She looked at her reflection and couldn’t help but laugh again. ‘It’s like nothing I’ve ever worn before.’ Reaching up, she squeezed the bottom biscuit and found that it was soft and squishable. ‘I’m quite fond of it, actually.’

‘Good. It’s yours.’

‘No, no, I couldn’t—’ She pulled the hat off her head, surprised at how light it was, despite its girth.

Hatta scoffed. ‘I said it’s yours, so it’s yours. You can’t give it back once it’s been given. Now put it back on before your head gets cold. I hate to see bare heads.’

‘If you insist.’ She resisted a smile as she settled the macaron hat back on to her head. Remembering the coins in her purse, she asked, ‘Can I at least pay you for it?’

‘Now you’re just being rude. Consider it an apology, Lady Pinkerton, for the way my humble gala ended in such terror. I usually seek to send my guests home without first endangering their lives.’

‘Surely the attack was not your fault.’

He held her gaze a long moment, before replying, ‘I am glad to see that you made it home safely, Lady Pinkerton.’

‘As I did. Thank you for the gift, Hatta. It will be cherished.’ She glanced at the mirror one more time. It was impossible not to grin. ‘There has been a lot of talk about your creations lately. It seems you’re earning a grand reputation.’

‘Reputations are fickle. Profits are not.’

She smirked. ‘That’s something my maid would say.’ Cath turned to face him. ‘It’s an impressive feat, is all I meant, to become so popular so quickly. Your hats are marvellous indeed.’

‘I appreciate the compliment. I daresay Hearts was without a proper hatter for far too long.’

‘Perhaps you’re right.’ Cath glanced around at the hats and headdresses that lined the walls. A rainbow of colours, a kaleidoscope of styles, a jamboree of textures. Every one of them seemed half magical. ‘I vaguely recall one other fine hatter, years ago, when I was just a child. My mother purchased from him regularly. I wonder whatever became of him.’

‘He went mad,’ said Hatta, with hardly a pause. ‘Then he killed himself. With a brim tolliker if my memory serves.’

She turned back to gape at him. Hatta was watching her, but his expression was unreadable.

‘Haven’t you ever heard the saying, “mad as a hatter”?’ he asked. ‘It’s an unfortunate family trait, one that’s been passed down for generations.’

Her lips pursed into a surprised O, but Cath couldn’t form a question or an apology, though both lingered on her tongue.

Finally, Hatta tsked her. ‘Don’t stand there looking so tragic, love. My father, and his father, and so many fathers back that one could never count them all. Every one a fine, gentlemanly hatter, and every one mad as March. But’ – his mouth curved into a sly smile – ‘I know a secret they didn’t know, so perhaps my fate isn’t as hopeless.’

Cath forced her mouth shut. Now that he had reminded her of the story, she could recall the tale of the hatter who had killed himself so many years ago. Why – Hatta must have been just a boy. But, like all tragedies in Hearts, it had been hushed and swept away, never to be spoken of again.

Her confusion increased when she thought of Jest’s tale. She had assumed Hatta was from Chess too, but how could he be from Chess and Hearts both?

‘May I know the secret?’ she asked.

He looked appalled to have been asked. ‘You do know that telling a secret destroys its secrecy, don’t you?’

‘I figured as much.’ She wondered, faintly, if there really was a secret at all, or if telling himself so was a part of his inherited madness.

Was he mad already? She couldn’t help inspecting him, newly speculative and curious. He didn’t seem mad. No more mad than anyone else she knew. No more mad than she was herself.

They were all a little mad, if one was to be forthright.

‘Well,’ she said, trying to push her thoughts back towards civilized conversation, ‘I’m glad to see your hat shop doing so well. I’m wishing the best for you.’

‘Wishes have value, Lady Pinkerton. You have my gratitude.’ He tipped his hat towards her. ‘If it isn’t presumptuous of me, might I suggest wearing the macaron during the baking contest? I trust you’re a participant.’

‘Oh – I am, actually.’

‘Good.’ He leaned closer. ‘Have you ever noticed how attraction is a subjective thing, difficult to capture in headwear, but charisma, now, that is more universal. I think I’ve accomplished something spectacular. One might even say you look irresistible right now, not unlike the treat that inspired the hat.’ He winked, though Cath wasn’t sure what the wink meant.

‘I’m not sure I had noticed that,’ she confessed.

He shrugged. ‘Others will, I assure you.’

His statement was punctuated by a trumpet blaring from the beach, reminding Cath that she was still at her family’s festival, and she still had the role of the Marquess’s daughter to play.

Her dread returned tenfold. ‘Forgive me, but I must go dance the lobster quadrille.’

‘Ah yes.’ Hatta drifted his hand through the air. ‘Obligations rest heavy on the shoulders of nobility.’

She couldn’t tell whether he was insulting her or not. ‘Heavier than you might think. Thank you again for the gift.’