Heartless

by Marissa Meyer

  “It’s impossible,” she said. “He didn’t do anything—he was innocent. He…” A sob lodged in her throat.

  “You’re right. He was innocent,” Hatta said, so quiet she barely heard him. “Martyrs usually are.”

  Mary Ann pulled Cath away from the body and the growing pool of blood, wrapping her in an embrace. Cath barely felt her. Her breaths grew shorter. Her lips curled against her teeth. She peered over Mary Ann’s shoulder, into the dark trees. At the place where Peter had run.

  Her cries died in her throat and were buried there, suffocated by the fury that was even now pounding, shrieking, demanding to be released.

  She would kill Peter.

  She would find him and she would kill him.

  She would have his head.

  CHAPTER 48

  CATH REMEMBERED LITTLE ABOUT how she got back to the manor at Rock Turtle Cove. Hatta carried her part of the way, though she screamed and clawed at him to let her be, to leave her with Jest. He had restrained her until she had exhausted herself and her throat was worn raw. Her head pounded with the need to find Peter, to destroy him.

  A muscle was twitching in Cath’s eye. Her fingers kept tightening, imagining themselves around Peter’s throat. Squeezing. Squeezing.

  When they arrived at the mansion, her parents took one look at the blood and the dirt and the shredded gown and her dead eyes and ushered them all inside.

  Her anger simmered beneath her skin. She looked at no one. Said nothing. Sent them all away. When finally she was alone in her bedroom, she knelt at the window and pleaded with Time until her lips were chapped and her tongue was too dry to go on. Surely he could turn back the clock. Surely he had dominion over her fate.

  She would spare the Jabberwock this time, if only Jest would live.

  She would let the beast have Mary Ann, if only Jest would live.

  She would listen to Hatta’s warnings. She would turn away from Mary Ann’s cries and escape into the Looking Glass. This time, she would not look back, if only Jest would live.

  She would do anything. Marry any king. Wear any crown. Give her heart to anyone who asked for it. She would serve Time himself if he would bring Jest back to her.

  Her agony turned to fury when Time refused to answer her. There was no this time, no next time, no time at all.

  No amount of bargaining made any difference.

  Jest was gone.

  At some point that night, Raven tapped at her windowsill. Cath sprang forward to open it—but he had only come to tell her that Peter had gotten away.

  Cath fell onto the carpet, the pain knocking into her all over again.

  Her rage split her open.

  The night passed and she became a wild animal, raging and inexhaustible. When Abigail brought her tea, she threw the tray at the wall. When Mary Ann tried to draw a bath, she screamed and flailed. When her mother cried outside her bedroom door—too afraid to come inside—Cath snarled at her reflection and pretended not to hear her. She plotted Peter’s demise. She swore on every grain of sand in the cove that she would avenge Jest’s death.

  It took almost two full days before she could cry and then, as if a levee had been broken, she couldn’t stop.

  Murderer, martyr, monarch, mad.

  So far as she could tell, only one of the prophecies had come to pass.

  Jest was martyred. Jest was dead. Jest.

  CHAPTER 49

  SHRILL LAUGHTER AND THE RUSTLE of branches jolted Catherine awake. Her eyes snapped open. Her nostrils flared at the onslaught of crisp citrus.

  Her blankets had been kicked off in the night, likely due to another nightmare of monsters and murderers and merry-go-rounds, and she lay sprawled on her bed with cool sweat clinging to her skin. She stared up at the canopy and the waxy leaves that had grown up in the night. Green key-shaped fruits swayed overhead.

  Her limbs felt heavy as she reached for one of the lower hanging fruits and snapped it from its branch. The tree rustled.

  The key lime was almost as big as her hand. It must have been made for a very large lock.

  More tittering drew her attention upward and she was met with a pair of black eyes through the foliage.

  Cath bolted upward and snarled. “What do you want?”

  Tillie pushed aside a branch so Catherine could see her narrow face and waxen hair, tangled with leaves from the tree. “We told you this would happen,” she said, in her eerie child’s voice. “Murderer, martyr, monarch, mad.”

