‘Won’t you entertain us?’ said the King.
‘Oh no, you don’t have to.’ Catherine waved her hands. ‘I’m sure you have other guests . . . and for a mere crowd of two . . .’ She trailed off.
Jest was peering at her like she’d offered him a challenge. ‘With great pleasure, Your Majesty,’ he said, not taking his attention from Catherine. ‘But first, perhaps it would be prudent to excuse the young squire.’ He rolled his fingers towards the Two of Spades, still prostrated on the ground.
The King blinked, as if he hadn’t noticed the card was there. ‘Oh! Oh yes, yes, you’re dismissed,’ he said, adjusting his crown.
The card hopped to his feet, bowed quickly, then ran out of the garden as fast as he could, clutching the card Jest had given him.
Unable to come up with a logical reason to excuse herself, Catherine let the King tug her down on to a stone bench. She kept a proper amount of space between them, yet her heart still fluttered like a bumblebee’s wing. Did Jest know the King was planning to ask for her hand? Did he care?
‘Do you have a preference on entertainment, Your Majesty?’ Jest asked.
‘No, no. Whatever the lady would like.’
Cath could feel the King looking at her and she squeezed her hands in her lap, determined not to look back. ‘Surely you know your trade best. Whatever pleases you will no doubt please us as well.’
He met her awkwardness with that relaxed, crooked grin of his, and slipped the deck of cards into his sleeve. ‘Nothing pleases me more than bringing a smile to the face of a lovely lady. But something tells me you will not make that task as easy as it was the eve of the ball.’
She flushed.
‘Oh, she thought you were spectacular at the ball,’ interjected the King. ‘She told me so.’
‘Did she?’ said Jest, and he seemed truly surprised.
‘I did,’ Cath confessed, ‘though now I’m wishing I would have chosen my words more carefully.’
He chuckled. ‘It’s my role to be spectacular. I shall do my best not to disappoint.’ Tipping off the black three-pointed hat, he reached inside and produced the silver flute she’d seen him playing in the gardens that night. His smile widened when he saw that she recognized it, and he whispered, ‘Try not to faint.’
Cath crossed her arms, unbearably aware of the King at her side. Watching. Listening.
He was not a clever man, she reminded herself, for once glad that he was so dim. He is not a clever man.
Jest replaced his hat and lifted the flute to his mouth. He licked his lips, and Cath cursed herself for mimicking the action, glad that Jest’s eyes were closed and he couldn’t have noticed.
The music that followed was its own sort of magic.
The lilts and the skips, the dancing notes that swept over Catherine and the King and the hedges and the flowers. The bluebells stopped ringing so they could listen, the breeze stopped whistling, the finches stopped chittering. Catherine took in a breath and held it, feeling as though the flute’s music were seeping into her skin, filling up every space in her body.
It wasn’t a song she recognized. The notes were happy and sad all at once, and she imagined flowers blooming anew in the wet spring dirt, leaves unfurling for the first time on winter-ravaged boughs, the smell of rain in the air, and the feel of cool grass beneath her toes. The melody hinted at newness and rebirth and beauty and eternity . . .
. . . and by the time it was over, Cath had tears on her cheeks.
Jest lowered the flute and opened his eyes and Cath swiped away the tears, unable to look at him. She fished for a handkerchief from inside her pocket, her hand bumping against the forgotten package of macarons.
The King sniffled too, then began to applaud. ‘Bravo! Bravo, Jest!’
Jest bowed. ‘Your Majesty honours me.’
The King’s cheers were met with equal enthusiasm from all the creatures that had come to listen. Cath forced herself to look up once she’d finished dabbing at her eyes. She expected smugness, but what she saw was a hopeful question in his bright yellow eyes. It quickly turned into another grin, his real grin, she suspected. Whatever he’d seen in her face had satisfied.
The King was still clapping enthusiastically. ‘That was wonderful! Absolutely wonderful! Lady Pinkerton, wasn’t that wonderful?’
She cleared her throat and conceded, ‘It was indeed. What is the song? This was the first I’ve heard it.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know, my lady,’ said Jest. ‘It came to me just now.’
Her eyes widened. Impossible.
‘Perhaps you are my muse,’ he added, and the joking tone had returned. ‘I shall dedicate it to you, Lady Catherine Pinkerton, if it pleases.’
The King squealed. ‘Oh yes, that’s perfect! I shall have you play it again at our—’ He cut off sharply.
Cath stiffened, clenching the handkerchief in one fist.
Jest’s suspicious look returned.
The King fidgeted with the clasp of his velvet-lined cape, and his excitement was replaced with mumbled bashfulness. ‘At, er . . . the royal wedding.’
Cath wished she could disappear down a rabbit hole.
‘It would be my pleasure, Your Majesty,’ Jest said, with new tension in his voice. ‘I had heard rumours of an upcoming wedding. What a lucky joker I am, to have such a queen for whom to compose all manner of ballads and poetry.’
Twisting the handkerchief in her lap, Cath forced herself to look at the King with as much ignorance as she could manage. ‘I wasn’t aware you had chosen a bride, Your Majesty. I look forward to bestowing many congratulations on our future queen.’