Heartless

by Marissa Meyer

  “That is enough!”

  The Hatter hesitated, the cane prepped for another swing.

  “Anything is not possible,” she seethed. “If it were, you would have already brought him back.”

  He recoiled. His eyes had gone crazed. The pocket watch on the table was growing louder, the tick-ticking a constant buzz.

  Catherine snatched the cane away. He let it go without a struggle.

  “Whatever you say, these creations of yours are unnatural. I won’t allow them—not anymore.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Beginning this moment, all travel to and from the lands of Chess is strictly forbidden, by order of the Queen.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “You started this, playing with things you didn’t understand. You created a monster and it’s your fault Jest is dead. You brought him here and you brought the pumpkin and you gave Mary Ann that hat, and it’s all your fault!”

  He inhaled sharply. “Yes. So it is.”

  She jerked back, surprised at the levity of his admission.

  “I know it is, and I shall pay for it with my sanity, just as the Sisters said. I’ve seen the drawings too, Lady Pinkerton. I’ve seen them all.”

  Her blood pulsed beneath her skin. “If you ever return to Chess, you had better intend to stay there, for I will not suffer a single grain of sand to cross through that maze again.”

  A sneer twisted his once-handsome face. “You cannot stop me from coming and going. This is my business. My livelihood. And as soon as Time should find me—”

  “I am a queen, Hatta, and I can do as I like. I will imprison the Sisters. I will destroy the treacle well. I will burn the maze to the ground if I must. Do we have an understanding?”

  She held his gaze, letting their wills battle silently between them.

  His cheek started to twitch. Just slightly at first, but it continued to flutter until one side of his mouth lifted into a painful grin. “Why,” he whispered, watching her with glossy eyes, “why is a raven like a writing desk?”

  Shaking her head, Catherine tossed the cane onto the table, satisfied with the crash of porcelain and silver. “It’s a shame, Hatta. Truly it is. Madness does not suit you.”

  “Of course it does,” he cackled. “Murderer, martyr, monarch, mad. It runs in my family. It’s a part of my blood. Don’t you remember? I know you remember.”

  The watch was ticking so fast now she thought it would burst, crack wide open—gears shattering across the table.

  “Good-bye, Hatta.” She swung toward the door, but his desperate laughter followed her. A shrill giggle. A sobbing gasp.

  “But why? Why is a raven like a writing desk?”

  Her hand fell on the doorknob. “It’s not,” she spat, ripping open the door. “It’s just a stupid riddle. It is nothing but stuff and nonsense!”

  Suddenly, inexplicably, the pocket watch fell silent.

  Hatta’s face slackened. His brow beaded with sweat.

  “Stuff and nonsense,” he whispered, the words cracking. “Nonsense and stuff and much of a muchness and nonsense all over again. We are all mad here, don’t you know? And it runs in my family, it’s a part of my blood and he’s here, Time has finally found me and I—” His voice shredded. His eyes burned. “I haven’t the slightest idea, Your Queenness. I find that I simply cannot recall why a raven is like a writing desk.”

  CHAPTER 53

  SHE WAS GROWING IMPATIENT. Her hatred was burning a hole through her stomach, and it flared hotter every day that passed. Her fury burbled beneath the surface of her skin, often flaring in bouts of unexpected temper. Servants began to avoid her. The King dwindled into nothing more than a babbling idiot in her presence. All the members of the gentry that had doted on her after the wedding stopped making their calls.

  Cath despised court days the most. She was the Queen and she had envisioned her iron word falling down on the people of Hearts. Laws would be executed, wrongdoers punished.

  Instead she was trapped in a courtroom of absurdity and pandemonium. The jury, which had no purpose other than to squawk at one another and interrupt the proceedings, was made up of herons and badgers, kiwi birds and otters and hedgehogs, and not one of them with a bit of sense.

  Not that it mattered, given the cases. A mouse who thought it was unfair that his brother had gotten a longer tail, a stork who thought it species profiling that she was forced to be the kingdom’s sole baby carrier, and so on and so forth. Court days were agony.

