Page 83 of Heartless

In her delight, the Queen granted the girl a mansion and the title of Marchioness.

From then on, that gift of storytelling had been passed through every generation that grew up in the manor off Rock Turtle Cove, and the talent had entertained countless kings and queens who sat on the throne. Cath’s father was no exception. When Cath was a child, her father had told her stories every night as she lay in bed. Stories of faraway lands and mythical creatures, daring adventures and happy endings. As she grew, she had tried to replicate her father’s skill. She practised with her dolls first, and Mr and Mrs Snail in the garden, and Cheshire. She thought for sure that she, too, would be an amazing storyteller, as all her family before her.

The first time she’d told one of her stories to her father, he cried. Not because her tale was so poignant, but because Cath’s telling of it was so ghastly.

The misery of her father’s disappointment had haunted her for two long years, until the morning she’d stumbled down into the kitchen and watched their cook prepare a sweet potato pie, and Cath discovered a new passion.

‘. . . the tale of Marchioness Pinkerton, may she rest ever in a piece of cake,’ her father was proclaiming from the stage, his voice flowing over the shore as easily as the crashing waves, and holding the crowd in raptures, ‘began to spread throughout the kingdom. Men and creatures alike came from far and wide to hear the Marchioness recount the story of the turtle and the lobster. Their forbidden romance. Their impossible match. The love that resulted in an age of peace between all the creatures of the land and sea.’

Catherine glanced around, unsurprised to find tears glistening in the eyes of those beside her. She had cried at this tale so often as a child that sometimes just hearing the wordlobstermade her feel soft and pliant on the inside.

Not today, though. Today she heardlobsterand knew that the opening dance was coming. Her dread deepened.

‘As the people of the kingdom arrived in droves, a unity formed among those who had heard the Marchioness tell her tale of woe and wonder, and a nightly celebration began among those who had made an encampment on the beaches of Rock Turtle Cove. There was singing and dancing and revelry and bonfires, every night! The people shared with one another their food and their stories, and a great companionship thrived.’

Cath heard a sniffle beside her and looked down. She startled upon recognizing the Turtle from Hatta’s tea party, wearing the same bowler hat he’d worn at the party, embellished with a green satin ribbon. Tears were flowing from his eyes.

Cath dug a handkerchief from her purse and handed it to the young thing, who thanked her and pulled his head back into his shell, leaving the hat perched on top. His disappearance was soon followed by a nose-emptying honk.

She wanted to lean closer and whisper to him that she was glad he was all right, glad that he’d made it to the Crossroads that night when the Jabberwock had attacked, but he seemed already distraught enough to go about reminding him of such horrors.

‘As the years passed,’ her father went on, ‘the Marchioness decided to honour the gathering on the beaches of Rock Turtle Cove, and she declared a day of celebration, a day in which all of Hearts’ creatures were invited to remember the love of two unlikely beasts, and the happiness their love brought to the kingdom.’

As her father finished, the crowd applauded. The Turtle appeared again and tried to pass Cath’s handkerchief back to her, but she smiled and suggested he keep it – just in case he needed it again.

She braced herself for what was to come next, her throat as dry as if she’d eaten a handful of sand. She paced her breaths, trying to calm her jitters.

‘Here to dance the lobster quadrille, our first dance of the day, I present to you all my darling, my dear, my joy – my daughter, Catherine.’

Cath stepped out of the crowd. Excitement thrummed around her, but she did her best not to look at any of the faces she passed. Once she’d climbed on to the driftwood stage, her father held up his hands for silence. ‘Please clear the beach so the dancing can commence! Participating dancers, you may take your places!’

The audience pulled back, making way for the dancers, though most of the sea creatures needed no prompting as they hastened to their places. The orchestra, too, was already set up against the cliffs. That left only the jellyfish to be cleared away, and a team of walruses were there in seconds, shovels in hand, to make quick work of the job.

Catherine loved the festival and the story, but as traditions went, she hated this one. Her mother had passed the responsibility on to Catherine when she was eleven years old, and, as with every year, she and her partner would be the only humans among the seals and crabs and dolphins.

Catherine did not despise dancing, but she did despise being first, being watched, being judged. She was always sure that she was one dance step away from making a dunce of herself. She could still recall how her stomach had tied into knots that first year. How her palms had sweat, despite the cold. It seemed worse every year, especially as her body had matured and she’d been forced to dance with potential suitors, rather than the sweet-meaning gentlemen of the court who laughed like kindly grandfathers as they swung her through the air.

Only a handful of jellyfish remained on the beach when she felt the faint tickle of a fingertip tracing the back of her wrist.

Cath jumped and spun around, but Jest had already pulled back. His attention dropped as he pulled black gloves on to his hands. ‘Good day, Lady Pinkerton,’ he said, too casual. He was dressed in his usual motley, the black heart dripping from the kohl around his eyes. If it hadn’t been for the faintest hint of redness in his cheeks, she would have thought she’d imagined the touch, but she knew she hadn’t. Her entire arm was still tingling.

‘Good day, Sir Joker,’ she said, suddenly breathless.

The corners of his mouth twitched and he met her gaze, before his eyes skipped up to the macaron hat. ‘I take it you’ve been to see Hatta.’

She reached up to give the hat a squeeze, liking the lightness of it more and more as the soft insides contoured to her head. ‘He’s very clever.’

‘He certainly likes to think so.’ Jest inhaled sharply, and she noticed that his eyes were troubled, still looking at the hat. ‘Did he say what it does?’

‘The hat? I’m not sure it does anything.’ She listed her head to the side, but the hat was snug enough that it didn’t shift. ‘Unless you are going to teach me the trick with the White Rabbit.’

He was shaking his head, but it was a subtle movement. ‘Hatta’s creations are far from ordinary. And you look . . .’ He hesitated.

Cath raised her eyebrows and watched his Adam’s apple bob.

‘Today, you seem rather . . .’

She folded her hands patiently in front of her skirt. She could see him biting back his words. Considering and reconsidering before, finally, he said, ‘You are a pleasure to look on, is all, Lady Pinkerton.’ He pointed his chin past Catherine’s shoulder, disappointment clouding his expression. ‘As your beau will no doubt tell you as well.’

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