Heartless(51)

“Don’t be a ninny—that’s impossible!”

“Catherine.”

She turned and realized she was still holding Jest’s hand. He smiled, but it carried some concern. “You don’t have to do this.”

She wondered whether he was embarrassed for her, or for himself—for bringing her. A lady. A member of the gentry. Someone with soft hands and a head full of emptiness. Someone who was not mad enough to belong at the Hatter’s tea parties.

She yanked her hand away and faced the Hatter. His heels were on the table again, his fingers fiddling with his cravat.

Her father was known throughout Hearts as a great storyteller, a gift that had been passed down through her family over generations and yet had somehow skipped her over. Now Catherine struggled to remember one of his tales. The ones that could enchant a school of wayward fish. The ones that could make the clouds cry and bring mountains to their knees.

“Once … once upon a time…,” she started, but had to stop when the words caught in her throat.

She rubbed her damp palms on her skirt—and discovered a crackling lump in her pocket.

Her heart flipped.

“There was … there was a girl. She was the daughter of a marquess.”

The corners of Hatta’s mouth tilted downward.

“Though she was raised to be a lady,” Cath said, turning away and scanning the enraptured guests—or at least, guests who were waiting and willing to be enraptured, “and taught all the things a lady ought to be taught, she was only good at one thing. It was not a big thing, or an important thing, or even a ladylike thing, but it was what she really loved to do.”

She slid her hand into her pocket and pulled out the package of macarons. The wax paper had crinkled throughout the day, though the twine bow securing it had held. Around the table, the guests tilted forward.

“I…” She hesitated. “I make confections, you see.”

“Did she say confessions?” the old lady murmured. “Oh dear. I fear I have done a lot worth confessing this year.”

Cath smiled. “No, confections.” She opened the wax paper, revealing five rose macarons, a little crumbled around the edges, but otherwise intact.

A silence descended onto the table.

“Unconventional indeed,” Hatta drawled, brow drawn with suspicion. “But what do they do?”

Catherine didn’t retract her hand. “They don’t do anything. They won’t make you smaller, or larger. But … I do hope they might make you happier. These were meant to be a gift for the King himself, but I … I was distracted today. I forgot to give them to him.”

She dared not look at Jest.

“A gift for the King?” Hatta said. “That does sound promising.” He waved his cane at Haigha, who reached up and took the macarons out of Cath’s palm. Her breath left her in a rush, relieved to have them gone. She was still shaking with nerves.

Haigha laid the macarons out on a plate and, one by one, cut the sandwiched meringues as neatly as he could. They crumbled and squished under the knife. The crowd gathered close, watching as the buttercream filling oozed and stuck to the paper.

Feeling a tug at her skirt, Catherine turned to see Jest holding his hand toward her again. She allowed him to pull her down from the table.

“You made those?” he whispered.

“Of course I did,” she said, and couldn’t help adding, “and as you’ll see, Hatta isn’t the only one here who can make marvelous things.”

His lips quirked. His eyes had a new intensity, like he was trying to figure out a riddle.

The pieces of macaron were passed around the table, and even offered to Raven sitting darkly on his bust, though he huffed and turned his head away. Catherine and Jest were given the last two bites, leaving a pool of flaky almond meringue crumbs and smeared buttercream behind.

Hatta stood and raised his piece into the air. “A toast to Lady Pinkerton, the finest lady to ever grace our table.”

Cheers resounded throughout the shop, but died out as they started to eat.

Catherine listened to the licking of fingers and sucking of teeth.

Jest’s eyes settled on her again, shining like candlelight, a finger caught between his lips. He blinked in surprise.

Cath beamed and placed her own sample on her tongue. The macaron was sweet and decadent and smooth, with just a tiny crunch from the meringue, and a subtle floral moment from the distilled rose water, all melting together into one perfect bite.

She listened to the gasps, the moans, the crinkle of parchment paper as someone scooped up the buttercream that had gotten missed.

This was why she enjoyed baking. A good dessert could make her feel like she’d created joy at the tips of her fingers. Suddenly, the people around the table were no longer strangers. They were friends and confidantes, and she was sharing with them her magic.

“Well done, Lady Pinkerton,” buzzed the Bumblebee. Then there was a round of huzzahs bouncing up and down the table. In the renewed chaos, the Dormouse awoke and looked sleepily around the room. Someone had left a crumb on his plate, which he popped into his mouth without hesitation. He chewed and swallowed, grinned dreamily, and returned to his nap still licking his lips.

The Hatter alone was not cheering. Rather, he had tilted back in his chair and covered his face with his hat.

Cath’s elation received a momentary chink. A notch of rejection.