‘My father,’ she whispered.

‘Do you think . . . is there any hope at all that he would entertain my request to court you? With every good intention a poor joker like myself could possibly have.’

Her heart clamped. At the restrained hope in his voice. At the pleading in his eyes. At all the memories of her mother pushing her into the arms of the King.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Is Rook a very high rank in Chess?’

He pressed his lips and seemed to be considering the question. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘it’s on equal ranking to a marquess.’

She straightened, surprised at this answer.

And to think that all her parents would ever see when they looked at him was a lowly Joker.

‘But,’ Jest said, perhaps seeing too much hope in her expression, ‘we are not in Chess.’

‘No, I know. If you asked to court me, I suppose my parents would be . . . well . . . they would probably be . . .’

‘Mortified?’ he suggested. ‘Insulted? Baffled that someone like me could be so bold as to think they would ever agree to such a match?’

Her breath shook as she inhaled. ‘Yes. All of that.’

Another silence hung between them. She could not stand to meet his eyes, because if she did, she might lie to him. She might tell him that yes, there was a chance her parents would agree to the courtship. There was hope that her parents would accept him.

Or worse – she might tell him it didn’t matter to her, when she knew that it did.

Jest sighed. ‘I figured as much. I suppose I’ll have to find another way to make this impossibility possible.’ He chuckled, a rather hollow sound. ‘Perhaps I will enter the next pumpkin-eating contest and be knighted by the King.’

Her cheek fluttered. ‘I wish you luck with such a noble conquest, Sir Jest.’

‘I sincerely hope you mean that, my lady.’

CHAPTER 28

CATH’S NERVES WERE STRETCHED TAFFY thin as she made her way back through the rows of snapping tents. This time, there was no excitement for the carnival food or pretty baubles. Her head was too full of Jest and the knowledge that she was a coward. Was she so afraid to disappoint her parents and the King that she was willing to put their happiness before her own?

‘Cath! There you are!’ Mary Ann was rushing towards her, black skirt bunched up in both fists and hair tumbling from her blue-and-yellow bonnet. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you!’

‘What’s happened?’ Cath glanced around and noticed, for the first time, how empty the beach felt.

‘Nothing, yet. But the contest started ten minutes ago and they’re going to get to your cake any minute, but you have to be present if you’re to win!’

‘Conte—? Oh! The contest!’

Mary Ann shot her a disgruntled look. ‘You forgot?’

‘No, of course not, I was just . . . I . . .’

Mary Ann grabbed her wrist. ‘You best not have. I’ve been dreaming about those twenty gold crowns all morning, imagining all that we can do with them to bring the bakery to life.’ Relaxing, she shot Cath a bright smile and pointed up at her bonnet. ‘I really do think there’s something about this hat. Is yours from the Marvellous Millinery too? It’s quite charming.’

‘Why, yes, it . . .’ Catherine paused, one hand reaching for the squishy brim of her hat, the ridiculous macaron. She realized with a start that her mother, who should have thrown a fit at the impropriety of her daughter wearing such a garish thing, had said nothing. Had not even seemed to notice it.

What had Hatta said? Something about capturing charisma in headwear – but what did that mean?

She thought of Margaret Mearle at the King’s tea party and how she looked almost pretty in her rosebud fastener. She thought of Mary Ann’s burgeoning dreams. She thought of the chef’s hat she’d picked off the hat shop walls, when Hatta had mentioned unconventional decisions, moments before she thought to offer her macarons as proof of her talent.

Cath’s mouth twitched with delight, with the marvellousness of her discovery.

Hatta was selling exquisite, magical hats.

Mary Ann hauled Catherine into the grandstand tent. All of the seats were full, with countless more guests standing at the back. Five judges were seated at a draped table on the stage – the King and Knave of Hearts, the Duke of Tuskany, Mr Caterpillar, and the Turtle that Cath had loaned her handkerchief to. Before each of them was a blue-frosted cupcake with raspberry-pink sugar crystals being dug into by the forkful. With the exception of the Turtle, that is, whose plate held only blue-frosted crumbs. Most of the sugar crystals had stuck to his pointed upper lip.

The White Rabbit stood at a podium on the side of the stage. Once all the judges had sampled the cupcakes, Mr Rabbit bellowed, ‘The judges will give their scores for the berry berry cupcakes made by the Vine and Flower Society!’

Three potted plants had been set on the contestants’ stand at the front, holding one another’s leaves.

‘Berry good!’ yelled the King.

‘Berry gone!’ yelled the Turtle.

‘Could have used some ground pepper on top,’ suggested the Duke, to which Catherine traded wary glances with Mary Ann, and Mary Ann mouthed back to her, Pepper?

Mr Caterpillar removed the hookah from his mouth and blew a cloud of smoke across the table. The other judges coughed politely and leaned away.

Jack, the Knave, threw his fork down beside his cupcake, having tasted only a single bite. ‘Rubbish,’ he muttered.