“Yes. You’re different from the other lords and ladies here. I’m sure that any other girl would have screamed and started throwing rocks at me if I showed up at her bedroom window.”
“I don’t keep a very large supply of rocks up here.” A sudden bout of heat rushed up her throat, realizing that he was right. There was a boy at her window. At night. They were alone—excepting his Raven friend, at least. She frowned. “Though if you’re insinuating that I might have questionable morals, you are sadly mistaken.”
His eyes widened. “That’s not—” He paused, and suddenly started to chuckle. “It was intended as a kindness, I assure you.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Either way, I think you’re wrong. I’m not different. I’m…”
He waited.
She swallowed, hard, a twitch starting in her cheek. “What do you mean by that, anyway? Calling me different.”
“It’s true. I knew it from the moment I saw you twirling at the ball, your arms raised as if you hadn’t a care in all the world.”
She blinked.
“Of all those ladies and all those gentlemen, you were the only one who twirled.”
“You saw that?”
“In that gown, it would have been difficult not to.”
She wrinkled her nose. “My mother chose it. She thought it would be my engagement ball. I honestly had no idea.”
“I see that now.” He squinted at her and opened his mouth once to speak, but closed it again.
Catherine swallowed. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I’m not entirely sure that’s true.” He lowered himself on the branch, like a cat ready to spring. “Lady Pinkerton, have you ever been to a real tea party?”
“Oh, countless.”
“No, my lady, not like at the castle today. I mean, a real one.”
The question crystallized between them as Catherine shifted through all the parties, galas, gatherings she’d attended over the years, and she couldn’t fathom what he meant.
“I … I suppose I’m not sure.”
He smiled, a little mischievously. “Would you like to?”
CHAPTER 17
SHE DUCKED INTO the washroom under the guise of tying back her hair. Her heart was dancing as she combed back the long locks and knotted a ribbon at the nape of her neck. She didn’t know what she was thinking. Perhaps she’d gone raving mad.
She shoved the doubts aside. She couldn’t change her mind now. Or rather, she could, but she knew that she wouldn’t.
It was only for one night. She would do this once. To see, to experience, to make her own choice.
She pinched her cheeks, dabbed rose water on her wrists, and was at the window again before her nerves could overtake her.
Jest was still in the tree boughs, playing with his deck of cards. Raven was cleaning his feathers. Noticing her, Jest perked up and slid the cards back into some secret pocket.
“Are you ready?” he asked, his whole face lighting up in a way that filled her with warmth and sugar.
“I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
“That’s because it’s most likely a very bad idea.”
With one easy movement, he stepped across to her windowsill and hopped down into her bedroom.
A certain amount of shock skittered down her spine. There was a man in her bedroom—unchaperoned. Unsupervised.
In secret.
She said nothing of this nature, only took half a step away from him. Her heel brushed against the white rose she’d dropped.
Jest took off his hat and turned it upside down. “This is going to work,” he said, reaching into the hat. “But it’s going to require a certain amount of faith.”
He pulled his hand out, revealing a black lace parasol with an ivory handle. He popped it open above their heads.
“What are we doing with that?”
“You’ll see.” He set the hat back on his head, stepped back onto the windowsill, and held his free hand toward her.
After a count of three, during which she determined that she had lost her wits, Cath placed her hand into his and allowed him to pull her up beside him.
“You’re not going to scream, are you?”
She didn’t bother trying to hide her terror when she met his gaze.
Frowning, Jest ducked his face closer and released her hand so he could instead grasp her elbow. “You’re not going to faint, are you?”
She shook her head, though it had no confidence behind it. She risked a glance at the ground, two stories below.
“Lady Pinkerton,” he said warningly.
She looked up again and moved her trembling hands toward his tunic. “I wonder if it would be terribly inappropriate for me to hold on to you.”
“I think you’d better, anyway.”
She nodded once and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, burying her face into his chest. She clutched him as one might a buoy in the sea.
Jest stiffened and wrapped his free arm around her waist.
