Heartless

by Marissa Meyer

  Mary Ann waited a moment, as if expecting more of an invitation than that, before she sighed and padded across the carpet. Raven fluttered up the top of the vanity mirror.

  Mary Ann worked in silence, pinning Cath’s hair with expert fingers and working it through with pearls and red rosebuds.

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  Cath met Mary Ann’s gaze in the glass.

  “The King will let you out of the arrangement if you ask,” the maid continued. “Tell him you’ve changed your mind.”

  “What then?” Cath asked. “I could be the Marchioness of Mock Turtles. Die a spinster, all alone with my half-invisible cat?”

  Mary Ann paced in front of her and leaned against the vanity. “What about us? Our dream, our bakery?”

  “My dream,” Cath snapped. “It was my dream, and mine alone. It only became yours when a trickster hat fooled you into having an imagination.”

  Mary Ann flinched. “That isn’t true. I always—”

  “I haven’t changed my mind.” Catherine stood, tugging her skirt into place. “I am getting precisely what I want.”

  “A false, loveless marriage?”

  Cath sought out her reflection. The face in the mirror was that of a corpse, bloodless and indifferent. But her dress was breathtaking, for those who had breath to take—a full-skirted gown bedecked in lace and ribbon. Red roses were embroidered across the bodice.

  She felt nothing at all when she looked at her wedding gown, or imagined herself on the throne, or lying in the King’s bed, or someday watching their full suit of ten children race across the croquet lawns.

  Her future existed like a barren desert with a single bright spot on the horizon. The one thing she wanted. The last thing in the world she craved.

  Peter’s head.

  “Yes,” she said, without emotion. “This is what I want.”

  Mary Ann’s shoulders fell and Cath could see her biting back what she wanted to say. Finally she slinked away from the vanity. “The Marquess and Marchioness asked to see you before the ceremony. And … Cath? You haven’t asked me to continue on as one of your maids here in the castle.”

  Cath blinked, waiting for the words to seep into her clouded thoughts.

  You should have died instead, she wanted to say. If you hadn’t gone to the patch, this wouldn’t have happened. I should have let you die. I should have left you there.

  “No,” she finally said. “I haven’t.”

  “Cath, please,” Mary Ann whispered. “I know you’re hurt—devastated, even. But you’re my best friend. You came back for me. You saved me.”

  You should have died instead.

  “The White Rabbit is looking for a housemaid,” Cath said. “Perhaps you can seek new employment there.”

  The silence that followed was stifling.

  Cath picked a ruby necklace off the vanity, one the King had sent her during their pitiful courtship. She latched it behind her neck. The jewels sat heavy on her collar.

  “If that’s what you want,” Mary Ann murmured.

  Cath didn’t watch her go. Didn’t turn even when the door shut behind her.

  Somewhere in the castle, the people of Hearts were gathering. Music was playing. The King was wondering whether he was making a mistake, and whether it was too late to stop it.

  She stared at the girl in the mirror, the one who looked as though she had never known a smile. Even as she had the thought, her reflection’s lips curled upward, revealing a delirious grin beneath her sullen eyes.

  She scowled. “This had better not be your way of telling me to be happy.”

  The reflection’s eyes turned yellow and developed slitted pupils. “Were you aware that this is your wedding day?” said Cheshire. The rest of his face formed, furry cheeks and long whiskers. “To look so sad seems a travesty.”

  “I’m not in the mood. Go away.”

  “All due respect, Your Soon-to-Be-Majesticness, you do not seem much in the mood for anything. I have never seen such an empty expression.” His face vanished, leaving the outline of fur and whiskers topped with pointed ears.

  Catherine pushed away from the vanity.

  Cheshire’s face reappeared. “You needn’t be so cold to Mary Ann. She’s worried about you. We all are.”

  “What is there to worry about? I am going to be a queen. I’m the luckiest girl in Hearts.”

  His whiskers twitched. “And won’t we be lucky to have you, miserable wretch you’ve become.”

  “Mind my words, Cheshire, I will have you banished from this kingdom if you tempt me.”

  “An empty threat from an empty girl.”

  She rounded on him, teeth flashing. “I am not empty. I am full to the brim with murder and revenge. I am overflowing and I do not think you wish for me to overflow onto you.”

