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Off with his head.
The words rang in Catherine’s ears and mind as she shot up in bed, her spine stiff as an over-baked baguette, her eyes saucer-wide. Her breaths were coming in quick spurts, her chest heaving. She could not be the Queen of Hearts, she told herself. It was only another silly dream.
A glance to the space beside her in the bed was all she needed to assure herself of this. The drumming of her heart slowed as her eyes settled on her husband, her dear Jest, her mind already clearing as she took him in.
Jest was turned on his side to face her, as he was every night, his breaths coming in evenly and peacefully. So completely unaware of the nightmares that plagued her own mind.
“I love you,” Cath whispered, her fingers absentmindedly reaching out to touch the soft skin of his throat to assure herself that it was intact. She could still see in her mind’s eye the vision of his body lying in the dirt-covered pumpkin patch, his head separated clean from his shoulders. She could almost smell the sickeningly metallic scent of his hot, sticky blood as it seeped from his wound.
Cath had to blink hard to clear her vision once more. He was not lying decapitated on the Peters’ land. He was in her bed in the home they had made for themselves in the land of Chess, and he was very much alive.
She drew her hand away when she noticed her husband begin to gently stir, his brow creasing in that adorable way of his as he reached his hand out for her. She caught it in her own and watched the peace return to his features in an instant. How warming it was to know that he continued to want her so near, even in sleep. His care for her truly knew no bounds.
Silently, her hand remained in his for the better part of twenty minutes before she finally rose and gently unfolded their fingers. She turned and slipped from the room, shivering slightly at the chill in the night’s air as she made her way into the kitchen. Past experiences with her nightmares had taught her that sleep would continue to evade her, so it was entirely pointless for her to bother with trying. If her mind were to be plagued with thoughts of what if, then she might as well get a jump on her baking for the day.
An order form for her blueberry lemon scones rested on the countertop, and she deemed this as good a place as any to begin, turning to the cupboards to take down the necessary ingredients. She retrieved her mixing bowls, her measuring instruments, her whisk, all the while thinking over her wretched dream.
Murderer, martyr, monarch, mad.
Would the prophecy from the Sisters have truly come to be if she had stepped through the Crossroads doors? She shuddered, partly from the thought and partly from the chill in the air.
As if having been cued, she felt a blanket wrap around her shoulders from behind, followed immediately by the strong, secure arms of her beloved Jest. His face came to rest in the crook of her neck, his lips pressing to her exposed skin. “Why are you up?” he inquired softly, something of a whine to his voice. “Are you having those dreams again?”
“The one where my hands become gigantic cream puffs? Yes, and it’s very concerning,” Catherine replied, her tone light.
Her husband’s tone, however, was gently chiding as he replied. “Cath.”
Her defeated sigh was instant. “Yes, I was. Time forbid I go a night with consistent rest.”
Jest shook his head and peeled himself away, though only giving just enough space to turn her around to face him. There was a concern-filled fold between his brows as he looked over her face, raising one hand to gently tuck a dark chocolate lock behind her left ear. “It’s been three years since we left Hearts, Cath. When will your mind let go of the question of ‘what if’?”
“I wish I knew.” Catherine sighed heavily, her arms snaking around his waist in search of comfort. “It’s always the same dream, every single time. Murderer, martyr, monarch, mad. Every one of the prophecies coming truth. Me becoming every single one.” She pressed her face into his chest. “I have never once regretted everything I gave up for you, and that dream makes me all the more grateful that I didn’t turn back. It always ends with me losing everything, including you.”
“I am very grateful for your choice as well,” Jest murmured into her hair, his arms a protective shield around her smaller frame.
Catherine’s voice came again a few moments later. “Jest, do you think…do you think that is truly what would have happened? Do you truly think that scream we heard from the Crossroads was from Mary Ann and that Peter Peter meant to feed her to the Jabberwock?”
Jest took in a deep breath, seeming to stall his response. “Yes, my love, I believe so. And I believe we all would have succumbed to the fate the Sisters warned us of at the treacle well.” He sounded pained to voice the words.
Cath nodded somberly. She always hated to think of what had probably become of her old friend, though her husband was always quick to remind her that Mary Ann was responsible for her own decisions, and Cath was not to blame if her old friend willingly put herself in a dangerous situation.
He was right, of course. Yes, she could have saved Mary Ann, but she’d have lost everything in return. What good would that have been?
“Put those thoughts away, Cath. Everything’s all right,” Jest softly said. His thumb traced circles over her spine. “Hatta continues to evade Time, Raven is still a Rook for the White Queen, and you and I get to run our bakery. Our plan to end the war succeeded. We’re safe.”
Catherine smiled, hoping he truly understood just what his assurances did for her. “I suppose we did manage to do the impossible, didn’t we?” she mused.
A smile tugged at the corners of Jest’s mouth. “Well, impossible is our specialty.”