Page 50 of Heartless

The King would ask for her hand.

Her father would agree.

Her mother would agree.

And she . . .

She would say no.

The silent promise to herself made her dizzy, but she remembered the determination she’d felt during the croquet game and tried to summon it again.

She would be a picture of politeness, of course. She would deny his proposal with as much grace as possible. She would be obliging and flattered and humbled, and she would explain to him that she did not feel suited to the role of queen. She would say there was certainly a better choice, and though her gratitude for his attentions was limitless, she could not in good conscience accept him –

No, no, no.

She was wrong, and she hated the knowing of it.

With her father there, and her mother, and the dear, sweet King of Hearts, and all their hopeful eyes focused on her . . . she knew that she would undoubtedly say yes.

She stopped looking at Jest. Her eyes were suddenly repelled by him. His presence in the room was painful, suffocating.

‘I quite enjoyed a game of croquet with Lady Pinkerton at the party,’ said the King.

‘Oh yes, she was just telling us all about it,’ said the Marchioness. ‘She enjoyed herself as well. Didn’t you, Catherine?’

She gulped. ‘Yes, Mother.’

‘She is a remarkably skilled croquetesse.’ The King giggled. ‘Why, one look from her and the hedgehogs just go –woop!– right where she means for them to go!’ He kept giggling.

Cath’s parents giggled along, though she could tell her father wasn’t sure what was so amusing.

‘We’re very proud of her,’ said the Marchioness. ‘She is accomplished in so many ways, between the croquet, and the baking.’ Her eyes landed on Catherine, full of motherly adoration.

Cath looked away and caught sight of Mary Ann’s pale blue eyes through the cracked door. The maid flashed an encouraging smile.

‘Lady Pinkerton and I also, uh, had an enlightening conversation with my new court joker. Do you remember?’ The King met her eye for the first time, and between his uneasiness and the mention of the Joker, Cath found herself caught in a mortifying blush that was sure to be misinterpreted.

Her mother elbowed her father.

‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ she said. ‘I do remember.’

‘Oh yes, very good. He, uh . . . Jest, that is, has given me some thoughtful advice, for which I’m quite grateful, and I’ve been . . . thinking, and . . . well.’ The King pulled the fur collar of his cloak away from his throat. ‘I have a very important question for you, Lady Pinkerton. And . . . and Lord and Lady Pinkerton, of course.’

The Marchioness grabbed her husband’s wrist.

‘We are your humble servants,’ said the Marquess. ‘What can we do for you, Your Majesty?’

Cath sank into the sofa. Goodbye, bakery. Goodbye, the smell of fresh-baked bread in the morning. Goodbye, flour-dusted aprons.

The King wiggled. His feet kicked against the chair. ‘I have called on you tonight with the purpose of . . . of . . .’ A bead of sweat slipped down his temple. Cath followed it with her eyes until the King rubbed it away with the edge of his cloak. Then he started to speak, fast, like he was issuing an important declaration that had been rehearsed a hundred times. ‘. . . of asking for the honour of entering into a courtship with Lady Catherine Pinkerton.’

Then he burped.

Just a little burp, out of nervousness, or perhaps even nausea.

Catherine, delirious with anxiety, choked back a snort.

Behind the King, Jest flinched, and the small action returned Cath’s attention to him.

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