Exhaling, she released the handrail and put her weight on to her injured leg. She bit back a shriek, but refused to crumple. She wrapped both hands around the sword’s handle and lifted the blade, ignoring the tremble of her arms.
The Jabberwock prowled closer, wary now. It sniffed, like it could smell the steel, or maybe the blood that had once coated it.
Another slow step closer, prowling on all fours.
Catherine tried to gulp but her scratchy throat rebelled.
Another step.
She imagined herself doing it. Swinging the sword as hard as she could. Chopping through sinew and spine. She imagined the creature’s head rolling, thumping across the lobby.
She imagined it over and over and over again.
Off with its head.
The words churned through her thoughts.
The creature took another step. Then two.
A salty bead of sweat fell into her eye, stinging her. She blinked it away.
‘Catherine . . .’ Jest’s voice was strained.
The Jabberwock watched her with its one burning coal of an eye, the blood still dribbling down its opposite cheek. Its mouth was open and she could see all of its teeth lined up along its huge jaws. Row upon row of fangs, so big that she wasn’t sure it could close its mouth even if it wanted to.
She bared her own teeth.
Off with its head. Off with its head. Off with its—
The Jabberwock shuddered suddenly and turned away. It darted across the floor, claws scratching and scrabbling, and squeezed its wings against its back so it could fit through the doors that had been left open. The crisp twilight air shimmered over the empty streets.
On the outside steps, the Jabberwock spread its wings. The left one trembled at first, but with a snap, the beast lobbed its body into the air. A rush of air blew back into the theatre and then the creature was gone, a shadow on the rooftops, its pained cries fading into the night.
CHAPTER 35
CATHERINE DROPPED THE SWORD with an echoing clang.
Pain rushed through her all at once, a burning iron in her ankle, fire shooting through her bones. She wilted down into her dress. Her pulse was a hammer, her fingers hot with rushing blood.
Another gasp from the crowd. A frightened hesitation. No one knew what to do. It was clear they were all waiting for someone else to make a decision. To be the first to move.
A ruler, a leader, a king.
But the King of Hearts stood in their midst, as pale and whimpering as any of his subjects.
Cath realized she was crying. She could feel her nose dripping, but she didn’t swipe at it. Let them see her blotchy skin and torn dress and the mucus that was to be expected after witnessing such a horror. Let them see.
Jest stumbled towards her, ignoring their audience. He had a limp, which was even more peculiar than the smeared mask of kohl.
‘Catherine. Catherine.’ He hovered over her, eyes bloodshot. ‘Where does it hurt? Is it your leg?’
She locked her jaw and nodded – though that slight movement sent her reeling with nausea. She collapsed on to her back and Jest disappeared from view, but she could feel him pushing up the hem of her dress – just a little. Just enough to see.
Cath started to laugh, shrill and hysterical. ‘Well now – that’s hardly – proper,’ she stammered, choking, tears rolling into her tangled hair. ‘Oh, stuff and nonsense, it hurts.’
Jest touched her ankle and she screamed. The world turned swarmy and full of flashing light. The touch left her.
‘L-L-Lady Pinkerton?’
She groaned. Her head fell to the side and she saw the King and the White Rabbit and Mary Ann stumbling down the stairs. Mary Ann was pale with fear, her apron balled up in both fists, her pretty new bonnet crooked on her head.
‘Y-Your Majesty,’ she said. She wished they would all go away, leave her alone. She wished for unconsciousness. ‘The Jabberwock—’
That was as far as she got before another shot of pain had her reeling.
The King hurried down the rest of the stairs and knelt at her side, taking her hand into his. ‘You were stunning.’ He pulled a handkerchief from some fold of his garb, but rather than offer it to Catherine, he dabbed at his own glistening brow. Lifting his head, he peered around at the speechless, still-frozen crowd. ‘Behold! The treasure of my heart! The keeper of the Vorpal Sword! The most brave and b-b-brilliant Lady Catherine Pinkerton. Behold our future queen!’
‘No,’ she murmured, but no one heard her over the applause. Her head lolled and she felt a tender hand supporting it. The soft pad of a thumb stroking the arch of her ear. ‘I’m not – the sword. It isn’t . . .’
‘Your Majesty,’ said Jest, his voice cutting through the cheers. ‘She’s hurt. She needs help.’
The King spun back. Panicked. ‘Oh. Er. Y-yes. Of course.’
He looked at her ankle and greened.
Cath clenched her teeth, trying to sharpen her focus as her skull pounded. ‘If I am stunning – and brilliant – and brave’ – she swallowed a scream – ‘then you are useless!’
Jest froze. The King shrank back.
‘The Jabberwock has been terrorizing us for weeks! And what have you done? What are you doing to stop it?’
Squeaking, the King ducked his head between the velvet folds of his cloak.
‘You are the King! You have to do something!’
‘Catherine.’ Jest settled a hand on her brow, smoothing back her wild hair. ‘Reserve your strength, Cath – Lady Pinkerton.’
Mary Ann appeared over the King’s shoulder, her expression bewildered until she saw Cath’s ankle. She pressed a hand over her mouth. It was only momentary, before she steeled herself and turned to the King. ‘The pain is driving her mad, Your Majesty. Someone must take her to the Sturgeons. I’ll call a carriage straightaway—’