  Loathing kindled in her vision, red and burning. With a guttural scream, Cath threw the key at the girl as hard as she could.

  Tillie ducked back. The fruit crashed through the tree branches and plopped somewhere on the carpet, harmless.

  “That was not polite.”

  Cath spun around, searching out the owner of the second voice. Elsie, with her messy cropped hair, was clinging to one of the bedposts.

  A third girl appeared over the canopy, hanging upside down. Lacie’s long hair brushed against the pillows. “In fact,” she said, “that was not very queenly at all.”

  “Get out!” Cath screamed. “It’s your fault he’s dead! You cursed us! Get out!”

  The Three Sisters watched her, as calm as if she’d offered them a cup of tea.

  “We did not swing the ax,” said Tillie.

  “We did not kill the Jabberwock,” said Elsie.

  “We did not go through that door,” finished Lacie.

  New tears sprung up in Catherine’s eyes, steaming with hatred. “It was your prophecy. You killed him. You—” She sobbed. “Get out. Leave me alone.”

  Lacie began to swing from her knees, her long hair tickling Cath’s shoulder. “We see many things,” she said. “We know many fates. We have come to make you a deal.”

  Cath swiped at her eyes. For a moment, there was hope. Cruel, brittle hope. She hardly dared to breathe the words that formed on her tongue. “Can you … can you bring him back?”

  The girls tittered as one, acting as though Cath had made a joke. Tillie shook her head and pushed aside the branches again, until her whole torso was hanging over the bed. There was a scratch on her cheek from one of the branches, and though it had started to bleed, she didn’t seem to notice. The red blood was a strange contrast to her white skin and hollow black eyes. “We cannot bring back the martyr, but we can bring you something else you want.”

  Cath began to tremble. “What?”

  “Vengeance,” they spoke in unison.

  “Peter Peter will never be found,” said Elsie. “Your Raven is a murderer, but not a hunter, and no one is even looking for him anymore. The King wants it all to go away.”

  “But Peter Peter is desperate,” said Lacie. “His wife is dead and his livelihood in tatters. He will come to us, looking to start a new life in Chess.”

  Tillie grinned, showing the gap in her teeth. “We can bring him to you, and let your justice be served.”

  Cath struggled to swallow, her mouth sticky and dry.

  They could be right. Raven had lost track of him, and she knew the King was too pathetic to ever hunt down a killer and kidnapper.

  She knew Mary Ann had concocted a story to explain what had happened that night, doing her best to save a reputation Catherine no longer cared for. She told everyone that she had uncovered the truth of Peter’s crimes and gone to stop him and the Jabberwock, and Cath and Jest had come to rescue her.

  In death, Jest was absolved of his crimes and made a hero.

  That did not pardon Cath, though. She had still run from the castle moments after accepting the King’s proposal. She had been whisked away by another man, in front of everyone. The King was mortified. He would just as soon pretend nothing had happened at all.

  Cath had no such option. The truth belonged to her and she couldn’t escape it and would never forget it.

  Peter deserved punishment. He deserved death.

  For the first time since she’d collapsed in the mud of the pumpkin patch, she felt her heart stir
in her chest.

  “What would you want from me?”

  Lacie swung her body down and plopped onto the bed linens, crisscrossing her bone-thin legs. “We are ill. We have been dying for a long time. We require payments to sustain us.”

  Elsie spun around to the other side of the bedpost. “A heart could sustain us for a long time. A strong heart, full of passion and courage.”

  Tillie stretched forward and trailed a dirty fingernail across Cath’s collarbone. “We want the heart of a queen.”

  Cath dodged away, pressing her fingers against her chest as goose bumps raced down her arms. “I am not a queen.”

  Tillie grinned again. “Not yet.”

  Then the Sisters recited the words that had too often echoed through Cath’s skull—“Murderer, martyr, monarch, mad.”

  She shook her head. “Everyone thinks I’m hysterical and traumatized. The King will never have me now.”

  “Won’t he?” Lacie plucked a key lime from the branches and offered it to Catherine on her tiny palms.

