Heartless(31)

He hardly seemed to notice at first. Then, as Catherine stared as openly as a child at her first parade, Jest glanced toward her.

His eyes connected with hers in an instant, as if he’d known just where she was.

As if he’d been watching her for some while, and waiting for her to notice.

Even from so far a distance, she thought she detected a faint smile shot her way.

All sensation left her body. No more soft grass beneath her feet. No more racket clutched between her hands. No more hair clinging to the back of her damp neck.

The moment answered one question, at least. She felt as drawn to him as ever, though whether it was mere attraction or some other, stronger force, she had no way of knowing, and no previous experience to draw from.

Jest looked away. The connection snapped and Catherine dragged in a long breath, grateful to be rescued from her own lack of subtlety.

The look had been just long enough to fan the flames of her curiosity, and short enough to put none of them out.

His audience was growing fast. Even some of the Spade gardeners had stopped working to listen to the Joker’s music. Catherine realized with a jolt that her mother was among them, beaming as large as anyone.

The song ended, the notes reaching Catherine over the expanse of lawn, followed by the delighted cooing and clapping of the crowd.

Jest tucked the mandolin against his side and bowed. The Raven took flight again, soaring off in the direction of the herb garden.

“Catherine! You look like a buffoon. What are you staring at?”

“Oh—oh!” She faced Margaret again, clawing her fingernails into the racket’s netting. “I was distracted by … by the Raven. Did you see it? It appears that the, uh—the Joker is over … Oh, my. Margaret, what is happening to your hat?”

Margaret’s face lit up and she reached tentative fingers toward her fascinator. “What is it doing? Tell me.”

“It’s … blooming,” said Cath, as the rosebud that was as big as Margaret’s head began to open—the yellow petals curling open to reveal a lush flower, the hue deepening to rich gold at its center. The edges of the petals glimmered, as if dipped in sugar crystals, and the softest, most wonderful fragrance drifted toward Cath’s nose.

“My, that is a fine hat you’re wearing, Lady Margaret.”

They spun to see the Countess, who had spoken, and the Duke, who was blushing at his hooves, standing not far away.

Margaret’s enthusiasm fizzled as she stuck her nose into the air. “Thank you,” she said, rather unkindly.

“Did you by chance get it at that new hat shop outside the Crossroads?” the Countess asked. “I’ve heard much about it these past weeks and have been meaning to make a trip there myself, though with my old age it’s hard to get around much unless I have a strapping young man to assist me.” She grinned, as if she’d said something wicked, and curled her fingers into the crook of the Duke’s elbow.

“That is indeed where I got it.” The confession seemed strained. Margaret’s shoulders stiffened beside her ear. “That is to say … naturally, that pride and … the sin of arrogance … it requires willpower to … to doff the vanity that such attention-grabbing-ness might … otherwise … prevail upon oneself…” She gulped. “Amen.”

“Amen,” Cath, the Duke, and the Countess recited.

Cath cleared her throat. “I believe what Lady Margaret means to say is that ‘Once a goldfish, forever a goldfish.’”

The Duke dared to glance up, his small dark eyes captivated by Margaret and her unfurled hat. Despite her haughtiness and upturned nose, with Lord Warthog ogling her in such a way and her hat sitting aromatically atop her head, it once again became possible to imagine her as not-unattractive.

“Forever a goldfish,” breathed the Duke. “I could not agree more.”

“It’s nice to see young ladies taking up their exercise,” said the Countess, gesturing her cane toward the battledore rackets. “I was just telling the Duke that this tea party is already much improved over the black-and-white ball. I should like to see the King maintain such high standards of guests. None of that—riffraff that was about before.”

“Oh yes,” Margaret said. “Like that awful Cheshire Cat. What is a feline like that doing at a royal ball, with all the vanishing and unvanishing and sitting on people’s heads. It isn’t natural.”

“Such is an insult to proper ladies and gentlemen.” The Countess planted her cane back into the grass. “Not to mention Mr. and Mrs. Peter.” She made a face akin to a child trying their first bite of cooked spinach. “Dreadful folk. I’ll be pleased to never cross their paths again.”

“What we can be grateful for,” interrupted Catherine, folding her hands over the battledore racket, “is that you were present, Your Grace. Margaret was just telling me about your courageous sacrifice—throwing yourself in between her and the Jabberwock in order to protect a fair maiden! And I see you still bear the wound to prove it.” She gestured at the bandage peeking above the Duke’s cravat, then held the racket against her chest. “It’s like something from a story. So romantic! Margaret, don’t you think the Duke was very brave?”

She was met with a brooding glare from Margaret and was glad the Duke was too busy blushing again to notice.