  Catherine spared a sympathetic look for Raven, who was perched on the rail that boxed in the thrones. His head was tucked between his neck feathers, his beak tight with disgust.

  The Rabbit blew his trumpet. “Calling to the court the Most Noble Pygmalion Warthog, Duke of Tuskany, and Lady Margaret Mearle, daughter of the Count and Countess of Crossroads.”

  Cath lifted an eyebrow and watched as Margaret approached, her arm linked with the Duke’s. They both appeared nervous. Margaret was wearing that stupid rosebud hat.

  They bowed. Margaret’s eyes darted to Catherine before lowering again.

  “Good day,” chirped the King, who looked extra absurd wearing an enormous powdered wig beneath his lopsided crown. “What is your request?”

  “Your Majesty,” said the Duke, “we wish for you to marry us.”

  A rustle of surprise flittered through the crowd.

  The King wobbled gleefully. “Oh, I love these ones!” He plastered on his almost-serious face and leaned forward, clearing his throat. “Is the lady under the jurisdiction of her father?”

  “I am, Your Majesty,” said Margaret.

  “And what has he said to your request?”

  “He has blessed the union.”

  “And for what reason do you wish to be married?” asked the King.

  The Duke smiled around his tusks. “Because we love each other.”

  The King beamed. The crowd swooned.

  Cath rolled her eyes.

  “What does the lady say?”

  Margaret gripped the Duke’s elbow and lifted her chin. Her eyes were glowing, with nerves, yes, but also joy. In that moment she looked not just pretty, but nearly beautiful. “He speaks the truth. I have come to understand that Lord Warthog is the only man I could ever entrust the protection of my most championed integrity to, a man who upholds himself to the same rigorous standards which I deem to be of utmost value, and for this, I love him very much. We love each other very much.”

  Catherine scoffed, but everyone ignored her.

  The King gestured for Margaret to come closer. When she was close enough, he whispered, “You are aware that he’s a pig, yes?”

  Her mouth fell open in outrage. “Your Majesty! What a crude thing to suggest!”

  A long, awkward silence followed, until the King started to giggle, embarrassed. “Er—my mistake! Never mind!” He waved his hands and sent her back to her groom’s side. “As I see no reason to deny this request, I now deem you—”

  Catherine shoved herself to her feet. “Wait.”

  There was a nervous squeak from the onlookers and several of the smaller creatures dove off their chairs and cowered beneath them. Margaret paled.

  “Margaret Mearle, I have known you my whole life, and in that time I have heard you refer to the Duke as arrogant, rude, and excruciatingly dull. Now you expect us to believe you wish to marry him. Not for his wealth or his title, but because you claim to love him.”

  Margaret gaped at her, cheeks blotchy with mortification.

  Cath leaned forward. “Do you know what the moral of that is, Lady Mearle?”

  Lips thinning into a line, Margaret barely managed to shake her head.

  “The moral of that”—she inhaled sharply—“is that ‘you can’t judge a book by its cover.’”

  Margaret said nothing for a long time, as if waiting for Cath to say more. Finally, she drew her brows together into an uncertain frown. “All due respect, Your Majesty, but that sounds like nonsense.”r />
  “Oh, it is,” said Catherine. “I suppose what I mean to say is that you are well suited to each other.”

  Margaret was still frowning, like she was waiting for Catherine to deny their marriage request. But when the audience cheered and Cath sat down again, a grin shifted over Margaret’s face. She peered up at the Duke and the look that passed between them was almost magical.

  Almost impossible.

  Catherine looked away when their marriage was granted.

  The couple rushed from the courtroom to vigorous applause, tripping over themselves in their glee. Catherine’s shoulders slumped once they had gone.

  The celebration quieted and the creatures returned to their seats, though many were still beaming and congratulating one another over nothing.

  Cath noticed Raven watching her.

  “What?” she snapped.