There was a moment of suspension around them. She could feel his heart beating near to hers, and his breath in her hair. Something about him seemed crafted for her, and that thought made her face flame, like she was standing too close to a fire.
“All right then,” he said, and she wondered whether it was her imagination that made him seem suddenly nervous. “No screaming.”
She pressed her lips together.
Jest took a step off the windowsill, pulling her along with him.
A scream clawed up her throat but was captured and muffled against her clenched teeth. There was a sudden swoop, her stomach flipping inside her, and a drop—but a gradual one. Shaking, she peeled her eyes open. She turned her head so she could see beyond Jest’s shoulder, to the brick and window trim of her house as they drifted to the ground.
It was over too soon.
They hit the ground easily. She did not, could not release him until her legs regained their strength, but he didn’t complain. His grip didn’t loosen until hers did, but he also didn’t try to keep her once she pulled away.
As Catherine gaped up toward her bedroom window, glowing with firelight, Jest returned the parasol to his hat.
“How will I get back up?”
“Don’t worry,” he said, sliding a gloved hand into hers, in a way that seemed almost more intimate than their recent embrace. She didn’t pull away, although she knew she should. “I have a trick for that too, Lady Catherine.”
“In your hat?”
He chuckled. “My hat isn’t the only magical thing about me.”
She smirked, feeling bolder outside the confines of her home. “I’m well aware,” she said. “Impossible is your specialty.”
His face brightened with that true smile again. He whistled and she heard the flap of bird’s wings overhead. Raven appeared from the shadows and perched on Jest’s shoulder as he tugged Catherine toward the road.
“Where’s the nearest Crossroads?” he asked.
“Under the little bridge over the creek.”
Once they stepped off the lawn, Jest released her hand, and Cath attempted to hide her disappointment even from herself. He did, however, offer his elbow, which she accepted, folding her fingers around his arm and surprised to find more muscle there than his lithe frame would suggest.
It was a short walk to the bridge that crossed over Squeaky Creek, where a set of steps branched off the road and led down to the embankment. Cath took the lead, guiding them to the shore and pointing at a green-painted door that was built into the bridge’s foundation.
Jest tipped his hat and held the door for her.
The Crossroads was an intersection that connected all corners of the kingdom. A long, low hall lined with doors and archways, windows and stairwells. The floor was made of black-and-white-checkerboard tiles and the walls jutted off in every direction. The shape was constantly shifting. Some of the walls were made of dirt, with tree roots growing through them. Others were covered in fine gilt wallpap
er. Still others were made of glass, and water could be seen pressing on them from the other side, like a fishbowl.
Jest led Cath to a hollow tree trunk with an opening that looked like it had been cut out by a hatchet. He took her hand again and pulled her through.
On the other side, Cath found herself on a dirt pathway that was succumbing to moss. Trees towered overhead and through the close-grown trunks Cath saw a spot of golden light. This was the direction Jest headed, picking his way along the shadowed path.
The forest opened into a meadow and the source of the light was revealed—a small traveling shop. It had a canvas roof and rickety wagon wheels and a hitch on the front that no longer had any horses or mules attached to pull it. A round door was on the back of the shop with a sign above it that read, in flourishing gold script:
Hatta’s Marvelous Millinery
Fine Hats and Headdresses for Distinguished Ladies and Gentlemen
Cath tilted her head to one side, brow furrowing. “We’re going to a … hat shop?”
“The finest hat shop,” Jest corrected. “And I assure you, the Hatter throws the maddest tea parties this side of the Looking Glass.” He paused. “Probably on either side of the Looking Glass, now I think about it.”
Anxiety was fast seeping into Cath’s thoughts. She started to laugh, questioning how she’d come to be here. “I’m not sure I want to go to a mad tea party.”
Jest winked at her. “Trust me, my lady. You do.”
Stepping up to the back of the shop, he pulled open the door.
