She sighed, curling her toes against the sheets.
He appeared slowly from the mental haze. Messy black hair. Amber-gold eyes. A dimpled smile stretched across teasing lips . . .
Her eyes snapped open, a blush climbing up her neck.
She’d been dreaming about the Joker.
Again!
Downstairs, she heard the front door crash open, her mother’s voice splitting through the still night. She sounded upset, and Cath cringed. Was she angry that Cath had left the ball without telling them? Or that the King’s marriage proposal had been slighted?
Maybe . . . maybe . . . he’d asked some other girl.
Energized with hope, she pulled the quilt away and peered up at the shadowed canopy of her bed. She gasped.
Not a lemon tree this time, but roses. They were white as swan feathers, their thorny stems strangling the bedposts. Cath inched one hand from beneath the covers and reached for the nearest blossom. A thorn dug into the pad of her thumb and she flinched, pulling back and popping the wound into her mouth before she got blood on her nightgown.
Giving up on the rose, she whipped the blanket over her head again, letting her heartbeat slow.
What did it mean? What were the dreams trying to tell her?
She counted off the things she knew about Jest.
He was the court joker, but no one knew where he had come from.
He was friends with a Raven.
Impossible was his speciality.
The way he had touched her hand had awoken something inside her she had never felt before. Something giddy, but also nervous. Something curious, but also afraid.
And if her dreams were to be believed, he was a very, very good kisser.
The fluttering in her stomach returned and she squirmed further into the covers, suddenly light-headed. Perhaps his presence in the castle gardens had been unexpected and disconcerting, but Cath was the master of her own whimsies. She began to wrap herself up in the dream of slow kisses and white roses, to find her way back to that small, harmless fantasy . . .
Her bedroom door crashed open. ‘CATHERINE!’
Startled, Catherine pushed back the bedcovers and sat up. A ring of lamplight shone on the walls. ‘What?’
Her mother shrieked, but it was an overjoyed sound. ‘Oh, thanks to goodness. Whealagig, she’s here! She’s all right!’ With a wail, she threw herself across the room, pausing to set the oil lamp on the bedside table before she collapsed on to Catherine’s bed and pulled her into a stifling embrace. Catherine realized with a start that her mother was crying. ‘We were so worried!’
‘What for?’ Cath struggled to extricate herself. ‘I left the ball early and came right home. I didn’t think you’d be so upset. I wasn’t feeling well and . . .’
‘No, no, darling, it’s fine, it’s just—’ She dissolved into sobs as Cath’s father appeared over them, pressing a hand to his heart. His face was slack with relief.
‘What’s going on?’ said Cath, spotting Mary Ann, too, in the doorway. ‘What’s happened?’
‘We didn’t know where you were,’ her mother cried, ‘and there was . . . there was . . .’
‘An attack,’ her father answered, his voice sombre.
Cath stared at him, trying to read his expression in the unsteady lamplight. ‘An attack?’
‘Not just any attack!’ Her mother pulled back and squeezed Cath’s shoulders. ‘A Jabberwock!’
Her eyes widened.
‘It attacked the castle,’ said her father, looking strained and exhausted. ‘Shattered one of the windows and took two of the courtiers right from the ballroom floor. Then it just flew off with them . . .’
Cath pressed a hand to her chest. The Jabberwock was a creature of nightmares and myth, of tales told by firelight to frighten little children into good behaviour. It was a monster said to live amid the twining and tangled Tulgey Wood, far away in the country of Chess.
As far as Cath knew, no Jabberwock had been sighted in Hearts for countless generations. Stories told of them being hunted by great knights centuries ago, until the last of the Jabberwock was slain by a king who carried the mythical Vorpal Sword.
‘It was e-enormous,’ her mother stammered, ‘and terrifying, and I didn’t know where you were!’ Her sobs overtook her again.
‘It’s all right, Mama.’ Cath squeezed her tight. ‘I’ve been home all night.’
‘And still dreaming, I see,’ said her father.
Her mother pulled back and gawked at the thorny rosebush. ‘Not another one. What is going on in that head of yours?’
Cath gulped. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know where they’re coming from.’
Her mother slumped back and rubbed the tears still caught in her eyes. ‘Good heavens, Catherine. If you’re going to dream, try to dream up something useful.’
Cath knotted her fingers in the blanket. ‘Well, we can have fresh rose water, at least, and maybe I’ll bake up some rose macarons—’
‘No, no, no. I don’t mean useful as in things you can bake with or cook with. I mean useful. Like a crown!’
‘A crown?’
Her mother hid her face behind her thick fingers. ‘Oh, this night has shredded my poor old nerves. First that awful Cheshire Cat appears right when the King is getting ready to make his announcement, then you’re nowhere to be found, then the Jabberwock – ’ She shuddered. ‘And now a rose tree growing up in the middle of my house. Honestly, Catherine!’