After a nervous clearing of his throat and a scratching of his ear, the Duke said, ‘Well – I thought it was splendid. Just the perfect amount of pineapple and . . . turned upward-downside just the right way, if I do say so myself. Well done, Lady Mearle. I could not have asked for a more satisfying dessert!’
Catherine rolled her eyes, but Margaret had developed a tiny grin as she was ushered away from the contestants’ stand.
‘Next!’ demanded the White Rabbit.
Cheshire’s floating head appeared, and slices of a tuna tart were presented to the judges. Cath blanched and turned away. Her gaze latched back on to Jest.
He was watching her across the tent.
They both quickly looked down, and she hoped she wasn’t the only one blushing.
‘It’s fishy fa-fabulous,’ stammered the King, his face looking a little green.
‘Fabulously gone!’ yelled the Turtle, revealing yet another empty plate.
The other three judges refused to try it, and within minutes of the tart being removed from the table, Cheshire was gobbling down his own creation offstage.
‘Next up,’ said the Rabbit, ‘is a spiced pumpkin cake from Lady Catherine Pinkerton of Rock Turtle Cove.’
Mary Ann’s fingers laced through hers, squeezing tight.
‘Come with me,’ Cath said, pulling her forward. ‘We’ll win it together.’
They marched between the rows of onlookers to take their spot at the front. Five slices of the cake were brought to the table. Cath risked a glance at her parents – her father’s bushy eyebrows were raised in curiosity, while her mother was red-faced with borderline betrayal. Cath smiled weakly before facing the judges. The King was beaming at her, and the Turtle’s face, too, lit up in recognition.
‘The macaron girl!’ he whispered excitedly.
Catherine tipped her macaron hat to him.
The Turtle leaned to the side, bumping into the Knave with his hard shell. ‘I’ve had her baking before,’ he said. ‘She’s wondrous. And also brave . . . so very brave.’
Her skin tingled. Though her most prominent memories of the Jabberwock attack revolved around the tragic loss of the Lion, she took a moment to be proud that the Turtle, at least, had been spared. She had helped save his life.
Not noticing her pleasure, or not caring, Jack snorted. His face turned cherry red. ‘Wondrous seems a bit excessive. She’s adequate. Maybe. On a good day.’ His scowl deepened as he peered at Catherine and her hat. ‘Don’t know what anyone sees in her, what with her delicious tarts, or her big doe eyes or unnaturally shiny hair.’ He folded his arms over his chest and turned his nose into the air. ‘Lady Pinkerton is highly overrated, if you ask me.’
Mr Rabbit cleared his throat. ‘We ask that the judges refrain from previous biases on the contestants.’
Ducking his head, the Turtle shovelled his first bite of pumpkin cake into his mouth, but the King was distracted, gazing starry-eyed at Catherine. She shuffled her feet.
Beside him, the Turtle moaned in sweets-filled ecstasy, his bowler hat tipping on his head. The other judges had just picked up their forks when the King pushed back his chair and stood.
‘I cannot call myself an unbiased judge, your honourable Mr Rabbit, our most thoughtful master of ceremonies!’ His eyes glistened with barely contained joy.
Cath’s stomach sank. She started to shake her head, but the King continued, ‘I am full of bias. I am the definition of bias! For this very pumpkin cake set before us was made by the ever-charming Lady Catherine Pinkerton, a girl that is some day to be my bride!’
Ice blew over Catherine’s frame, freezing her feet to the platform, plastering her panicked smile on to her cheeks.
The King looked at her with pride that should not have belonged to him. ‘So you see, for any contest in which she is a participant, I will say to you, yes! She must be the winner! She wins it all, my heart, my joy!’
Catherine felt a hundred eyes boring into her, but she was petrified, unable to look away from the King.
This was a nightmare.
‘What a queen you will make, Lady Pinkerton, cake baker and happiness maker! Oh, oh, somebody write that down! Jest – there you are! Write that down! I shall include it in my next poem!’ The King clutched his stomach, overcome with a bevy of giggles.
The crowd stirred. Their whispers flooded the tent. Cath sensed her mother’s overzealous glee. She could imagine how quickly the gossip would spread outward from this little festival on this little beach, like a pebble dropped into a pond.
Mortification washed over her.
I haven’t said yes, she wanted to tell them all. I haven’t accepted him. I’m not his bride, despite what he says.
She had opened her mouth, her body pulsing with denial, when a scream cut through the tent.
CHAPTER 29
CATHERINE SWIVELLED, SEARCHING for the scream, as chaos erupted – chairs crashing, paws and wings scrambling away from someone, something . . .
Her attention fell on the Turtle, that adorable, most enthusiastic of judges. He had fallen off his chair behind the table, and if Jack hadn’t accidentally tripped on the tablecloth in his haste to get away, yanking the cloth and all the cake-filled dishes away with him, Cath would not have been able to see the Turtle at all. As it was, he was on full view to the startled onlookers. Upended on his back, exposing the softer underside of his shell, his arms and legs flailing. He was still groaning and pressing his flippers to his stomach, his voice hoarse with pain, his eyes wide and frightened.
From her perch on the contestants’ platform, Catherine had a perfect view of the Turtle when he began to change. His skin bubbled beneath the surface, shifting and undulating. Some of his scales sloughed away and new skin stretched along all four limbs. His screams turned gargled as his head, too, began to morph into something strange. Something horrid.