‘I’m not sure. What other rumours?’
Cheshire rolled on to his stomach and cupped his face in his furry paws. ‘His Congenial Kingness has chosen a bride.’
Her eyes widened. ‘No! Who is it?’ She glanced around the room. Certainly not Margaret. Perhaps Lady Adela from Lingerfoote or Lady Willow from Lister Hill or –
Or . . .
Her breath hiccupped.
A wash of goosebumps spread down her limbs.
Her mother’s enthusiasm.
The first quadrille.
The King’s flustered grin.
She whipped her head back towards Cheshire. His enormous grin struck her as extra mocking.
‘You can’t mean it.’
‘Can’t I?’ He peered up at the chandeliers. ‘I thought for sure I was capable of that, at the least.’
‘Cheshire, this isn’t amusing. The King can’t—he wouldn’t—’
A trumpet blared, echoing off the pink quartz walls.
Catherine’s head spun. ‘Oh no.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Cheshire! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ cried the White Rabbit, his pitchy voice insignificant after the horn. ‘His Royal Majesty has prepared a special announcement for this evening.’
‘Shall I congratulate you now?’ Cheshire asked. ‘Or do you suppose premature well-wishes could bring bad luck? I can never recall the proper etiquette in these situations.’
A curtain of heat embraced her, from brow to toes. She could have sworn someone was pulling on the staylace of her corset as her breaths grew shorter.
‘I can’t. Oh, Cheshire, I can’t.’
‘You may want to practise a different response before you go up there.’
The crowd applauded. The King stepped on to the stage at the far end of the ballroom. Catherine cast her eyes around, searching for her parents, and when she found her mother beaming and brushing a tear from her lashes, the reality settled around her.
The King of Hearts was about to propose to her.
But – but he couldn’t. He’d never done anything more than compliment her baking and ask her to dance. They hadn’t courted . . . but, did kings have to court? She didn’t know. She knew only that her stomach had tied itself into triple knots and the idea of marrying him was preposterous. She had never once considered that the silly man could want anything from her but sweets and pastries. Certainly not a bride, and . . . oh heavens, children.
A bead of sweat dripped down the back of her neck.
‘Cheshire, what do I do?’
‘Say yes, I suppose. Or say no. It matters not to me. Are you sure orange is my colour?’ He was inspecting his tail again.
Desperation clawed at Catherine’s throat.
The King. The simpleminded, ridiculous, happy, happy King.
Her husband? Her one and only? Her partner through life’s trials and joys?
She would be queen, and queens . . . queens did not open bakeries with their best friends. Queens did not gossip with half-invisible cats. Queens did not have dreams of yellow-eyed boys and wake up with lemon trees over their beds.
She tried to swallow, but her mouth had dried up like stale cake.
The King cleared his throat. ‘Fair evening, loyal subjects! I hope you have all enjoyed tonight’s delights!’
More applause, at which the King clasped his own hands together and bobbed up and down a few times.
‘I wish to make an announcement. A good announcement, nothing to be worried about.’ He giggled at what might have been a joke. ‘It has come time for me to choose for myself a wife, and for my subjects . . . a most adored Queen of Hearts! And’ – the King kept giggling – ‘with any luck, bring our kingdom an heir, as well.’
Catherine stepped back from the feasting table. She couldn’t feel her toes.
‘Cheshire . . . ?’
‘Lady Catherine?’
‘It is my honour,’ continued the King, ‘to call up the lady I have chosen for my life’s companion.’
‘Please,’ said Catherine, ‘cause a distraction. Anything!’
Cheshire’s tail twitched, and he vanished. Only his voice lingered, murmuring, ‘With pleasure, Lady Catherine.’
The King spread his arms. ‘Would the ever lovely, delightful, and stupendous Lady Cathe—’
‘Aaaagghh!’
As one, the crowd turned. Margaret Mearle kept screaming, swatting at the orange-striped cat who had appeared on top of her head, curled up beneath her fur headdress.
Catherine alone turned the other way.
She fled out to the balcony, running as fast as her heeled boots and strangling corset would allow. The cool night air sent a chill racing across her enflamed skin, but every breath remained a struggle.
She lifted her skirts and slipped down the steps into the rose gardens. She heard a splinter of glass and startled cries behind her and wondered what chaos Cheshire must be causing now, but she dared not look back, not even as she reached the gardens.
The world tilted. She paused at a wrought-iron gate, gripping one of the decorative finials for support. Catching her breath, she stumbled on. Down the clover-filled path between rose arbors and trickling fountains, passing topiaries and statues and a pond of water lilies. She reached for the back of her dress, desperate to loosen the stays. To breathe. But she couldn’t reach. She was suffocating.
She was going to be sick.
She was going to faint.
A shadow reared up in front of her, backlit from the blazing castle lights so that the silhouette stretched over the croquet lawns. Catherine cried out and stumbled to a halt, damp hair matted to her neck.