A hand suddenly grabbed Cath’s wrist, pulling her free of the King. She spun and was surprised to find herself staring into the gaunt face of Lady Peter, who held her more tightly than Cath would have thought she had strength for.
‘Do you have any more?’ Lady Peter said before Cath could get off a greeting. She was whispering, but it was almost as loud as a yell in the crowded space.
Cath ducked her head closer, not sure she’d heard right. ‘Any more?’
Lady Peter nodded, her eyes wide and bloodshot. She cast her gaze around the lobby before tugging Cath closer. Their faces were mere inches away from each other now, and Cath could see the yellow tinge of the lady’s teeth, the sharp edges of her cheekbones. There was a sheen of sweat on her upper lip.
‘Tell me,’ Lady Peter said, pleading. ‘Please tell me you have more. I’ll do anything, pay any amount—’ Her voice broke. ‘That is, I haven’t much money, but I can pay you in dirt and favours, or—’
‘Lady Peter, please. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Her voice dropped again. ‘The cake.’
Catherine gaped. ‘Pardon?’
Lady Peter’s mouth turned down with irritation and she dug into her dress pockets. It was, Cath realized, the same black muslin dress she’d worn at the King’s black-and-white ball, and though it was practically rags compared to the gowns the other ladies wore, she wondered if it might be the finest dress Lady Peter owned.
The thought struck her with a dart of pity, and she wondered if it would seem terribly rude to give her one of her own dresses. She had plenty, though it would have to be taken in quite a lot to fit her, and Sir Peter hadn’t seemed fond of charity . . .
Her thoughts halted when Lady Peter pulled her hand out of her pocket, revealing a sullied linen napkin. She peeled open the corners and in the centre of the napkin were the remains of a slice of spiced pumpkin cake, so squashed that the cake and frosting had melded together into an almost unrecognizable lump.
A few crumbs started to tumble over the napkin’s edge and Lady Peter gasped and leaned down, catching them in her mouth.
Her whole body was trembling as she peered up at Cath again and refolded the napkin over the cake, stashing it back into her pocket. ‘I took all what was uneaten after the festival, but this slice is all what’s left. Please, you must have more. Tell me you have more.’
Cath started to shake her head. ‘No, I . . . I’m sorry. I only made the one cake.’
She saw no point in mentioning the test cake she had made. Between her and Mary Ann, it hadn’t lasted long.
Lady Peter’s expression fell. Not into disappointment, but a crazed sort of anguish. She reached for Cath’s wrists again, clamping on to both of them this time.
‘But where did you get the pumpkin?’
Cath’s lips parted. She hesitated.
She couldn’t admit to the theft, not to the man’s own wife.
‘Please!’ Lady Peter screeched. Cath gasped as her grip tightened, sure she was leaving bruises. ‘I’ll die without it. Please.’
Die?
Was she dying? She looked ill enough.
Cath stammered, ‘It was from your – your husband’s pumpkin patch. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken it, but it looked abandoned and—’
‘Liar!’
‘Ow!’ Cath yanked her hands away and looked down, bewildered, to see that Lady Peter’s nails had left bloodied scratches on her arms. She stumbled backward, her previous sympathy eclipsed by shock.
‘He destroyed them all,’ Lady Peter said. Her face was stricken and pale as bone. ‘Burned them, every last one. He doesn’t understand how I need them, need them—’
A shadow loomed over them and Cath was almost relieved to see Sir Peter. He grabbed his wife’s arm, turning from her to Cath with his terrible scowl. ‘What’s this about?’
‘Nothing,’ Lady Peter said quickly, withdrawing into the meek, trembling girl Cath remembered from the ball. ‘Only trying to make acquaintances, like you said . . .’
‘Don’t you bother with Lady Pinkerton. She thinks we’re beneath her,’ he said, which Cath thought was unfair, even though she had seen little of them worth admiring. ‘The show is beginning.’
Lady Peter didn’t argue as he tugged her away, but her gaze did find Cath again. Pleading. Pleading.
As soon as they were gone, Catherine dragged in a deep breath. She rubbed her wrists, glad that the wounds weren’t deep and had already stopped bleeding, though they stung something dreadful.
She scanned the crowd, dazed for a moment and unable to recall where she was or why she was there. She spotted the King having a conversation with the Dowager Countess Wontuthry – the King standing on a step so he could be at the Countess’s height, even with her bent back.
It took Cath a long moment to remember that she was here with the King. He was her beau. Many believed, her betrothed.
Only then did she realize that in her bewilderment she’d been looking for Jest.
Stomach sinking, she picked her way through the emptying lobby. The King lit up when he saw her and bid the Countess farewell before towing Cath up the steps. She followed him with mounting dread, down a lavish hallway artfully decorated with plaster moulds of various hearing apparatuses – from tiny mouse ears to humongous, flopping elephant ears. Torch-like sconces cast warm fire-glow across the sculptures.
The King had a private box on the first balcony level – the kind that sacrificed a decent view of the stage in return for being seen by the rest of the theatregoers. The White Rabbit held back the velvet drapes.