  “There was a time”—Cheshire yawned—“when you overflowed with whimsy and powdered sugar. I liked that Catherine better.”

  “That Catherine was a fool.” She whipped her hand toward the cat. He vanished before she could strike him. “You knew the bakery would never happen. You’ve known that I would end up either destitute or married to the stupid King, and any other hopes were meaningless.”

  “Yes. That’s true.”

  She spun to see Cheshire floating in front of the door.

  “But hoping,” he said, “is how the impossible can be possible after all.”

  With a scream, Cath grabbed a vase of white roses and launched them at Cheshire’s head.

  The door opened. The cat vanished. The vase flew right between the White Rabbit’s ears and shattered in the corridor.

  The Rabbit froze, his pink eyes wide as saucers. “L-Lady Pinkerton? Is everything quite all right?”

  Cath straightened her spine. “I despise white roses!”

  The Rabbit shrank back. “I … I do apologize. I’ll—er—have something else sent for, if you prefer—”

  “Don’t bother,” she snapped, marching toward the window and thrusting her finger against a leaded pane. “And I want the gardeners to take down that tree.”

  The White Rabbit approached hesitantly. “Tree?”

  “The white rose tree by the arches. I want it removed immediately.”

  The Rabbit’s nose twitched. “But, my lady, that tree was planted by the King’s great-great-great-grandfather. It is an extremely rare varietal. No, I think we had better leave it as it is.” He cleared his throat and pulled a watch from his pocket. The watch Jest had given him during the black-and-white ball. Seeing it brought blood rushing into Cath’s face. “Now then, your parents will be here soon to escort you to the ceremony, but I wanted to be sure you had everything you needed before—”

  “Mr. Rabbit.”

  He looked up and ducked at her glare.

  “That tree is to be gone by nightfall. If it is not, then I will find an ax and cut it down myself, and your head will be soon to follow. Do you understand?”

  His gloved hands began to shake around the watch. “Er—y-yes. Certainly. The tree. Quite an eyesore, I’ve oft said so myself…”

  “In fact,” she continued, scanning the gardens below, “I want all white roses to be removed before springtime. From now on, the gardeners are to plant only red roses, if they must grow roses at all.”

  “Of course, my quee—my lady. Red roses. Excellent choice. Your taste is immaculate, I daresay.”

  “Exuberantly glad you agree,” she deadpanned, brushing past him. She paused at the vanity and Raven hopped off the mirror and came to settle again on her shoulder before she swept into the corridor.

  She paused.

  Her parents were there, standing over the shattered glass vase and drooping roses, waiting to escort their daughter to her wedding ceremony. Their faces held on to wobbly smiles.

  “Oh, my sweet girl,” said the Marchioness, taking a step forward. Hesitating. Glancing at Raven. Then she closed the distance between them and took Catherine into her arms. “You are a beautiful bride.”


  “Are you sure?” said Cath, still livid over the roses and the pocket watch and Cheshire’s insolence. “Look again. You might find that I actually resemble a walrus.”

  Her mother pulled away, shocked. “What do you mean?”

  She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from rolling her eyes. “Nothing at all.”

  “Catherine,” said the Marquess, placing one hand on Cath’s shoulder and one on his wife’s. “We know you’ve been through some … difficult things recently.”

  Anger, hot and throbbing, blurred in her vision.

  “But we want you to be sure … absolutely sure this is what you want.” His eyes turned wary beneath his bushy eyebrows. “We want you to be happy. That’s all we’ve ever wanted. Is this what’s going to make you happy?”

  Cath held his gaze, feeling the puncture of Raven’s talons on her shoulder, the weight of the rubies around her throat, the itch of her petticoat on her thighs.

  “How different everything could have been,” she said, “if you had thought to ask me that before.”

  She shrugged his arm away and pushed between them. She didn’t look back.

  CHAPTER 52

  THE TRAVELING HAT SHOP was empty when she squeezed her heart-studded dress through the doorway—empty but for the marvelous Hatter himself. A cackle reverberated off the wooden walls the moment she stepped over the threshold. Catherine drew herself to her full height and let her gown fall around her feet. She met Hatta’s gleeful laugh with firm-pressed lips.

