dodo birds and flamingos and frogs and salamanders and pigeons. She was looking only at the people. She was looking for a black tunic and a tri-pointed jester’s hat. She was listening for the telltale jingle of tiny bells. She was expecting a crowd circled around a performer, mesmerized and awed by some breathtaking spectacle.

But she reached the sandy shore without seeing any sign of Jest. In fact, she had not seen the King, either. Perhaps they would arrive together.

The Marquess and Marchioness wandered off to greet their high-society guests, leaving Catherine to explore the tents. She bought her meat pie first, hoping it would settle some of her nerves. Success – the moment she broke apart the flaky crust and breathed in the cloud of seasoned steam, she did feel calmer. A euphoric, drool-inducing calm.