Heartless(62)
“But if you were the Queen, perhaps you could have your cake and eat it too.”
She cocked her head. “What’s the point of having cake if you can’t eat it?”
“I’m only saying that you might be the King’s wife, but who is to say you couldn’t also have more clandestine relations with the Joker?”
Her jaw fell open and she stormed across the kitchen in a blink. “You naughty feline! How dare you suggest such a thing!” She swapped at the cat, but he disappeared and her hand met only air. Her face was strawberry red when she spun around and saw Cheshire floating above the pan rack.
“Calm yourself, dear, it was only a suggestion.” He punctuated the statement with a yawn.
“It was a crude one, and I won’t tolerate such an insult again.” She fisted her hands on her hips. “If I am to be a wife, I will be an honest one.” She cast her eyes toward the ceiling. “And you misunderstand me entirely, Cheshire. My opposition to the King is not only because I’m … because I may be … as you say, just a bit taken with the Joker…”
“Obviously.”
“I’ll beg you to not repeat it.” She scowled. “My opposition is because queens do not start bakeries. And that is what I wish, what you know I have always wished.”
“Ah, yes, the infamous bakery, the most wondrous bakery in all of Hearts.” Cheshire’s whiskers twitched. “The one that, if I’m not mistaken, is no closer to reality now than it was when you first started talking about it, how many years ago?”
She clenched her jaw. “It is closer to reality. We are closer every day.”
“The Marquess has given his blessing, then?”
She turned away, the blush still burning her cheeks, and carried Cheshire’s empty saucer to the pile of dishes left from that morning’s breakfast. “He will,” she insisted, her back to the cat, “once I ask him.”
“Keep telling yourself that. You might soon start to believe it.”
Frowning, she rubbed her hands on a dishcloth.
“By-the-bye, I have another piece of news I thought would interest you and that maid of yours.”
She faced Cheshire again. He had begun to vanish, leaving his bulbous head floating over the pots. A moment later, one disconnected paw appeared in front of Cath’s face with a sharp claw punctured through a piece of weathered parchment. A poster.
She snagged the paper away and smoothed it on the baker’s table. She sniffed. “Believe it or not, Cheshire, I was already aware of the upcoming Turtle Days Festival.”
“But have you seen the schedule of events?”
She scanned the list, from the dreaded lobster quadrille to a battledore tournament to eight-legged races to …
She gasped. “A baking contest?”
“The first annual.” Cheshire’s paw vanished again to, Cath guessed, reconnect with the rest of his invisible body. “Please tell me you’ll make a tuna tart for the contest. Please, please, please.”
“Do you know what the prizes are?”
“First place wins a blue ribbon.”
“Is that all?”
“Is that all? Ribbons are lovely, you know. Not quite as nice as a ball of yarn, but nothing to snub.”
She gnawed at her lower lip.
“Oh—I suppose there was something about a purse. Twenty gold crowns, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Twenty!” Her heart sped up.
With twenty gold crowns in her possession, she wouldn’t have to sell her dowry. She wouldn’t need a loan or permission from her parents …
The recognition alone would be worthwhile. A big blue ribbon hanging in the bakery’s front window, and a plaque—
GRAND WINNER
OF THE FIRST ANNUAL
TURTLE DAYS BAKE-OFF
“I, for one, am devastated that I wasn’t invited to be a judge.”
“Maybe if you didn’t keep requesting tuna tarts.” She folded the poster and tucked it into her dress pocket. “I wonder what I’ll make. Maybe an apple pie or a berry trifle or … oh! I know. I’ll make something with pumpkin. They’re so trendy these days, and just the right season for it.” She tapped a finger against her lip. “Who are the judges?”
“Let me think. Jack was one, I seem to recall.”
“Ugh, not the Knave. He hates me.”
Cheshire’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”
“He tells me every time he sees me.”
The cat made a vague noise in his throat, and Cath wondered how he could, having no throat at the moment. “If you say so. Also judging are the Duke of Tuskany and that shoemaker, Mr. Caterpillar.”
“That old curmudgeon? It’s amazing he can taste anything the way he smokes that hookah all the time.”
“Be that as it may. Who else? Oh, a representative of the turtles, of course. Some friend of Haigha’s and the Gryphon. You may have met him at the party?”
“I did. Sweet young turtle. I quite liked him, and he was fond of my macarons.”
“And the last judge, in a lucky twist, is already one of your biggest fans.”
“Oh?”
“In fact, he may be your biggest fan. Well … he may actually be one of your smallest fans, but let us not hold that against his superior judgment skills.”