  Cath stared at the fruit, unconvinced that these girls were blameless for what had happened. But they were right. They were not the ones who had swung the ax.

  She looked around, meeting each of their fathomless gazes in turn. “You will bring Sir Peter to me? And his fate will be mine to decide?”

  “Of course,” Elsie said. “You will be the Queen, after all.”

  They all snickered.

  Catherine locked her jaw and snatched the key lime away.

  Shrill laughter and the rustle of branches jolted her awake. Her eyes snapped open. The Three Sisters were gone, but the tree remained, heavy green fruit drooping over her head.

  CHAPTER 50

  THE ROYAL FOOTMEN eyed her warily as she swept into the throne room. Even the candlesticks flickered in fear as she passed them, her head high as a swan’s and her billowing black mourning gown fanned out behind her. She carried a box wrapped in red paper and tied with a red velvet bow.

  The throne room was all ruby-encrusted chandeliers, pink gilt mirrors, and rose quartz pillars. There was no carpeted aisle, and each footstep echoed off the walls and up to the arched cathedral ceiling.

  Her attention didn’t stray from the King of Hearts, who was fidgeting on his throne, his fingers twitching with every thundering clack-clack of her heels.

  Catherine knew how she must look in her head-to-toe black, including the black lace veil that partially covered her face. She had seen herself in the mirror before she left, pale as a ghost with crazed, bloodshot eyes. She didn’t care.

  She knew the King. She knew how to get from him what she wanted.

  The White Rabbit’s voice trembled when he introduced her. “L-Lady Catherine Pinkerton of Rock Turtle Cove, requesting an audience with His Royal Majesty, the King of Hearts.”

  She waited a beat, before turning to the nearest member of the court—the Queen of Diamonds—and dropping the red-wrapped package into her hands. The woman gasped and barely caught it before the box smashed on the floor.

  Turning back to the King, Catherine stretched her lips as far as she could and dipped into her finest curtsy. “Thank you for seeing me, Your Majesty.”

  “L-Lady Catherine. Good d-day,” stammered the King. He scratched his ear. “We’ve had word of your unfortunate un-un-w-wellness. It’s so good to see you … about.”

  “Your concern flatters me, Your Majesty.”

  The King leaned forward. “And w-what can I do for you, Lady Pinkerton?”

  She stood as straight and sharp as a spade in her engulfing ebony dress.

  “I came to apologize. My reaction to your marriage proposal was appalling. I hope you know it was a result of temporary madness, not any disregard for your proposal. You did me a great honor when you asked for my hand, and I did not respond as a lady ought to.”

  She finished her practiced speech with another upward turn of her lips.

  The King cleared his throat. “Er—that’s not necessary, Lady Pinkerton. Of course, your apology is h-heartily accepted.” His mouth quivered. Still nervous. It was clear that he hoped Cath was done, now. That she would leave.

  But she wasn’t.

  “Good.” Her smile fell. “With that unpleasantness behind us, I would like to officially accept your proposal—again.”

  The blood drained from the King’s face. “O-oh,” he said. “Is that … is that so?” His eyes skittered toward the White Rabbit, as if the master of ceremonies might be able to respond for him.

  Catherine had expected this. No man—not even a silly, empty-headed man—would wish to marry a girl after she’d rejected him. Humiliated him, even. A girl everyone was saying had gone quite ill in the head.

  But the King was meek and spineless.

  So she waited while the King searched the faces of his courtiers and guards, looking for a way out. A way that did not include him having to reject her, for he was not the rejecting sort.

  His expression slipped toward helpless. “Well. That’s certainly … er.” He cleared his throat again. “You see, Lady Pinkerton, the thing is—I … um.”

  “I understand, Your Majesty. I would not have expected to earn your favor again after the way I treated you. But I also know that you are a thoughtful, good-hearted man.”

  His cheeks reddened behind his curled beard and pointed mustache. “Well, I don’t know if that’s—”

  “Which is why I brought you a gift. A symbol of my devotion.” Her voice cracked, but she shoved the pain down, down, down. Turning to the Queen of Diamonds, she raised an eyebrow.