CHAPTER 18
CATH FROZE ON THE THRESHOLD, overwhelmed with the scent of herbal tea and the painful noise of an off-key duet. The millinery was easily eight times as large on the inside as it was on the out. A fire crackled in a corner fireplace and the walls were covered with hooks and shelves that displayed an assortment of elaborate headdresses. Top hats and bowlers, bonnets and coronets, straw hats and tall, pointed dunce caps. There were hats covered in living wildflowers and hats blooming with peacock feathers and hats fluttering with the wings of dozens of vibrant dragonflies, some of them occasionally giving off a puff of flame and smoke.
As Catherine stared, Raven abandoned Jest’s shoulder and swooped inside. The wind from his feathers beat against her hair and—for but a moment—his shadow elongated across the shop’s wooden floor. Cath’s heart stuttered as she remembered the ominous shadow that had followed her over the castle lawn. The hooded figure, the raised ax.
She blinked, and the chill was gone. Just a bird, now settling on a ceramic bust of a clown with its silly, grinning face painted with black diamonds.
Jest drew Catherine toward the long table that stretched down the center of the hat shop. The surface was draped in bright-colored scarves of various textures and cluttered with teapots and cups and cream and sugar dishes and spoons of silver and gold and porcelain. The chairs around the table were just as mismatched—from wingbacks to schoolhouse benches to ottomans to a sweet little rocker. At the far end of the table was a chair that was luxurious enough for the King himself to have sat upon.
The occupants of the table were equally assorted. A Porcupine stabbed at a plate of scones with one of his quills; a Bloodhound spoke in hushed tones with a petite gray-haired woman who was working at knitting needles in between sips of tea; two Goldfish swam figure eights around each other inside a fishbowl filled with tea-stained water; a Dormouse dozed inside the mane of a Lion who was singing low to himself in vocal warm-up; a Parrot argued with a Cockatoo; a Bumblebee skimmed a newspaper; a Boa Constrictor tuned a fiddle; a Chameleon squinted in concentration as she attempted to match the exact pattern of her upholstered chair; a Turtle dunked half of his cucumber sandwich into his cup.
The noisy whooperups at the center of it all were a March Hare, who stood on top of the table, and a Squirrel perched on his head. They each wore ridiculous floral bonnets, though holes had been added to allow their ears to poke through. Together they were the source of the very loud and rather obnoxious duet that had first pierced Cath’s eardrums. The song was about starfish and stardust, though they both seemed too hoarse and confused to get any of the words straight, and they were horribly murdering the tune. Catherine cringed as the song dragged onward.
With one hand on her elbow, Jest guided Catherine around the table, toward the man who was occupying the throne at the far end. He was exquisitely dressed, with plum coattails and a crimson silk cravat. One finger skimmed idly along the brim of a matching purple top hat. Though he was young, his hair was silver-white, with a few choppy locks tumbling around his ears and the rest tied with a velvet ribbon at the nape of his neck.
He was slouched and apparently bored, feet set up beside a half-empty cup of tea.
Then his attention landed on Jest and turned lively, a grin fast to brighten his face. He swung his feet off the table.
“Well, well, if it isn’t our star performer, returned from the world of gallantry and riches.” He stood and gave Jest a quick embrace, before pulling away and grasping him by the shoulders. His smile had turned to scrutiny.
“Don’t seem much changed,” he mused, shutting one eye at a time to complete his inspection. “A bit scrawnier perhaps. Don’t they feed you in that fancy castle of yours?” He pinched Jest’s cheek, but was pushed away.
“Like a cow for slaughter,” Jest said, “but I’m also forced to work for my pay. A novel idea to you, I know.”
“A horrific waste of talent is what I call that.” The Hatter—for Cath assumed this must be him—grimaced suddenly and cast his gaze toward the Hare and Squirrel on the table. “That’s enough! I can’t take any more.” Grabbing a cane that had been propped against his chair, he whapped the handle of a spoon, which flicked a cashew from a bowl of nuts and sent it soaring right into the Hare’s open mouth.
