Heartless(23)
“Of course it is. We’ll paint a banner on the glass to read SWEETS AND TARTS: THE MOST WONDROUS BAKERY IN ALL OF HEARTS.”
They shared a unified sigh. A passing froggy footman gave them an odd look, before licking his eyeball and continuing on.
The shop was on a cozy street lined with flower boxes and thatched roofs, a cobbled road that clattered with passing carriages. The morning was fair and the town seemed more crowded than usual. Passing baskets overflowed with onions and turnips from the nearby market. A crew of carpenter ants were whistling along with the beat of their hammers as they erected a schoolhouse around the corner. Overheard bits of conversation bustled with news of the Jabberwock, though they talked of it more like a long-passed fairy tale than a recent horror, which was the way of the people of Hearts.
Cath had the overwhelming sense that she would be happy to come here every day. To live a simple life here on Main Street, away from the manor at Rock Turtle Cove, away from Heart Castle.
Her attention caught on a street performer on the corner—a trumpetfish, playing for the passersby with an open case gathering coins in front of his musical mouth. Normally the sound of his music would have brought to mind the White Rabbit, but now Cath’s first thought was of Jest and his silver flute.
A new dream weaseled its way into her thoughts, unbidden and unexpected.
Her and Mary Ann. Their bakery. And … him. Entertaining their customers, or returning home after a day of making merriment at the castle.
It was so absurd she immediately chastised herself for the thought. She barely knew the court joker and had no reason to think he would ever be anything to her beyond a couple of unusual dreams.
And yet, if she was only a simple baker, and not the daughter of a marquess, and not the King’s intended … then the thought of the court joker becoming something more to her no longer sounded so impossible.
Could this be her future? Could such be her fate?
She was surprised at how encouraged she was by the prospect.
“Cath?”
She jumped. Mary Ann was watching her with a furrowed brow, her face shaded by the parasol.
“Do you know him?” Mary Ann asked.
“Who?”
“The trumpetfish?”
“Oh no, I just … thought it was a pretty tune.” She dug a coin from her purse. “Let’s go inside and take a look around, shall we?”
She didn’t wait for Mary Ann to respond, dropping the coin into the trumpetfish’s case as she made her way toward the cobbler’s shop.
The moment they opened the door, a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke spilled over them and drifted into the street. Cath waved it away with her hand and stepped inside. There was a bell on the door handle, but it was fast asleep and only went on snoring even as they shut the door behind them.
Taking down the parasol, Cath let her gaze drift around the smoky, haze-filled shop. The floor was covered in shoes of all sizes and shapes, from ballet slippers and riding boots to iron horseshoes and flipper covers, piled like snowdrifts and spilling into the pathways. The plain beige walls were sparsely hung with painted advertisements that showed foot-dressings thirty years outdated. The lighting was dim and dusty; the air smelled of blacking and leather and dirty stockings.
Behind a counter, Mr. Caterpillar, the cobbler, was perched on a stool and smoking from a large hookah. He blinked sleepily at Cath and Mary Ann as they made their way through the mess. A pair of leather-soled boots sat on the counter in front of him, and though he seemed more interested in the pipe than the shoes, Cath busied herself by giving the space a closer inspection, not wanting to interrupt his work.
In her mind, she cleared away the cobbler’s shop from this dingy little space. She imagined the walls painted in candy stripes of cream and turquoise, and the window hung with breezy peach-sorbet curtains. Three small cafe tables waited by the entrance, each with a sprig of yellow posies in a milk-glass vase. The stained and musty carpet was replaced with waxed marble tiles, and the cobbler’s old wooden counter would be exchanged for a glass case overflowing with cakes and gingerbreads, pies and strudels and chocolate-filled croissants. The back wall would be hung with baskets, each stuffed with fresh-baked bread. She saw herself behind the case, wearing a pink-checkered apron still dusted with that morning’s flour. She was filling a jar with biscotti while Mary Ann, in matching yellow checkers, wrapped up a dozen shortbread cookies in a lime-green box.
Cath took in a long breath, then promptly started choking on the hookah smoke that filled her lungs, when she had been expecting spices and the chocolate and the steaming, yeasty buns. She covered her mouth, trying to muffle the coughing fit as well as she could, and turned back to the cobbler.
He was staring at her and Mary Ann. He had not touched the boots on the counter, though coming closer she could see that he was wearing an assortment of shoes himself—all different styles of boots and slippers taking up his many small feet.
“Who,” he said lazily, “are you?”
Cath attempted her most charming smile—the persuasive one she’d learned from her mother—and picked her way past the piles of shoes. “My name is Catherine Pinkerton. My maid and I happened to be passing by when we noticed the sign outside. I was wondering what’s to become of this shop once you’ve vacated. It would be a sore shame if it were to stay empty for long.”
“It would not be a sore shame,” Mr. Caterpillar said, rather gruffly, before taking another puff off the hookah.