Heartless(95)

“What is it?” she asked.

“Treacle.”

“Treacle? That isn’t—”

“Just drink it, Catherine.” He sat beside her as she took the cup in her weak hands, her fingers sticking to the sides. Jest was so close his knee was pressed against her thigh, his hands ready to assist her if she needed it.

The treacle well—another impossible tale. A place where sweetened syrup bubbled up from the depths of the earth, containing mythical healing properties.

And Jest had found it. Jest knew where it was. How…?

Her mind was too hazy to think. She drank, because she couldn’t think of any reason not to, though drinking the treacle was a slow, thick process. Like slurping down spoonful after spoonful of the thickest, sweetest, richest syrup.

It was delicious.

Oh, what she wouldn’t give to make a treacle-bourbon-pecan pie with it.

Or that clootie dumpling, just to prove to Mr. Caterpillar that he was wrong and the well did exist after all.

As the syrup filled her stomach, its warmth seeped into her body. It spread through her limbs, growing hotter, like her muscles had been set aflame. It was its own sort of pain, but nothing like her shattered ankle.

“It’s working,” said Jest.

She hardly felt it. The slow straightening of the joint, the shrinking of the lump, the gradual reduction of her swollen flesh.

She slumped forward as the pain became bearable, then bordered on slight discomfort, then disappeared altogether.

Jest brushed a strand of hair off her brow. “How does it feel?”

She rubbed her ankle, gently at first, but growing bolder when there was no flare of pain. She imagined how distraught her mother would be to witness such a thing—her daughter rubbing her bare ankle while alone in a strange place with a strange man …

“Better, thank you.”

“Good.” This single, simple word was full of an ocean’s worth of relief.

Jest stood and carried the bucket back to the well, replacing it on its hook. “Thank you,” he said. “What do you ask for payment?”

A snicker echoed up from the bottom of the well, sending a chill of goose bumps along Cath’s bare arms.

It was followed by a high, dreamy voice, like that of a little girl. She sang, “Elsie wants the lady’s boot, cut near in two. Tillie wants the lonely stocking, lost without a shoe. And I shall take an unspent kiss, as you’ve given far too few.”

Jest was expressionless but for a brief tightening of his jaw, then he nodded and returned to Cath’s side. Without looking at her, he gathered up the destroyed boot and shredded stocking foot.

“Who’s down there?” Cath whispered.

“The Sisters,” he said, and she could sense the weight of the title. “We owe them payment for the treacle, but don’t worry. They only ask for things we have no need of.”

He carried the boot and stocking to the well and dropped them inside, though there was no splash down below. Then a tiny, pale hand attached to a bony wrist twisted up from the well. Jest bent over it and placed a kiss into the upward-turned palm.

The fingers curled into a fist the moment he pulled away and the hand disappeared back into the well, taking its prize with it. Cath thought she heard another low laugh, then silence.

Jest grabbed his hat and paced back to where Cath still sat on the wildflower meadow. He sighed and crouched down, almost at eye level, and this close she could see the weariness in his eyes and the exhausted set of his shoulders. Between fighting the Jabberwock and carrying her all the way here, she wondered he had strength to stay upright at all.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

A ghost smile fluttered over his mouth—but just one side, barely revealing his dimples. “Mostly right, my lady.”

She grinned, briefly, at the memory of their first meeting, but with her thoughts no longer writhing with pain, questions were fast pouring into her. “How did we get here? There was … I remember a wall of stone, surrounding us…” Her thoughts were hazy. It felt more like a dream than reality.

“I am a Rook,” Jest said. “I can travel faster than any carriage, so long as the path is straight.”

She opened her mouth, but shut it again. She didn’t understand, but she sensed he had been as clear as he could. So she started again, “The treacle well is real.”

He nodded.

“Do you think … do you think it could help the Turtle?”

Jest looked surprised at the question, but gathered himself quickly. “Hatta already tried, but the poor creature wouldn’t follow him here. He wasn’t desperate enough.”

“Desperate?” She faintly remembered Hatta saying something about desperation too.

“Yes. He was distraught and miserable, no doubt, but that isn’t enough. I’m afraid he will forever be a Mock Turtle now.” He rocked back on his heels and, as if afraid of what other questions Cath might be preparing, said, “If you think you’re able to walk, I’ll escort you home. Miss Mary Ann will be worried. No doubt, everyone will be by now.”

She glanced around. “How much time has passed since we left the theater?”

“An hour or two, I think, but no timepiece will work here.”

“That can’t be right. It’s near daylight.”