Lady Peter’s mouth turned down with irritation and she dug into her dress pockets. It was, Cath realized, the same black muslin dress she’d worn at the King’s black-and-white ball, and though it was practically rags compared to the gowns the other ladies wore, she wondered if it might be the finest dress Lady Peter owned.

The thought struck her with a dart of pity, and she wondered if it would seem terribly rude to give her one of her own dresses. She had plenty, though it would have to be taken in quite a lot to fit her, and Sir Peter hadn’t seemed fond of charity . . .

Her thoughts halted when Lady Peter pulled her hand out of her pocket, revealing a sullied linen napkin. She peeled open the corners and in the centre of the napkin were the remains of a slice of spiced pumpkin cake, so squashed that the cake and frosting had melded together into an almost unrecognizable lump.

A few crumbs started to tumble over the napkin’s edge and Lady Peter gasped and leaned down, catching them in her mouth.

Her whole body was trembling as she peered up at Cath again and refolded the napkin over the cake, stashing it back into her pocket. ‘I took all what was uneaten after the festival, but this slice is all what’s left. Please, you must have more. Tell me you have more.’

Cath started to shake her head. ‘No, I . . . I’m sorry. I only made the one cake.’

She saw no point in mentioning the test cake she had made. Between her and Mary Ann, it hadn’t lasted long.

Lady Peter’s expression fell. Not into disappointment, but a crazed sort of anguish. She reached for Cath’s wrists again, clamping on to both of them this time.

‘But where did you get the pumpkin?’

Cath’s lips parted. She hesitated.

She couldn’t admit to the theft, not to the man’s own wife.

‘Please!’ Lady Peter screeched. Cath gasped as her grip tightened, sure she was leaving bruises. ‘I’ll die without it. Please.’

Die?

Was she dying? She looked ill enough.

Cath stammered, ‘It was from your – your husband’s pumpkin patch. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken it, but it looked abandoned and—’

‘Liar!’

‘Ow!’ Cath yanked her hands away and looked down, bewildered, to see that Lady Peter’s nails had left bloodied scratches on her arms. She stumbled backward, her previous sympathy eclipsed by shock.

‘He destroyed them all,’ Lady Peter said. Her face was stricken and pale as bone. ‘Burned them, every last one. He doesn’t understand how I need them, need them—’

A shadow loomed over them and Cath was almost relieved to see Sir Peter. He grabbed his wife’s arm, turning from her to Cath with his terrible scowl. ‘What’s this about?’

‘Nothing,’ Lady Peter said quickly, withdrawing into the meek, trembling girl Cath remembered from the ball. ‘Only trying to make acquaintances, like you said . . .’

‘Don’t you bother with Lady Pinkerton. She thinks we’re beneath her,’ he said, which Cath thought was unfair, even though she had seen little of them worth admiring. ‘The show is beginning.’

Lady Peter didn’t argue as he tugged her away, but her gaze did find Cath again. Pleading. Pleading.

As soon as they were gone, Catherine dragged in a deep breath. She rubbed her wrists, glad that the wounds weren’t deep and had already stopped bleeding, though they stung something dreadful.

She scanned the crowd, dazed for a moment and unable to recall where she was or why she was there. She spotted the King having a conversation with the Dowager Countess Wontuthry – the King standing on a step so he could be at the Countess’s height, even with her bent back.

It took Cath a long moment to remember that she was here with the King. He was her beau. Many believed, her betrothed.

Only then did she realize that in her bewilderment she’d been looking for Jest.

Stomach sinking, she picked her way through the emptying lobby. The King lit up when he saw her and bid the Countess farewell before towing Cath up the steps. She followed him with mounting dread, down a lavish hallway artfully decorated with plaster moulds of various hearing apparatuses – from tiny mouse ears to humongous, flopping elephant ears. Torch-like sconces cast warm fire-glow across the sculptures.

The King had a private box on the first balcony level – the kind that sacrificed a decent view of the stage in return for being seen by the rest of the theatregoers. The White Rabbit held back the velvet drapes.

Her heart leaped when she saw that Jest was there, waiting for them, a silent shadow against the rail. Raven was still perched on the sceptre, cleaning his feathers.

But when Jest didn’t so much as look up at their entrance, her heart plummeted back down again.

‘Here we are, here we are!’ the King said, ushering Cath towards the front row. She heard a sharp intake of breath from Jest as she was squeezed past him, his body drawing back to keep from touching her, and she had to tighten her own fists to keep from accidentally, purposely, brushing his hand.

She and the King sat in the front row while Mary Ann took a seat behind them. Jest and the Rabbit remained standing at the door. Cath locked her gaze on the stage and its closed curtain, eager for the show to begin so she could shut her eyes and imagine herself elsewhere.

‘Can you see all right, Lady Pinkerton?’ asked the King.

‘Perfectly,’ she said, resisting the urge to ask if he required an extra cushion to lift him up.

‘Do you want for anything? A glass of claret? Some cheese?’