Heartless

by Marissa Meyer

  Catherine slammed the book shut, her stomach roiling.

  She would never eat mock turtle soup again.

  Light footsteps thudded on the stairs and Cath turned to see Mary Ann descending the steps with a bundle of dirtied tablecloths in her arms. Her hair was disheveled and exhausted circles had appeared beneath her eyes.

  Pushing the stool back, Cath went to hold open the bin of soiled laundry waiting to be washed.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  Mary Ann groaned. “That was a long, tiring day, even for me.”

  Cath pulled out one of the stools for her. “Were people talking about that poor Turtle after we left?”

  Slumping onto the stool, Mary Ann untied her pretty bonnet and dropped it onto the counter. “It’s all anyone would talk of. No one can fathom what caused it. They just kept saying over and over how awful it was.” She sighed. “A mock turtle. What could cause such a thing?”

  She thought again of Sir Peter. Of the one devoured piece of pumpkin cake.

  “I don’t know,” she said, and started gathering up the recipe books again. Gnawing on her cheek, she turned back to see that Mary Ann had laid her head down on her arms. Normally she was the model of productivity. It was odd to see weariness catch up with her. “Would I be a horrible person to inquire about the winner of the baking contest?”

  Mary Ann wheezed into her elbow. “We can be horrible people together. I keep wondering, too, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask, even though I spotted Mr. Rabbit while we were tearing down the grandstand.” She lifted her head enough to meet Cath’s gaze. “They weren’t able to finish the judging, so I don’t see how they can award a winner. Probably the prize will go back into the treasury or be applied to some other celebration.”

  “I figured as much.” Cath climbed onto the second stool, wishing she’d started a batch of bread rather than look up awful recipes. Kneading and pummeling the dough would have relaxed her.

  Mary Ann’s eyes had shut. “They say Mr. Caterpillar is almost moved out of his shop. It won’t be long now…”

  She didn’t finish, nor did she have to. It wouldn’t be long before someone else took up residence in their storefront, if they weren’t ready to do it themselves.

  “All right,” Cath whispered, gathering her courage. “No more stalling. I have to ask my parents for the money, or permission to sell off my dowry. There’s no other way around it.”

  “Oh, Cath.” With a groan, Mary Ann peeled her head off her elbow again. “I adore your optimism, I always have, but they’re going to say no. You know it as well as I.” Her mouth turned down and her thought seemed very far away as she added, “We’ll have no bakery without financing, and no financing without an investor, and who would ever invest in a poor maid and the daughter of a marquess? Maybe it’s time we realize this was never going to happen, and face our true destiny.” She forced a smile in Catherine’s direction. “At least, to be the maid to a queen is more than I ever would have expected when I was a young girl, so it isn’t all that bad.”

  Gnashing her teeth, Catherine grabbed the blue bonnet and thrust it onto Mary Ann’s head, cinching the yellow ribbon under her chin with a quick tug. “I won’t tolerate such nonsense. If ever there was a time for dreaming, this is it, Mary Ann. Now, I am going to march up there and demand a word with my parents, and I need to know I have your full support behind me. So do you want to start a bakery together or not?”

  Mary Ann opened her mouth to speak, hesitated, and seemed to mull over her thoughts for a moment. Her head began to sink between her shoulders, and her blue eyes misted with unshed tears. “I do, Cath. My head tells me it will never happen, but my heart—”

  “Sometimes your heart is the only thing worth listening to.” Cath peeled her shoulders back, preparing herself. “Who knows? Maybe they’ll be so weary from the festival they’ll have no fight left in them.”

  “Your mother, without any fight left in her? I wish you luck, Catherine, I truly do, but I also fear this day has already reached its limit on impossible things.”

  CHAPTER 30

  THE MARQUESS AND MARCHIONESS were drinking cordials in the library when Cath tapped at the door frame. They looked as exhausted as Mary Ann had, and though Cath knew their day had been spent entertaining and mingling more than the sort of labor Mary Ann and the servants had done, she still had a great deal of sympathy for them.

