Page 58 of Heartless

‘And this is my long-time accomplice, Sir Haigha,’ said the Hatter, lifting his cane to the Hare as he came scrambling off the table.

‘Sir Hare?’ asked Catherine.

‘Haigha,’ said the March Hare. ‘Rhymes withmayor,but spelled with ag.’

She stared, not sure howHarecould be spelled with ag. Before she could ask again, Jest settled a hand on her shoulder and whispered, ‘I’ll spell it for you later.’

She curtsied again.

Hatta slid his gaze back to the table and scanned the occupants. The Bumblebee had turned his newspaper into three origami sailing boats, and most of the guests were watching them chase one another around a teacup that was the size of a punch bowl. The Lion and the old lady were placing bets on which boats would sink first, while the Turtle dumped sugar on the sails to sink them faster.

Hatta pounded the end of his cane on the floor three times, then swirled it through the air. ‘Everyone, move down! Make room for our joker and his lady. And who’s up next?’

Chants ofmove down, move downechoed around the table as they pushed back their chairs and spent a topsy-turvy moment flitting to new seats. Sitting, testing, jumping and bounding, over the table and under, hopscotching between the chairs, stumbling into one another’s laps and on top of one another’s shoulders and some of the smaller animals finding a cosy spot inside an empty teacup. Only Hatta’s throne was left out of the chair swapping, until finally everyone had settled down again, leaving the two seats on either side of their host open for Jest and Catherine.

Feeling like this was all a game she didn’t know the rules to, Cath went to sit down.

‘No, my lady, you’ll want to be over here.’ Jest rounded to the seat on Hatta’s left side and pulled it out for her.

Hatta snorted and tipped his hat up with his cane, watching Catherine as she sank straight-backed into the offered seat and smoothed her skirt around her legs. ‘Jest isn’t confident you can hold your own among us rabble and hooligans.’

Jest glowered. As he passed behind Hatta’s throne, he leaned towards his ear. ‘She is our guest. I did not bring her here to entertain you.’

Catherine folded her hands into her lap and tried to be pleasant.

‘Wrong, Jest,’ Hatta said, his knowing smirk never leaving her. ‘Everyone is here to entertain me.’

‘Well then. Allow me.’

Jest snapped the top hat from Hatta’s head, holding it aloft as Hatta tried to grab it back. Jest was already chuckling and stepping up on to his chair, then on to the table. The cups and saucers rattled as his boots clomped against the wood.

With a disgruntled sigh that didn’t hide the tilt at the corners of his lips, Hatta threw his heels back on to the tabletop and picked up his tea.

Catherine caught sight of Raven, still atop the clown’s bust, almost a part of the shadows. He angled his head to watch Jest’s parade across the table.

The room hushed. Anticipation scrambled up Catherine’s spine and she leaned forward, her fingers crushed together in her lap.

Stepping around the mess of dishes, Jest came to stand at the table’s centre. He held the top hat so everyone could see. Then, with a twist of his wrists, he sent the hat into a blurring spin and dropped his hands away. The hat continued to levitate in the air.

Catherine bit her lip, hardly daring to blink.

Tapping his fist against his chest, Jest cleared his throat. Then, to Catherine’s surprise, he began to sing.

‘Twinkle, twinkle . . . little bat.’

Her lips twitched at the familiar lullaby, though Jest had slowed down the cadence so the song was more like a serenade. His voice was confident, yet quiet. Strong, but not overpowering.

‘How I wonder what you’re’ – he tapped a finger on to the brim of the spinning hat so it flipped top to bottom – ‘at.’

A flurry of bats burst upward. Catherine ducked as they swarmed through the room. Their squeaks filled the shop with bedlam, their wings close enough to tease Cath’s hair without touching her skin.

Jest’s voice cut through the ruckus.

‘Up above the world, so high . . .’

The bats turned into a cyclone, encircling the room so the table was in the eye of a living storm. The cyclone began to tighten, closing in around Jest. Soon, he could no longer be seen beyond the mass of beating, squealing, pressing bodies. Tighter and tighter.

Catherine’s chest constricted as the tornado of bats turned as one and streamed towards an open window – leaving behind Hatta’s top hat sitting crookedly against a teapot, and no sign of Jest.

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