  He was on his throne, feet up, hiding his face behind his purple hat. Mannequin heads were set on all of the chairs, adorned in elaborate hats. None were whispering now. They stared blankly ahead at the assortment of ribbons and felts and half-empty teacups.

  “Good day, Hatta.”

  He lifted the hat and set it onto his white hair. Hair that was in desperate need of a combing. His cravat was undone, his coat wrinkled. There was a mysterious stain on the handkerchief that was crumpled inside his breast pocket.

  “Is it six o’clock already?” he said, picking up a pocket watch from the table. “Why—barely noon. That can’t be right. Perhaps I shall make it forever six o’clock, forever time for tea. Tea in the morning, tea in the middle of the night. Then I shall always be an accommodating host. Would that suit you and your early arrival, Lady Pinkerton? Or shall I say—Your Majesty.”

  Cath shut the shop’s door. “Am I early? I did not realize I was expected.”

  “I’m always expecting someone. Always coming and going, coming and going.” He tossed the pocket watch onto the table with a clang. The face popped open and Cath could hear it ticking, too loud and too fast, like a manic countdown. If Hatta noticed it, though, it didn’t show. “I hope you haven’t come here seeking my marital blessing.”

  “I don’t need anyone’s blessing, least of all yours.”

  “Indeed, sweetness. You are the epitome of a royal bride. Tell me, does it make it easier, knowing the union had been foreordained? It was all laid out for you in stone and ink. You didn’t even have to make the decision yourself, just go along with all fate expected of you.”

  She approached the table, narrowing her eyes. “That’s cruel of you to say, after my one choice was taken from me.”

  “That is cruel of you to say, after being given a choice to begin with.”

  She frowned.

  “What do you want, Lady Pinkerton?”

  “I came to see how you’re faring.”

  “Liar.” His white teeth flashed in a sardonic smile. “You came to see if I’ve gone mad. You want to know you’re not the only one to succumb to the Sisters’ prophecy.”

  “I no longer care about the Sisters’ prophecy.”

  “Convenient,” he growled, “as you’re the one who dragged us back here.”

  She clenched her fists. Then slowly unclenched them, smoothing her palms along the stiff fabric of her skirt. “Where’s Haigha?”

  “He went to get more tea.” Hatta picked up his cane and stuck the end through a teapot handle. He lifted it clean off the table and the lid clattered onto a saucer. A few lonesome drops dribbled from the spout. “As you can see, we’re out.”

  She let out a slow exhale. “I half expected you to have gone back to Chess.”

  The teapot slid back onto the table and crashed against a cracked porcelain cup. “Without either of the Rooks, or the heart we came for?” One side of his mouth twisted into an ugly grimace. “You should be afraid, Lady Pinkerton. You are a queen now.” He jutted a finger toward her chest. “That has value.”

  “I am not afraid of you. Tell me your riddle again, Hatta, and I will tell you that my heart cannot be stolen, only purchased, and mine has already been bought.”

  His cheek started to twitch. “You want to hear a riddle, you say? I know a very good one. It begins, why is a raven like a writing desk?”

  She lifted her chin. “Have you gone mad, Hatta? I can’t seem to tell.”

  “They are both so full of poetry, you see. Darkness and whimsy, nightmares and song.”

  “Hatta—”

  His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I figured it out, Lady Pinkerton.”

  She pressed her lips together and swallowed. “You figured what out?”

  “Everything. Peter. The Jabberwock. The Mock Turtle. We are both to blame.”

  Catherine gripped the edge of the table, staring at him across the turmoil. The mannequins said nothing.

  “You see, many years ago,” said Hatta, as if she’d asked, “I brought a pumpkin back from Chess. It was going to be a pumpkin hat. A toothless, smiling Jack-O’-Lantern that would light up on the inside. Oh, it would have been marvelous.” He sung the word marvelous, letting his head tip back over the side of the chair. “But the pumpkin kept growing and growing. I couldn’t make it stop. It got to be as big as a goat and no longer fit to be a hat, so I cut it up and carved out the seeds. I took them to the nearest pumpkin patch and asked if they wanted them. Ungrateful wretches they were, the man and his sickly wife. Told me something about wanting no charity, slammed the door on my face. So I tossed the seeds away into a corner of their patch.” He smiled wryly. “I thought nothing more of it after that.”