  The Turtle Days Festival had been trying for everyone.

  Despite Mary Ann’s pessimism, Cath thought maybe her parents would be too upset to argue with her. Maybe they would be more receptive to her frightening new ideas when their long-held traditions had so recently collapsed around them.

  She did feel guilty about hoping it was so.

  “Retiring early?” her father asked when he saw her lingering in the doorway. “I don’t blame you, child. Come give me a good-night kiss.”

  Cath forced her lips to smile and came forward to give her father a kiss on his wrinkled brow. “Actually,” she said, pulling back, “I hoped I might have a moment to speak with you.” She glanced at her mother, reclined on the sofa. She was still wearing her gown from the festival—the hem was caked with drying sand. “With both of you.”

  Her mother’s face lifted, clearing away some of her tiredness, and she sat up with a grin. “Oh, Catherine. Of course we’ll grant our consent—you needn’t look so worried. But do sit and tell us everything. We could use some joy to finish this awful day.”

  Catherine’s eyes widened, and astounding joy was just about to bubble over when she realized, of course, her mother was speaking of the King. “Thank you, Mother, but I wasn’t…”

  Her mother waved at the empty chair across from them. “Don’t be shy, dearest. Your father and I have been waiting seventeen years for such good news, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. We can hope that everyone will be so excited about the upcoming wedding they’ll forget all about today’s misfortune.” She pressed a hand to her forehead, like trying to rub the memory out from her brow, before her eyes brightened again. “Did he propose during the quadrille? You looked so happy out there. Lovestruck, even, if I’m not mistaken. Naughty child, I can hardly believe you kept the secret from us for even a moment!”

  Catherine gripped her hands together. “You misunderstand, Mother. The King hasn’t proposed. He was speaking prematurely during the contest.” The corner of her eye twitched. “To be honest, I’m irritated that he wasn’t more careful with keeping our courtship an intimate affair.”

  Her mother frowned. “You aren’t engaged?”

  “No. I’m not.” Cath perched herself on the edge of the wingback chair her mother had indicated. Its feathered wings tried to wrap around her but she shook them off. “There was something else I wished to discuss with you.”

  Her mother still looked confused. “Something other than the King?”

  “I’m afraid the King does not occupy my thoughts nearly as much as he occupies yours, Mama.”

  Her mother stiffened, and Cath felt guilty for her sass, but her father’s snort relieved it somewhat. He leaned forward, dwarfing his cordial glass in his enormous hands. “Go on, then. What’s on your mind?”

  “Well.” She dug her fingertips into the material of her skirt to keep from fidgeting. “You know that Mary Ann and I entered a cake into the contest today. The pumpkin spice cake that the judges were sampling just before…”

  “Yes, we did notice,” her mother said, eyes narrowing. “I understand the King is fond of your treats, but when will you realize it isn’t proper to spend all your time in the kitchen—and to enter the contest! The daughter of the Marquess, entering a contest at the Marquess’s own festival. Didn’t you stop to think how that would look?”

  “I wanted to win,” she said. “I wanted the purse that was part of the grand prize.”

  Her father raised one thick eyebrow. “Whatever for? If you need money—”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you a
bout. I do need money, because I … I want to open a bakery.” She gulped, and spoke quieter when she realized that she was already getting flustered. “Mary Ann and I want to open a bakery.”

  Her parents gaped at her. Both speechless, for once.

  She plowed on. “We’ve been talking about it for years. I know you don’t think it’s proper. I know you think it’s a silly hobby, and one you barely approve of at that. But baking is what I love to do and I know our bakery would be the best in the kingdom. Mary Ann will be the perfect partner—she’s good with numbers and she has wonderfully creative ideas for how to bring in customers. She calls it marketing. Plus, there’s a storefront opening up on Main Street soon. Where the cobbler is now, you know. It’s owned by the Duke, but I’m confident I can persuade him—”

  “A bakery!” her mother roared, and Catherine jolted, wondering whether everything past her initial declaration had been wasted words. “Whatever do you want to open a bakery for? You’re going to be Queen, Catherine!”