  Raven started to shake his head, but stopped and puffed up his feathers. His voice was melancholy when he spoke—even more melancholy than usual. “Once I was a lonely Rook upon a distant shore, and I would murder for my queen so we might win a war. Now mine eyes see the heart that once we did search for, and I fear this heart shall be mended, nevermore.”

  Cath’s nostrils flared. “Your fears are correct. Such a heart can’t be mended. I hope I won’t be tasked with keeping such a useless artifact for much longer.”

  The White Rabbit blew his horn, saving her from the bitter taste that was crawling up her throat. “Next to the court is Sir Milton Mulro—”

  The doors at the end of the courtroom slammed open, letting in a gust of chilled air.

  An owl swooped in through the double doors, its wings spread to their full span as it glided down the aisle. Three more silhouettes emerged in the doorway. A sleek red fox and a sly raccoon, each of them holding a chain that attached to a bedraggled figure between them.

  Cath’s heart thumped. She didn’t remember standing, but she was on her feet as the arrivals marched down the aisle. Her stomach twisted. Her breaths came faster.

  When they reached the front of the courtroom, the creatures deposited their prisoner on the floor. He seemed smaller than Cath remembered—bruised and covered in mud.

  Fury throbbed inside her, filling the hollowness she’d grown accustomed to.

  Finally. Peter Peter had been found.

  As one, his captors reached for their faces and shed their masks and skins like Cath might shed a winter cloak. The Three Sisters stood before her, their small hands gripping Sir Peter’s chains, their black eyes peering up at the Queen.

  “We had a bargain,” said Tillie.

  “We made a deal,” said Elsie.

  Lacie’s pale lips stretched thin. “We have come to take our toll.”

  “Wh-wh-what is this?” the King stammered, looking at the Sisters like they were a nightmare turned real.

  “That is Sir Peter,” Catherine answered. The name tasted like iron and filth.

  Peter Peter snarled at her.

  Mr. Caterpillar, one of the jurors, blew out a ring of smoke that swirled around the Sisters’ heads. “And who,” he asked, “are you?”

  Elsie clasped her hands together, as if she were about to recite a poem. “There were once Three Sisters who lived in a well. They were very ill.”

  “They were dying,” clarified Lacie.

  Tillie nodded. “They were dying for a long time.”

  “But they knew,” continued Elsie, “that one day there would be a queen who would have a heart she had no use for. Such a heart could sustain them.”

  “That queen is here,” said Tillie. “That time is now.”

  In unison, the girls drawled, “We have brought your vengeance, and we shall have your heart in return.”

  Cath’s attention didn’t lift from Peter Peter. “Take it. As you said, I have no use for it.”

  The Sisters’ wretched smiles glinted and Lacie stepped forward, her long white hair swaying against her ankles. She pulled out a jagged knife, from where Cath couldn’t tell.

  Choking, the King pushed back his throne, putting more space between himself and the child. But Cath didn’t move. She held Lacie’s gaze and listened to the rush of blood in her ears.

  Lacie climbed up the Queen’s box with the grace of a fox. She sat back on her heels, her bare, dirt-crusted toes curled around the wooden rail. Cath smelled the treacle on her skin.

  She raised the dagger and plunged it into Cath’s chest.

  Catherine gasped, and though there were screams in the courtroom, she barely heard them over the cackle of the Three Sisters.

  Cold seeped into her from the blade, colder than anything she had ever known. It leached into her veins, crackling like winter ice on a frozen lake. It was so cold it burned.

  Lacie pulled out the blade. A beating heart was skewered on its tip. It was broken, cut almost clean in half by a blackened fissure that was filled with dust and ash.

  “It has been bought and paid for,” said the Sister. Then she yipped and launched herself back to the courtroom floor. She was joined by her sisters, cackling and crowding around the Queen’s heart. A moment later, a Fox, a Raccoon, and an Owl were skittering out the door, leaving behind the echo of victorious laughter.

  CHAPTER 54

  CATH STARED AT THE DOORS still thrust wide open, her body both frozen and burning, her chest a hollow cavity. Empty and numb.

