Page 7 of Heartless

Though Margaret’s physical shortcomings were a favourite conversation topic of Catherine’s mother (‘She would not be such a very dreadful case if only she would snug up her corsets a bit more’), Catherine herself found Margaret’s personality to be far more offensive, as Margaret had been convinced since childhood that she was very,veryclever and very,veryrighteous. More clever and more righteous than anyone else. She excelled at pointing out how much more clever and righteous she was.

Given that they were such dear friends, Margaret had long seen it as her role to point out all of Catherine’s inadequacies. In hopes of bettering her. Like any true friend would.

‘I’m quite well,’ said Margaret as they shared a mutual curtsy, ‘but I feel wretched to inform you that your dress is unduly red.’

‘Thank you so much for that insight,’ Cath said through her crushing smile. ‘I have recently made the same observation.’

Margaret’s face puckered, squinching up her small eyes. ‘I must warn you, my dearest Catherine, that such an endeavour to capture attention could lead to lifelong arrogance and vanity. It is much wiser to let your inner beauty shine through a drab gown than to attempt to conceal it with physical accoutrements.’

‘Thank you for that advice. I will keep it under consideration.’ Cath refrained from casting an unimpressed glance at Margaret’s gown, which was drab and black and topped with a sobering fur cap.

‘I hope you will. And the moral of that is “Once a goldfish, forever a goldfish.”’

The corner of Cath’s mouth twitched. That was one more of Margaret’s delightful quirks – she was a living encyclopedia of morals that Cath could never make any sense of, and she could never tell if the morals were nonsense, or if she was just too dim to understand them. No doubt Margaret would assure her it was the latter.

Not that she was going to ask.

‘Hm. So true,’ Cath agreed, scanning the nearby guests in hopes for an excuse to abandon Margaret before she built up any momentum. She could be impossible to escape from when she got to carrying on.

Not far away, Sir Magpie and his wife were drinking cordials beside a heart-shaped ice sculpture, but Catherine dared not escape to them – it could have been her imagination, but her jewellery had an uncanny way of disappearing around the Magpies.

Cath’s father was entertaining the Four, Seven, and Eight of Diamonds. Even as Cath spotted them, her father reached the climax of some joke and the Four fell on to his flat back, laughing hysterically and kicking his legs in the air. After a moment it became clear that he couldn’t get back up on his own, and the Eight reached down to help, still chuckling.

Catherine sighed – she had never been skilled at slipping easily into a joke half told.

And then there was the Most Noble Pygmalion Warthog, Duke of Tuskany. Cath had often found him to be awkward and distant and a terrible conversationalist. As their eyes met, she was surprised to find that he was watching her and Margaret.

She wasn’t sure which of them turned away first.

‘Are you looking for someone, Lady Catherine?’ Margaret inched closer – uncomfortably close, settling her chin on Cath’s shoulder – and followed her gaze.

‘No, no, I was only . . . observing.’

‘Observing whom?’

‘Well. That’s a fine waistcoat the Duke is wearing tonight, don’t you think?’ she asked, aiming for civility as she inched out from beneath Margaret’s chin.

Margaret curled her nose in disgust. ‘How could anyone notice his waistcoat? When I look at the Duke, all I see is the way he insists on turning up his nose at everyone else, as if being the Duke of Tuskany were any great achievement.’

Cath cocked her head. ‘I think his nose does that naturally.’ She pressed a finger to her own nose and pushed upward, testing it out. It didn’t make herfeelelitist . . .

Margaret blanched. ‘For shame, Catherine. You can’t go around mocking everyone else like that! At least, not in public.’

‘Oh! I didn’t mean to cause offence. It’s just sort of snout-like is all. He probably has an excellent sense of smell. I wonder whether he couldn’t track down truffles with a nose like that.’

Cath was spared from her defence by a rough tap against her shoulder.

She turned and found herself staring at a black tunic covering a puffed-up chest. Her gaze travelled upward to a scowling face half hidden by a single eye-patch and messy hair peeking out of a white beret.

Jack, the Knave of Hearts, who had been knighted out of pity after losing his right eye in a game of charades.

Her mood sank even further. This ball was off to the most horrible of starts. ‘Hello, Jack.’

‘Lady Pinkerton,’ he drawled, his breath smelling of mulled wine. His eye darted towards Margaret. ‘Lady Mearle.’

Margaret folded her arms over her chest. ‘It is of intolerable impoliteness to interrupt a conversation, Jack.’

‘I came to tell Lady Pinkerton that this is a black-and-white ball.’

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