Page 17 of Heartless

‘Say yes, I suppose. Or say no. It matters not to me. Are you sure orange is my colour?’ He was inspecting his tail again.

Desperation clawed at Catherine’s throat.

The King. The simpleminded, ridiculous, happy,happyKing.

Her husband? Her one and only? Her partner through life’s trials and joys?

She would be queen, and queens . . . queens did not open bakeries with their best friends. Queens did not gossip with half-invisible cats. Queens did not have dreams of yellow-eyed boys and wake up with lemon trees over their beds.

She tried to swallow, but her mouth had dried up like stale cake.

The King cleared his throat. ‘Fair evening, loyal subjects! I hope you have all enjoyed tonight’s delights!’

More applause, at which the King clasped his own hands together and bobbed up and down a few times.

‘I wish to make an announcement. A good announcement, nothing to be worried about.’ He giggled at what might have been a joke. ‘It has come time for me to choose for myself a wife, and for my subjects . . . a most adored Queen of Hearts! And’ – the King kept giggling – ‘with any luck, bring our kingdom an heir, as well.’

Catherine stepped back from the feasting table. She couldn’t feel her toes.

‘Cheshire . . . ?’

‘Lady Catherine?’

‘It is my honour,’ continued the King, ‘to call up the lady I have chosen for my life’s companion.’

‘Please,’ said Catherine, ‘cause a distraction. Anything!’

Cheshire’s tail twitched, and he vanished. Only his voice lingered, murmuring, ‘With pleasure, Lady Catherine.’

The King spread his arms. ‘Would the ever lovely, delightful, and stupendous Lady Cathe—’

‘Aaaagghh!’

As one, the crowd turned. Margaret Mearle kept screaming, swatting at the orange-striped cat who had appeared on top of her head, curled up beneath her fur headdress.

Catherine alone turned the other way.

She fled out to the balcony, running as fast as her heeled boots and strangling corset would allow. The cool night air sent a chill racing across her enflamed skin, but every breath remained a struggle.

She lifted her skirts and slipped down the steps into the rose gardens. She heard a splinter of glass and startled cries behind her and wondered what chaos Cheshire must be causing now, but she dared not look back, not even as she reached the gardens.

The world tilted. She paused at a wrought-iron gate, gripping one of the decorative finials for support. Catching her breath, she stumbled on. Down the clover-filled path between rose arbors and trickling fountains, passing topiaries and statues and a pond of water lilies. She reached for the back of her dress, desperate to loosen the stays. To breathe. But she couldn’t reach. She was suffocating.

She was going to be sick.

She was going to faint.

A shadow reared up in front of her, backlit from the blazing castle lights so that the silhouette stretched over the croquet lawns. Catherine cried out and stumbled to a halt, damp hair matted to her neck.

The shadow of a hooded man engulfed her. As Catherine stared, the silhouette lifted an enormous axe, the curved blade arching across the grass.

Trembling, Catherine spun around. A dark shape dropped towards her out of the sky. She screamed and threw her arms up in defence.

The raven cawed, so close she could feel his wing beats as he flew past.

‘Are you all right?’

She gasped and withdrew her arms. Her heart was thundering as she peered up into the boughs of a white rose tree.

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