  It took a moment for the startled woman to step forward, box in hand.

  Catherine flicked her fingers toward the King.

  Flushing, the woman dragged her feet up onto the dais and deposited the gift into the King’s hands, before retreating back to her spot among the courtiers.

  The King’s face was tight with dread as he untied the ribbon and peeled the paper back. He moved as cautiously as if he had expected the present to combust in his lap.

  He lifted the lid. Everyone in the throne room tilted forward—all but Catherine, who watched with empty eyes.

  The King squeaked. “L-lime?”

  “Key lime pie, Your Majesty. You told me once that key lime is the key to a king’s heart, after all.”

  He licked his lips, eyes filling with hunger. Behind him, the Knave of Hearts surged upward on his toes, trying to see into the gift box with the same overflow of desire.

  Cath lowered her lashes. “I believe we shall get on quite well, and I shall be proud to bestow upon you many such delicacies. I have always been fond of baking, you see.”

  Her chest quivered, but she clenched her jaw. Stayed strong. She knew he was crumbling. She knew she would win.

  Down, down, down.

  “Oh. Right,” said the King. “You were—er.” He gaped at Catherine, then at the pie. Licked his lips. “Many such delicacies … you say?”

  “As many as you wish.” She raised her chin. “As I see no cause for delay, I suggest we set the wedding for a fortnight.”

  His eyes widened. “A fortnight?”

  She bobbed her head. “Your Majesty makes a most excellent point. A single week would be much preferred.”

  He stuttered incoherently. The crowd was stirring, concerned glances passing through the courtiers and the guards.

  “Very well, if you insist,” said Catherine. “Three days hence will be as good a time as any.” She turned to a young page—the Three of Diamonds—who was hiding behind a pillar. “Note that the royal wedding between the King of Hearts and the daughter of the Marquess of Rock Turtle Cove is to be held in three days hence. The entire kingdom is to be invited. Does that sound all right to you, Your Majesty?”

  “I … I suppose…”

  “Wonderful. I’m so pleased.” She dropped into another curtsy.

  The King wrapped his hand around the box containing the key to his heart and squeezed it against his middle. “Th-thr
ee days hence. I am—it is—I am honored, Lady Pinkerton.”

  Her lips twitched, more with derision than flattery. “I do believe the honor is meant to be mine.”

  Pivoting on her heels, she marched out of the throne room without looking back. She was glad when the aroma of sweet-sour lime finally faded behind her.

  All during the carriage ride home she thought of the Sisters’ drawing. Catherine upon her throne, wearing a queen’s crown. She tried to recall the feeling of horror she’d had then. How adamantly she’d refused to believe it could ever come to pass.

  Those emotions were far out of reach.

  “I am the Queen of Hearts,” she said to the empty carriage. Practicing. “I am the Queen of Hearts.”

  CHAPTER 51

  THE WHITE ROSE TREE was in full bloom. Catherine could see it from the castle chambers where she had been brought to make her final wedding preparations. Its flowers were like glowing white lanterns amid the green foliage of the gardens.

  She couldn’t take her eyes from it.

  There was a coal burning in her chest. Her fury had grown since she’d seen the Sisters, since she’d accepted the King’s proposal. Three days had been agony. She wanted it over. She wanted to be the Queen so the Sisters could fulfill their end of the agreement.

  Raven was on her shoulder, his talons puncturing her skin through the fabric of her wedding gown. He had become her most constant companion, though they rarely spoke. He was the only one she had told about the deal she’d struck with the Three Sisters, and at first she had expected him to try and talk her out of it. Even when he didn’t, it still took her a full day to realize he yearned for vengeance almost as much as she did.

  Jest had been his friend, his comrade, his fellow Rook.

  “Soon,” she breathed—to Raven, and to herself. “Soon.”

  Raven said nothing, just dug his talons deeper. She didn’t flinch, though she did wonder if there would be spots of blood left on the white brocade.

  Behind her, the door opened. “Cath?” came Mary Ann’s timid voice. “I’ve come to fix your hair.”

  Cath turned to her and nodded, before moving away from the window. She sat at the vanity.