The Hare froze. A sudden silence fell over the tea parlor. The Hare pounded on his sternum—choking. His red eyes bugged. Catherine tensed.
The Boa Constrictor slithered onto the table, encircled the Hare’s body, and squeezed. The cashew sailed out of his mouth and kersplatted into the Turtle’s teacup.
Catherine watched, appalled, but the rest of the tea party guests had already taken back up with their conversations and tea drinking. She seemed to have been the only one concerned.
“What have you dragged in with you, Jest?”
She started. The Hatter’s inspection had turned to her. His eyes, she noticed, were the color of soft violets, and his features equally delicate. He was very handsome, while simultaneously striking her as very pretty.
“Lady Catherine, this is my dear friend, Hatta. Hatta, Lady Catherine Pinkerton.”
“Enchanted.” She dropped into a curtsy.
Hatta tipped his hat, but didn’t smile. “Pinkerton. A relation to the Marquess?”
“He is my father.”
A robust laugh burst from his mouth. “A true lady, then.” He shot Jest a look that held layers of meaning Cath felt ill-equipped to interpret. “Or does that only go so far as her satin shift?”
Heat rushed into Cath’s cheeks, but Jest did not rise to the bait. His tone was cold as he responded, “She is indeed a lady, as we are gentlemen. Do not force me to duel with you for her honor.”
“A duel! Gracious, no. A hat-off, perhaps, but never a duel.” His scrutiny slipped down Cath’s dress, and she had the distinct feeling that he was estimating how many shillings the material had cost. “Any consort of Jest’s is a friend of mine. Welcome to my hat shop.”
“Thank you.”
“And this is my long-time accomplice, Sir Haigha,” said the Hatter, lifting his cane to the Hare as he came scrambling off the table.
“Sir Hare?” asked Catherine.
“Haigha,” said the March Hare. “Rhymes with mayor, but spelled with a g.”
She stared, not sure how Hare could be spelled with a g. Before she could ask again, Jest settled a hand on her shoulder and whispered, “I’ll spell it for you later.”
/>
She curtsied again.
Hatta slid his gaze back to the table and scanned the occupants. The Bumblebee had turned his newspaper into three origami sailing boats and most of the guests were watching them chase one another around a teacup that was the size of a punch bowl. The Lion and the old lady were placing bets on which boats would sink first while the Turtle dumped sugar on the sails to sink them faster.
Hatta pounded the end of his cane on the floor three times, then swirled it through the air. “Everyone, move down! Make room for our joker and his lady. And who’s up next?”
Chants of move down, move down echoed around the table as they pushed back their chairs and spent a topsy-turvy moment flitting to new seats. Sitting, testing, jumping and bounding, over the table and under, hopscotching between the chairs, stumbling into one another’s laps and on top of one another’s shoulders and some of the smaller animals finding a cozy spot inside an empty teacup. Only Hatta’s throne was left out of the chair swapping, until finally everyone had settled down again, leaving the two seats on either side of their host open for Jest and Catherine.
Feeling like this was all a game she didn’t know the rules to, Cath went to sit down.
“No, my lady, you’ll want to be over here.” Jest rounded to the seat on Hatta’s left side and pulled it out for her.
Hatta snorted and tipped his hat up with his cane, watching Catherine as she sank straight-backed into the offered seat and smoothed her skirt around her legs. “Jest isn’t confident you can hold your own among us rabble and hooligans.”
Jest glowered. As he passed behind Hatta’s throne, he leaned toward his ear. “She is our guest. I did not bring her here to entertain you.”
Catherine folded her hands into her lap and tried to be pleasant.
“Wrong, Jest,” Hatta said, his knowing smirk never leaving her. “Everyone is here to entertain me.”
“Well then. Allow me.”
Jest snapped the top hat from Hatta’s head, holding it aloft as Hatta tried to grab it back. Jest was already chuckling and stepping up onto his chair, then onto the table. The cups and saucers rattled as his boots clomped against the wood.