  Her shoulders tensed. “The King has not proposed to me, nor have I accepted him.”

  Her mother tittered and flicked her fingers through the air. Appeased, just like that. Always halfway between irritation and amusement. “But he will. Besides, can you imagine? You, running a bakery? Why—you’d become an elephant! You can hardly control your sweet tooth as it is.” She brushed her hands together, as if to clear them of such ludicrous talk. “Enough of that. Let’s go to bed. It’s late, and I think tomorrow will bring better things.”

  Catherine’s chest was tightening. From her mother’s accusation. From her dismissal. From the doubtful voice in her head that wondered whether her mother was right.

  But also from anger.

  She shifted her whole body to face her father, fixing her gaze on him as if her mother hadn’t spoken. “I’m asking for your help. I never ask for anything, but I want this. I want this desperately. You don’t even need to give me the money. I can use my dowry, with your permission.”

  “What?” Her mother again. “Your dowry! Absolutely not, I will never—”

  The Marquess held up a hand and spoke, gently, “That is enough now, Idonia.” To Cath’s surprise, her mother clamped her mouth shut.

  A tickle of hope stirred in her, but it didn’t last long as her father’s gaze turned pitying. “I’m glad you came to us about this, Catherine. But I must agree with your mother.”

  The Marchioness harrumphed and crossed her arms over her chest with a sturdy nod.

  “But, Father—”

  “Ladies are not meant to own businesses, and the heir to Rock Turtle Cove has much greater things in store for her future than a lifetime of being elbow deep in eggs and flour.”

  “Greater things according to whom? It’s not my choice to become a wife. And it’s certainly not my choice to become a queen. Those things are Mother’s dreams, not mine.”

  “They are my dream too,” said her father, and Cath flinched at the sternness in his tone. “They are our dream. For you. You’re young, dear, and whatever you think now, we have only your happiness in mind. We know what’s best.”

  She could feel the threat of frustrated tears tickling her nose, but she bit them back. “No—you think you know best, but you’re wrong. This is what I want. This is what will make me happy.”

  Her mother threw a hand into the air, complete with a disgusted sound from the back of her throat, but her father’s gaze was steady. In fact, Catherine could not remember her father ever looking so immovable. It was disconcerting, and her lip trembled at being the receiver of such a look.

  “You don’t understand what it is you’re asking for. A life of labor. Long hours, the endless struggles that come with being the proprietor of your own—”

  “How would you know?” she cried, swinging her arms around at the library’s papered walls and collection of vintage books. “You were born into all of this. You know nothing about business ownership, whereas Mary Ann and I have been planning and researching for years. I know precisely what I’m asking. I don’t care about inheriting your title. I don’t care about being married off, to the King or anyone else. This is what I want, and it isn’t fair for you to think that you know my heart better than I do.”

  “The answer is no, Catherine.” Her father set down his cordial glass. His knuckles had gone white. “I will give you no money and you shall not touch your dowry unless it is in the process of giving it to a husband that your mother and I have approved. That is the end of this discussion.”

  Cath’s vision blurred. She launched to her feet. “You won’t even give me the courtesy of considering it?”

  “I believe I just answered that question. Should you bring it up to me again, I will be forced to let go of Mary Ann’s employment in this household.”

  She staggered back. Again, the chair’s wings tried to comfort her and she blindly shoved them away. “What?”

  “She is a maid, Catherine. Not a friend. Not a partner. Clearly she’s been putting too many thoughts into your head and I will have none of it. Is that clear?”

  She gawked at him, her jaw working but no words able to form.

  “You’re dismissed, Catherine.”

  With a spark of resentment, she slammed her mouth shut and clenched her fists at her sides. “Mary Ann may be a servant, but I am not. I can dismiss myself, thank you.”

  Turning on her heels, she marched from the room, slamming the door in her wake. Hot tears began to squeeze out of her eyes. Her thoughts screamed—a tirade of arguments, of insults, of childish tantrums pressing up against the inside of her skull.