  “And then they started to grow,” said Cath.

  “So they did. Lady Peter won a pumpkin-eating contest, did you know? She ate twenty-two of them, they say. Twenty-two bloody little pumpkins. And then she turned into a monster.” His lips warbled into a mockery of a smile. Cath could see it now, the hysteria lurking beneath his amethyst eyes.

  She thought of the destroyed corner of the pumpkin patch. Peter had tried to kill them all, but one seed had survived and grown and thrived.

  “And I made the pumpkin cake,” she said, “and so the Mock Turtle was my doing, and yours, and maybe Peter’s too.”

  “Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater,” Hatta quoted in a singsong voice, “had a wife but couldn’t keep her.”

  Cath shuddered. Her gaze traipsed across the mishmash of ornamentation on the table. “What else? Have you brought any other dangerous things back from Chess that I should know about?”

  “Only Jest, love. He was dangerous enough for us both.”

  Hearing his name opened a crack in her heart that she hadn’t felt in days. She bit her cheek and waited for the pain to recede and dull again.

  She started making her way around the table. “You lied to me. Your hats are dangerous. We can’t trust anything you’ve brought from Chess.” She grabbed the chair to Hatta’s right and made to pull it out from the table, but he whapped the cane over its arms. The cane crushed through a chiffon hat and shattered the skull of the clay mannequin underneath. Catherine jumped back.

  “Don’t be rude, Lady Pinkerton,” Hatta said through his teeth. “Look around. There is no room for you at this table.”

  Rejection sliced through her. She sucked in a breath.

  “You did not deserve him,” he said. There was a sadistic glint in h
is eyes. He was watching her, like he was waiting to see which accusations would make her writhe the most. “I’m glad he cannot see you now. I’m glad he’ll never know how quickly you fell into the King’s arms. You couldn’t even wait until the worms had tasted him.”

  She clenched her fists. “I made a bargain to avenge him. I did it for him, whatever you might think. I loved him. I still do.”

  “If you think you had a monopoly on loving him, then you should be the King’s new fool, not his wife.”

  She stared at him. Her thoughts somersaulted, warred with each other—first, a mess of confusion. Then understanding.

  She straightened. “Did he know?”

  “Does it matter?” With a brusque laugh, Hatta swung his legs off the table and stood. “He came here meaning to take your heart, but it was clear from the night he brought you to the tea party that he was going to lose his, instead.” His voice had a growl to it as he sauntered to the wall and pulled a hat off one of the shelves.

  No—not a hat. A crown.

  He tossed it onto the table. The tines of the crown were made of Jabberwock teeth, jagged and sharp, and strung together with purple velvet and gemstones in hideous mockery of the real crown she’d left at the castle.

  “That’s for you,” he said. “Consider it a wedding gift, from your most humble servant. One mad hatter to his monarch.”

  Her eyes stung. “You are not mad yet. You don’t have to be.”

  He planted his cane on the ground and leaned into it. “It is in my blood, Lady Pinkerton. My father and his father and his father before him. Don’t you understand? I am always coming and I am always going, but Time is searching for me and he’s getting closer, always closer. You cursed me when you went back through that gate. You cursed us all.”

  “You didn’t have to follow me.”

  He snarled. “I had to follow him.” He took off strolling down the length of the table. “Did you come here to make a purchase, Your Majesty? A most marvelous hat, and all it will cost you is everything.” He knocked the butt of the cane into the mannequins’ hats as he passed, tipping them onto the table. Many of the heads fell too, their foreheads cracking against the table’s edge. “A hat to give you wisdom, or maybe compassion as you embark on your queenly role? Perhaps a charm of forgetfulness, would you like that? Would you like to forget this entire tragedy ever happened? Or are you so vain, Lady Pinkerton, that you would like eternal youth? Endless beauty? I could make it happen, you know. Anything is possible when you know the way through the Looking Glass!” He started swinging the cane like a battledore, hitting the hats so hard they soared against the room and crashed into the walls.