  She no longer hurt. That broken heart had been killing her, and it was gone.

  Her sorrow. Her loss. Her pain, all gone.

  All that was left was the rage and the fury and the desperate need for vengeance that would soon, soon be hers.

  “W-what happened?” stuttered the King. “What did they do?”

  “They freed me,” Cath whispered. Her gaze traveled to the prisoner who was kneeling on the floor, his arms shackled by chains but with no captors to hold him. Peter Peter, alone, did not look appalled at what the Sisters had done. He looked bitter. To be caught. To be brought here. To be kneeling before the Queen of Hearts. Cath’s lips twitched upward. “They fulfilled their promise.”

  “But … your heart…,” started the King.

  “Was no longer useful to me, and I am most pleased with what they brought me in return.” She narrowed her gaze. “Hello, Sir Peter.” She spat the name, her anger roiling, bubbling, steaming inside her, filling up all the barren spaces. Her knuckles whitened on the rail. “This man is the murderer of the late court joker of Hearts. He cut off his head, then fled into the forest. He is a killer.”

  When she had imagined this moment, she’d worried that she might cry when faced with Jest’s killer again. But her eyes were dry as sifted flour.

  Already the numbness was fading. Now her body was enflamed.

  The King hesitantly stood. “That is—yes. Yes, indeed. It’s so good of you to join us, Sir Peter. I believe this calls for, uh…” The King scratched beneath his crown. “What happens next?”

  “A trial, Your Majesty?” suggested the White Rabbit.

  “Yes! A trial. Excellent fun. Good distraction. Yes, yes. Jury, assemble yourselves. Write down the Queen’s accusation.”

  The jury rustled and pulled out slate tabs onto which they began to scribble notes with white chalk. Peter Peter stayed on his knees, but his head was lifted, his gaze piercing Catherine. She stared back, unafraid, for once. She was filled with the anticipation of seeing his blood spilled across the courtroom floor.

  “The jury would like to call a witness, Your Majesty.”

  The King clapped his hands. “Oh yes, jolly good. Who shall we call?”

  “We would like to call the court joker to the stand.”

  Cath growled. Whispers and glances passed through the crowd. Everyone seemed to be waiting for Jest to appear on a silver hoop from the ceiling.

  “He is dead,” she said through her gritted teeth. She had to fend off a fantasy of having every imbecile in this courtroom beheaded.

  “Oh yes, that would be so, wouldn’t it?” the Badger mut
tered, punctuating the realization with nervous laughter.

  “I am your witness,” Cath said. “I was there and I have already told you what happened. He is a murderer and he deserves to be punished.”

  Everyone tittered, uncomfortable that their new queen was intruding on the court’s traditions.

  “Perhaps,” said the Rabbit, “if there are no other witnesses present, the jury might consider a verdict?”

  A wave of glee sparkled over the jury box and Catherine heard mutterings of guilty and innocent and in need of a bath, when Peter Peter cleared his throat.

  “I got something I’d like to say.”

  Though his voice was hoarse, it roared through Catherine like a tidal wave. White spots flecked in her vision. She wanted to silence him forever.

  The King, ignorant of how Cath’s blood was boiling, pounded his gavel. “The murder—er, the defendant wishes to speak!”

  Two guards came forward and grabbed Peter Peter by the elbows, hauling him to his feet. The chains the Sisters had abandoned clinked across the floor.

  Raven hopped along the rail, putting himself in Cath’s field of vision. It was like having a confidant at her side—someone else who had been there that night, who knew. He alone had not flinched when the Sisters had taken Cath’s heart. There had been a time when he had planned on doing the same thing to her. When Jest had planned to do the same thing to her.

  But that no longer mattered to her. Such a heart was worthless, despite what everyone said. There was no value to it at all.

  Sir Peter planted his feet so he could stand without the guards’ assistance. Though disheveled, he was as intimidating as ever. His eyes darted from the King to the jury to the royal courtiers to the guards—and, finally, to Catherine. “I did kill him,” he snarled. “But I was defending my wife.”