The potted flowers bobbed their blossoming heads at one another – pleased with the judges’ scores. Three footmen came forward to carry their planters off the stand, while another group of courtiers brought out the next dish – squares of right-side-up pineapple cake from Lady Margaret Mearle.

Margaret took her place on the competitors’ platform and squared her already-rather-rectangular shoulders. From his seat at the judging table, the Duke’s pink-tinged skin turned flaming red. He tried to smile at Margaret around his protruding tusks.

Margaret sneered and turned her chin haughtily away.

The Duke deflated.

Trying to still the fluttering in her stomach, Catherine looked out at the crowd and spotted her mother and father in the front row. They would have no idea that she’d submitted an entry into the contest, and she wasn’t sure how they would react.

Behind her parents sat Peter Peter and his wife, whose pallor was only slightly improved from when Cath had last seen her, though her eyes remained glossy and ill-looking. She was staring hungrily at the case that held the contest desserts.

Cath peeled her gaze away before Sir Peter could notice her, hoping he wouldn’t be suspicious over her spiced pumpkin cake. But why should he? He was by no means the only pumpkin grower in Hearts. He had no reason to suspect she’d stolen one from his patch.

She hoped.

Her eye drifted further back and landed on Hatta himself. He loitered at the back of the tent, the ribbon from his top hat whipping in the wind from the beach. He noticed her, too, and cast a nod in her direction, indicating the macaron hat. But he turned away before she could return the nod, his whole demeanour changing. In a moment he’d dropped the broody stance and smiled his rare, friendly smile. Then Jest was there, too, squeezing Hatta’s shoulder in greeting.

Her heart twinged, still too raw from their recent encounter.

The White Rabbit cleared his throat and Catherine forced her attention back to the stage. ‘What have the judges to say on Lady Mearle’s entry?’

‘Pineappley pleasant!’ yelled the King.

‘Pleasantly gone!’ yelled the Turtle, scraping up the last bits of cake.

‘Would be better upside down,’ said Jack, tipping back in his chair and staring at the tent’s ceiling.

‘Upside down is a fine way to be,’ agreed the Caterpillar. He had taken off one pair of house slippers and was pressing the bottoms of his bare feet into his cake. ‘I’ve spent quite a bit of time upside down myself.’

After a nervous clearing of his throat and a scratching of his ear, the Duke said, ‘Well – I thought it was splendid. Just the perfect amount of pineapple and . . . turned upward-downside just the right way, if I do say so myself. Well done, Lady Mearle. I could not have asked for a more satisfying dessert!’

Catherine rolled her eyes, but Margaret had developed a tiny grin as she was ushered away from the contestants’ stand.

‘Next!’ demanded the White Rabbit.

Cheshire’s floating head appeared, and slices of a tuna tart were presented to the judges. Cath blanched and turned away. Her gaze latched back on to Jest.

He was watching her across the tent.

They both quickly looked down, and she hoped she wasn’t the only one blushing.

‘It’s fishy fa-fabulous,’ stammered the King, his face looking a little green.

‘Fabulously gone!’ yelled the Turtle, revealing yet another empty plate.

The other three judges refused to try it, and within minutes of the tart being removed from the table, Cheshire was gobbling down his own creation offstage.

‘Next up,’ said the Rabbit, ‘is a spiced pumpkin cake from Lady Catherine Pinkerton of Rock Turtle Cove.’

Mary Ann’s fingers laced through hers, squeezing tight.

‘Come with me,’ Cath said, pulling her forward. ‘We’ll win it together.’

They marched between the rows of onlookers to take their spot at the front. Five slices of the cake were brought to the table. Cath risked a glance at her parents – her father’s bushy eyebrows were raised in curiosity, while her mother was red-faced with borderline betrayal. Cath smiled weakly before facing the judges. The King was beaming at her, and the Turtle’s face, too, lit up in recognition.

‘The macaron girl!’ he whispered excitedly.

Catherine tipped her macaron hat to him.

The Turtle leaned to the side, bumping into the Knave with his hard shell. ‘I’ve had her baking before,’ he said. ‘She’s wondrous. And also brave . . . so very brave.’

Her skin tingled. Though her most prominent memories of the Jabberwock attack revolved around the tragic loss of the Lion, she took a moment to be proud that the Turtle, at least, had been spared. She had helped save his life.

Not noticing her pleasure, or not caring, Jack snorted. His face turned cherry red. ‘Wondrous seems a bit excessive. She’s adequate. Maybe. On a good day.’ His scowl deepened as he peered at Catherine and her hat. ‘Don’t know what anyone sees in her, what with her delicious tarts, or her big doe eyes or unnaturally shiny hair.’ He folded his arms over his chest and turned his nose into the air. ‘Lady Pinkerton is highly overrated, if you ask me.’

Mr Rabbit cleared his throat. ‘We ask that the judges refrain from previous biases on the contestants.’

Ducking his head, the Turtle shovelled his first bite of pumpkin cake into his mouth, but the King was distracted, gazing starry-eyed at Catherine. She shuffled her feet.