Heartless(47)

The occupants of the table were equally assorted. A Porcupine stabbed at a plate of scones with one of his quills; a Bloodhound spoke in hushed tones with a petite gray-haired woman who was working at knitting needles in between sips of tea; two Goldfish swam figure eights around each other inside a fishbowl filled with tea-stained water; a Dormouse dozed inside the mane of a Lion who was singing low to himself in vocal warm-up; a Parrot argued with a Cockatoo; a Bumblebee skimmed a newspaper; a Boa Constrictor tuned a fiddle; a Chameleon squinted in concentration as she attempted to match the exact pattern of her upholstered chair; a Turtle dunked half of his cucumber sandwich into his cup.

The noisy whooperups at the center of it all were a March Hare, who stood on top of the table, and a Squirrel perched on his head. They each wore ridiculous floral bonnets, though holes had been added to allow their ears to poke through. Together they were the source of the very loud and rather obnoxious duet that had first pierced Cath’s eardrums. The song was about starfish and stardust, though they both seemed too hoarse and confused to get any of the words straight, and they were horribly murdering the tune. Catherine cringed as the song dragged onward.

With one hand on her elbow, Jest guided Catherine around the table, toward the man who was occupying the throne at the far end. He was exquisitely dressed, with plum coattails and a crimson silk cravat. One finger skimmed idly along the brim of a matching purple top hat. Though he was young, his hair was silver-white, with a few choppy locks tumbling around his ears and the rest tied with a velvet ribbon at the nape of his neck.

He was slouched and apparently bored, feet set up beside a half-empty cup of tea.

Then his attention landed on Jest and turned lively, a grin fast to brighten his face. He swung his feet off the table.

“Well, well, if it isn’t our star performer, returned from the world of gallantry and riches.” He stood and gave Jest a quick embrace, before pulling away and grasping him by the shoulders. His smile had turned to scrutiny.

“Don’t seem much changed,” he mused, shutting one eye at a time to complete his inspection. “A bit scrawnier perhaps. Don’t they feed you in that fancy castle of yours?” He pinched Jest’s cheek, but was pushed away.

“Like a cow for slaughter,” Jest said, “but I’m also forced to work for my pay. A novel idea to you, I know.”

“A horrific waste of talent is what I call that.” The Hatter—for Cath assumed this must be him—grimaced suddenly and cast his gaze toward the Hare and Squirrel on the table. “That’s enough! I can’t take any more.” Grabbing a cane that had been propped against his chair, he whapped the handle of a spoon, which flicked a cashew from a bowl of nuts and sent it soaring right into the Hare’s open mouth.

The Hare froze. A sudden silence fell over the tea parlor. The Hare pounded on his sternum—choking. His red eyes bugged. Catherine tensed.

The Boa Constrictor slithered onto the table, encircled the Hare’s body, and squeezed. The cashew sailed out of his mouth and kersplatted into the Turtle’s teacup.

Catherine watched, appalled, but the rest of the tea party guests had already taken back up with their conversations and tea drinking. She seemed to have been the only one concerned.

“What have you dragged in with you, Jest?”

She started. The Hatter’s inspection had turned to her. His eyes, she noticed, were the color of soft violets, and his features equally delicate. He was very handsome, while simultaneously striking her as very pretty.

“Lady Catherine, this is my dear friend, Hatta. Hatta, Lady Catherine Pinkerton.”

“Enchanted.” She dropped into a curtsy.

Hatta tipped his hat, but didn’t smile. “Pinkerton. A relation to the Marquess?”

“He is my father.”

A robust laugh burst from his mouth. “A true lady, then.” He shot Jest a look that held layers of meaning Cath felt ill-equipped to interpret. “Or does that only go so far as her satin shift?”

Heat rushed into Cath’s cheeks, but Jest did not rise to the bait. His tone was cold as he responded, “She is indeed a lady, as we are gentlemen. Do not force me to duel with you for her honor.”

“A duel! Gracious, no. A hat-off, perhaps, but never a duel.” His scrutiny slipped down Cath’s dress, and she had the distinct feeling that he was estimating how many shillings the material had cost. “Any consort of Jest’s is a friend of mine. Welcome to my hat shop.”

“Thank you.”

“And this is my long-time accomplice, Sir Haigha,” said the Hatter, lifting his cane to the Hare as he came scrambling off the table.

“Sir Hare?” asked Catherine.

“Haigha,” said the March Hare. “Rhymes with mayor, but spelled with a g.”

She stared, not sure how Hare could be spelled with a g. Before she could ask again, Jest settled a hand on her shoulder and whispered, “I’ll spell it for you later.”

She curtsied again.

Hatta slid his gaze back to the table and scanned the occupants. The Bumblebee had turned his newspaper into three origami sailing boats and most of the guests were watching them chase one another around a teacup that was the size of a punch bowl. The Lion and the old lady were placing bets on which boats would sink first while the Turtle dumped sugar on the sails to sink them faster.

Hatta pounded the end of his cane on the floor three times, then swirled it through the air. “Everyone, move down! Make room for our joker and his lady. And who’s up next?”