‘You don’t understand what it is you’re asking for. A life of labour. Long hours, the endless struggles that come with being the proprietor of your own—’

‘How would you know?’ she cried, swinging her arms around at the library’s papered walls and collection of vintage books. ‘You were born into all of this. You know nothing about business ownership, whereas Mary Ann and I have been planning and researching for years. I know precisely what I’m asking. I don’t care about inheriting your title. I don’t care about being married off, to the King or anyone else. This is what I want, and it isn’t fair for you to think that you know my heart better than I do.’

‘The answer is no, Catherine.’ Her father set down his cordial glass. His knuckles had gone white. ‘I will give you no money and you shall not touch your dowry unless it is in the process of giving it to a husband that your mother and I have approved. That is the end of this discussion.’

Cath’s vision blurred. She launched to her feet. ‘You won’t even give me the courtesy of considering it?’

‘I believe I just answered that question. Should you bring it up to me again, I will be forced to let go of Mary Ann’s employment in this household.’

She staggered back. Again, the chair’s wings tried to comfort her and she blindly shoved them away. ‘What?’

‘She is a maid, Catherine. Not a friend. Not a partner. Clearly she’s been putting too many thoughts into your head and I will have none of it. Is that clear?’

She gawked at him, her jaw working but no words able to form.

‘You’re dismissed, Catherine.’

With a spark of resentment, she slammed her mouth shut and clenched her fists at her sides. ‘Mary Ann may be a servant, but I am not. I can dismiss myself, thank you.’

Turning on her heels, she marched from the room, slamming the door in her wake. Hot tears began to squeeze out of her eyes. Her thoughts screamed – a tirade of arguments, of insults, of childish tantrums pressing up against the inside of her skull.

In her head, she told her parents they were being unfair and old-fashioned. She told them she wasn’t a child and she would make her own decisions. She told them she would find another way, with or without their blessing.

She was courageous and indignant and angry . . . but angry with herself most of all. Hadn’t she known what they would say all along? Hadn’t she expected this from the start? Isn’t that why she’d avoided the conversation for so long?

She couldn’t pretend this hadn’t gone exactly as she’d expected, no matter how much she’d wished otherwise.

She was grateful to find her bedroom empty. She wasn’t ready to talk to Mary Ann about her failure. She couldn’t stand the idea of crushing her friend’s dreams, not when she was still so new to dreaming.

She needed a moment to compose herself. Maybe even to concoct a new plan. For this couldn’t be the end of everything they’d longed for.

Her eyes fell on the macaron hat perched on a corner of her wardrobe. A flurry of emotions twisted inside her, all braiding together into one.

She was the best baker in Hearts and everyone who tasted her pastries knew it. Even Hatta was inspired enough to make her that bizarre hat after only a tiny bite.

Hatta, who made magical hats.

Hatta, whose business was thriving. Who had probably made more sales today at the festival than that miserable Mr Caterpillar had made all year in his little shop on Main Street.

Sitting down at her desk, Catherine pulled out a sheet of parchment, unscrewed the cap to her inkwell, and considered her proposal.

CHAPTER 31

HATTA’S MARVELLOUS MILLINERY had returned to its spot in the forest meadow, the little ramshackle cart in the shadow of broad, leafy trees. But when Jest had brought Catherine before, the lane in between the Crossroads and the hat shop had been empty – abandoned in the dead of night in a secluded corner of the kingdom.

Not so any more.

Catherine passed more than a dozen patrons of the shop on their way back to the Crossroads. Birds and mammals and reptiles, all with smiles on their faces and elaborate hats on their heads, some with servants dragging along in their wake, carrying yet more brightly papered hat boxes.

The Hatter’s popularity was expanding like a hot-air balloon.

An OPEN sign hung on the shop door, crisp with newness. The window that the Jabberwock had broken had been replaced.

Cath entered without knocking. A pair of Owls were standing before a mirror, trying on different hats and hooting to themselves, but otherwise the shop was empty. It looked much as it had at the beach, only the long table was back, now covered with tools and supplies for shaping and felting and ornamenting a variety of headdresses. Not only shears and thread and ribbon and lace, but also the strange little ornamentations that Hatta was becoming known for: soft-worn chips of blue and green sea glass. Fish scales. Talons. Long, sharp teeth – she didn’t know from what creatures. Assorted seashells. Still-sticky honeycomb. Dandelion tufts and huckleberry branches and white bark peeled from a birch tree.

There was a curtained doorway at the back that Catherine was sure hadn’t been there the first two times she’d been in the shop. She approached it and knocked softly.

‘You can pay the money tree out front for your purchases,’ came Hatta’s tired-sounding reply.

Steeling herself, Catherine pulled aside the curtain, revealing a small, cluttered office and Hatta with his feet thrown up on to a desk.