  In her head, she told her parents they were being unfair and old-fashioned. She told them she wasn’t a child and she would make her own decisions. She told them she would find another way, with or without their blessing.

  She was courageous and indignant and angry … but angry with herself most of all. Hadn’t she known what they would say all along? Hadn’t she expected this from the start? Isn’t that why she’d avoided the conversation for so long?

  She couldn’t pretend this hadn’t gone exactly as she’d expected, no matter how much she’d wished otherwise.

  She was grateful to find her bedroom empty. She wasn’t ready to talk to Mary Ann about her failure. She couldn’t stand the idea of crushing her friend’s dreams, not when she was still so new to dreaming.

  She needed a moment to compose herself. Maybe even to concoct a new plan. For this couldn’t be the end of everything they’d longed for.

  Her eyes fell on the macaron hat perched on a corner of her wardrobe. A flurry of emotions twisted inside her, all braiding together into one.

  She was the best baker in Hearts and everyone who tasted her pastries knew it. Even Hatta was inspired enough to make her that bizarre hat after only a tiny bite.

  Hatta, who made magical hats.

  Hatta, whose business was thriving. Who had probably made more sales today at the festival than that miserable Mr. Caterpillar had made all year in his little shop on Main Street.

  Sitting down at her desk, Catherine pulled out a sheet of parchment, unscrewed the cap to her inkwell, and considered her proposal.

  CHAPTER 31

  HATTA’S MARVELOUS MILLINERY had returned to its spot in the forest meadow, the little ramshackle cart in the shadow of broad, leafy trees. But when Jest had brought Catherine before, the lane in between the Crossroads and the hat shop had been empty—abandoned in the dead of night in a secluded corner of the kingdom.

  Not so anymore.

  Catherine passed more than a dozen patrons of the shop on their way back to the Crossroads. Birds and mammals and reptiles, all with smiles on their faces and elaborate hats on their heads, some with servants dragging along in their wake, carrying yet more brightly papered hat boxes.

  The Hatter’s popularity was expanding like a hot-air balloon.

  An OPEN sign hung on the shop door, crisp with newness. The window that the Jabberwock had broken had been replaced.<
br />
  Cath entered without knocking. A pair of Owls were standing before a mirror, trying on different hats and hooting to themselves, but otherwise the shop was empty. It looked much as it had at the beach, only the long table was back, now covered with tools and supplies for shaping and felting and ornamenting a variety of headdresses. Not only shears and thread and ribbon and lace, but also the strange little ornamentations that Hatta was becoming known for: soft-worn chips of blue and green sea glass. Fish scales. Talons. Long, sharp teeth—she didn’t know from what creatures. Assorted seashells. Still-sticky honeycomb. Dandelion tufts and huckleberry branches and white bark peeled from a birch tree.

  There was a curtained doorway at the back that Catherine was sure hadn’t been there the first two times she’d been in the shop. She approached it and knocked softly.

  “You can pay the money tree out front for your purchases,” came Hatta’s tired-sounding reply.

  Steeling herself, Catherine pulled aside the curtain, revealing a small, cluttered office and Hatta with his feet thrown up onto a desk.

  “I am not here to make a purchase,” she said.

  His eyes lifted and there was a quick and deep down-turn of his mouth. “Lady Pinkerton,” he drawled, “I wish I could say this is a pleasant surprise.”

  Catherine shouldered through the curtain. “Good day to you, too, Hatta. I didn’t realize you’d gone back to disliking me.”

  “What do you want? I’m busy.”

  “Would you like me to come back later?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t.”

  A twitch started above her left eyebrow. “I’m not sure what I’ve done to earn your ire this time, but I’ve come with a proposal for you, Hatta.”

  He guffawed. “A proposal! My, my, you capricious thing. How many men do you intend to attach yourself to?”

  Her shoulders tensed. “So it’s the King’s proclamation that has you turned against me?”

  “I apologize, Your Ladyship,” he spat, “but you are not the Queen yet, and I have no time to entertain your whimsies. As you see, I’m working.”