Heartless(78)

But his creased brow and Jest’s thin-pressed mouth said otherwise. The Turtle blubbered on and on.

They rolled the Turtle back onto his stomach, but the position was no longer natural, what with the hooves jutting from beneath his shell. Instead, with a gasp and a sob, the Turtle pushed himself onto two knobby legs, his flippers hanging dejectedly in front of him.

“I’m a turtle,” he whimpered, looking down at the abomination he’d become. “I’m a real turtle. Y-you believe me, don’t you?”

Catherine shivered. “Of course you are.”

But it was a lie.

The poor creature was changed. Disfigured. She couldn’t fathom how, but he had become a Mock Turtle, right before their eyes.

*

THE FESTIVAL THAT HAD BEGUN with so much spirit and joy ended darkly with the memory of the Mock Turtle’s sobs on everyone’s minds and recent threats of the Jabberwock still plaguing them. Festivities that normally continued far into the night were over before dusk could fall. The baking contest was left uncompleted, a handful of entries still untasted and unjudged, but everyone having lost both their appetites and their sense of merriment. Cath could not bring herself to be selfish enough to ask about the prize.

She climbed into the carriage with her parents. The ride was suffocating. Catherine stared out the window, seeing again and again the furious expression on Sir Peter’s face. She felt guilty, but not because she’d stolen a pumpkin from him. She couldn’t help feeling responsible for what had happened, but how could that be?

It was only a pumpkin cake. And while she had heard of sweets that made a person shrink and mushrooms that made a person grow, she had never heard of anything disastrous happening as a result of a pumpkin.

With trembling fingers, Catherine reached up and pulled the macaron hat off her head, settling it on her lap. It no longer brought the delight it had hours before.

Her father sighed. He had not stopped sighing since they had left the beach.

“They’re already calling it the Mock Turtle Festival,” he said as the carriage rounded onto their drive. “It’s a travesty. Soon they’ll be calling me the Marquess of Mock Turtles.”

“Don’t be melodramatic,” said her mother. “This whole catastrophe will be forgotten in a matter of days, you’ll see.”

But she seemed unconvinced of it herself, and the fact that she didn’t mention the King once during the drive suggested to Catherine that she was more concerned than she wanted to let on.

The annual festival was their family’s great contribution to the Kingdom of Hearts—in some ways, their place among the nobility rested on the festival’s shoulders, and it had been their one notable distinction for generations.

Yet, knowing how much this could affect her family’s reputation was barely a passing thought to Catherine. It was the poor Turtle who would suffer most of all, the pitiful, devastated thing.

As soon as they arrived home, Catherine escaped down to the kitchen. The fire had long gone out, so she kept her shawl tight around her shoulders.

Setting a lantern on one of the tables, she grabbed a stack of recipe books and laid them out before her. She began flipping through, scanning the names of dishes their cook had made for them over the years. There were plenty of notes jotted in the margins—“Clarify the butter first or it will confuse the rest of the ingredients,” or, “Don’t let the tomatoes stew for too long as they’re like to become bitter and resentful.”

Finally she arrived at the recipe she was looking for.

Mock Turtle Soup.

She bent over the brittle, broth-stained pages and started to read.

Begin with a medium-size mock turtle, the recipe began. Using a sharp butcher knife, remove the calf head. Mock turtles die slowly, so be aware that the head will continue to mewl and the body may try to crawl away for some minutes after decapitation. Once body is no longer mobile, submerge in a large pot of boiling water. Meat will naturally separate from the shell as it cooks. Remove the mock turtle from the water and peel away the skin and shell before—

Catherine slammed the book shut, her stomach roiling.

She would never eat mock turtle soup again.

Light footsteps thudded on the stairs and Cath turned to see Mary Ann descending the steps with a bundle of dirtied tablecloths in her arms. Her hair was disheveled and exhausted circles had appeared beneath her eyes.

Pushing the stool back, Cath went to hold open the bin of soiled laundry waiting to be washed.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

Mary Ann groaned. “That was a long, tiring day, even for me.”

Cath pulled out one of the stools for her. “Were people talking about that poor Turtle after we left?”

Slumping onto the stool, Mary Ann untied her pretty bonnet and dropped it onto the counter. “It’s all anyone would talk of. No one can fathom what caused it. They just kept saying over and over how awful it was.” She sighed. “A mock turtle. What could cause such a thing?”

She thought again of Sir Peter. Of the one devoured piece of pumpkin cake.

“I don’t know,” she said, and started gathering up the recipe books again. Gnawing on her cheek, she turned back to see that Mary Ann had laid her head down on her arms. Normally she was the model of productivity. It was odd to see weariness catch up with her. “Would I be a horrible person to inquire about the winner of the baking contest?”