‘I must find these delectable tarts of yours, Lady Pinkerton, but I hope you’ll keep the final dance for me as well?’
‘With pleasure. You honour me so.’
He giggled, mad as hops as he adjusted his crown, then took off waltzing towards the feasting table.
Cath withered, grateful that the first quadrille was over. Perhaps she could persuade her parents to let her leave before that final dance of the evening. Her plotting made her feel guilty – how many girls would love to receive such attention from the King?
He wasn’t an offensive dancing partner, only a tiresome one.
Thinking a bit of air might help her cheeks recover from the stretched-out smile, she headed towards the balconies. But she hadn’t gone a dozen steps through the crowd of black crinolines and white top hats before the candlelit chandeliers flickered as one and went out.
CHAPTER 4
THE MUSIC SCREECHED AND DIED. A cry arose from the guests as the ballroom was plunged into darkness.
There was the sound of breathing, the crinkle of petticoats, an uncertain stillness. Then there was a spark and a flicker. A ring of candlelight spiralled around one of the centre-most chandeliers and a haunting glow stretched across the domed ceiling, leaving the guests drenched in shadows below.
Hanging from the lit chandelier was a vertical hoop that Catherine was sure hadn’t been there before.
Lounging inside the hoop, apparently as comfortable as if it had been a chaise lounge, was a Joker.
He wore close-fitting black trousers tucked into worn leather boots, a black tunic belted at his hips, and gloves, also black – not the white dress gloves the gentry wore. His skin glowed like amber in the firelight, and his eyes were rimmed in kohl so thick it became a mask. On first glance, Catherine thought he had long black hair too, until she realized that he was wearing a black hat that hung in three points, each tipped with a small silver bell – though he held so still, they didn’t ring, and Catherine could not recall the tinkle of bells when the candles had gone out.
When – how – had he got up there?
The stranger hung suspended for a long moment, dwelling in the stares of the guests below, as the hoop slowly spun. His gaze was piercing and Catherine held her breath as it found her and, at once, seemed to stall. His eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly, as he took in her flamboyant red gown.
Cath shivered and had the strangest urge to give him a nervous wave. An acknowledgement that, yes, she was aware that her dress was unduly red. But by the time her hand had lifted, the Joker’s attention had skipped on.
She dropped her hand and exhaled.
Once the hoop had made a full circle, a ghost smile lifted the corners of the stranger’s lips. He tilted his head. The bells jingled.
There was an intake of breath from the watchful crowd.
‘Ladies. Gentlemen.’ He spoke with precision. ‘Your Most Illustrious Majesty.’
The King bounced on his toes like a child waiting for the Christmas feast.
The Joker swung himself up in one fluid motion so he was standing inside the hoop. It spun another lazy half turn. They all listened, mesmerized by the hesitant creak of the rope that attached it to the chandelier.
‘Why is a raven like a writing desk?’
The hoop stopped spinning.
The Joker’s words blanketed the ballroom. The silence became resolute. With the stranger facing towards her again, Catherine caught a flicker of firelight in his eyes.
Then, upon realizing that a riddle had been posed, the crowd began to rustle with murmurs. Hushed voices repeated the riddle. Why is a raven like a writing desk?
No one proposed an answer.
When it became clear that no one would, the Joker stretched one hand out over the audience, closed tight in a fist. Those beneath him took a step back.
‘You see, they can each produce a few notes.’
He opened his fist and, not a few notes, but an entire blizzard of black and white papers burst from his palm like confetti. The crowd gasped, reeling back as the pieces swarmed and fluttered through the air, so thick it seemed the entire ceiling had disintegrated into paper notes. The more that came, the more the crowd cooed. Some of the men upended their hats to catch as many of the notes as they could.
Laughing, Catherine lifted her face to the ceiling. It felt like being caught in a warm blizzard. She held her hands out to the sides and gave a twirl, delighting in how her red skirt ballooned out, kicking up a papery snowdrift.
When she had gone three full circles, she paused and tugged a slip out of her hair – thin white parchment, no longer than her thumb, printed with a single red heart.
The last confetti pieces looped down to the floor. Some spots in the ballroom were ankle-deep.
The Joker was still peering down from his hoop. In the tumult, he had removed his three-pointed hat, revealing that his hair was black after all, messy and curling around the tops of his ears.
‘Though admittedly,’ he said when the crowd had quieted, ‘the notes tend to be very flat.’
The bells on his hat tinkled, and up from the base of those three tiny points an enormous black bird arose, cawing as it soared towards the ceiling. The audience cried out in surprise. The raven circled the room, wings so large their flapping stirred up the mounds of paper below. It took a second turn around the ballroom before settling itself in the chandelier above the Joker.
The audience began to applaud. Catherine, dazzled, found her hands coming together almost without her knowing.
The Joker tugged his hat back on to his head, then slipped down from the hoop so he was hanging from a single gloved hand. Catherine’s heart lurched. It was much too high to risk the fall. But as he let go, a red velvet scarf had become tied to the hoop. The Joker spun languidly towards the floor, revealing white and black scarves in turn, all knotted together and appearing seamlessly from his fingers, until they had lowered him all the way to the ground, kicking up a swirl of paper notes.