Entwined

by Heather Dixon Wallwork

  “He’s a rogue,” said Azalea firmly. She coaxed a spoonful of porridge into Kale’s little mouth. “I have a mind not to return.”

  The girls yelped, horrified.

  “Oh, no!” cried the twins.

  “You can’t!” said Eve.

  “We have to go back,” said Delphinium. “I need to dance so much, my feet hurt.”

  “Az,” said Bramble, pulling her chair closer, so they saw eye-to-eye over the cream pitcher and threadbare tablecloth. “Don’t you see how perfect this is? Finally we have a place to dance, one where no one could possibly discover us!”

  “Of course I’ve realized it!” said Azalea. Her toes curled in her stiff boots, aching to spring into a dance. “It’s just so—extraordinary!”

  It twisted her thoughts, thinking of the Pavilion Keeper living in the walls of their palace, unknown to the royal family. The King knew about that passage—surely he did; hadn’t Lord Bradford said as much? But the Keeper and the magic he couldn’t possibly know of. To him the passage was a storage room, possibly for old trunks and broken furniture. He couldn’t know of the Keeper, with his dark, rakish eyes and sleek ponytail.

  No, the King definitely did not know of Mr. Keeper.

  What had happened, Azalea wondered, to free the Keeper enough from the walls of the palace—enough to magic a storage room into a fairyland—but not enough to free himself?

  “Even if we wanted to dance,” said Eve, who looked crestfallen, “we couldn’t. We don’t have any dance slippers.”

  This put a damper on everyone’s excitement. They couldn’t dance barefoot, not with a gentleman there, and they couldn’t dance in their old, heavy boots—their feet would get twisted. As if it could hear them, rain began pattering against the draped windows.

  “Actually,” said Azalea, slowly folding her porridge with her spoon. “I think we might.”

  She brought them all upstairs to the east attic, and among the dusty broken toys, the dripping roof, and ramshackle furniture, she unlatched a trunk. Before mourning, they had practiced dancing every day, so much that they had worn out the seams of their slippers. They even had a shoemaker who would bring the repaired slippers to the palace each morning. It was a luxury that Mother insisted on and the King reluctantly allowed.

  Since mourning, they hadn’t been allowed to dance, but they had the slippers they hadn’t used on Christmas. Azalea pulled out a bundle and unwrapped it, revealing eleven brightly colored pairs of slippers. The girls ooohed.

  They tried them on, right there in the dusty attic, and everyone was delighted to find that the slippers still fit. A little tight, but slippers never hurt the feet like boots did. Delphinium turned a graceful spin, sending puffs of dust about them.

  “I feel like a princess,” she said.

  That night they readied in a flurry of delight. Hair brushed, pinned, and braided; dresses buttoned, tied, poofed, and smoothed. Azalea produced dried flowers from a box underneath her bed, and the younger girls beamed as the older girls pinned the delicate crinkly blossoms in their hair and tied their slippers.

  With the handkerchief and another burst of silver, the girls shivered as they passed through the billowing magic waterfall. Tonight the silver forest dripped here and there, though instead of raindrops, it dripped pearls. They reflected the light of the lamp as they fell. Azalea caught one in her hand, and it wetted her glove as a normal raindrop would, but left a pearly white spot.

  Just before the bridge, Azalea set down the lamp and pulled the willow branches aside, revealing the glimmering white pavilion. The girls clasped hands and walked forward. Pearls rained into the water with soft ploops.

  The Keeper stood at the entrance, cutting a sharp, smooth outline against the white silver. He dipped into a bow, so deep he fell to one knee.

  “You came,” he said.

  “Of course,” said Azalea, forgetting that she ever had doubts.

  “Welcome,” he breathed. “My ladies.”

  He extended his arm to the dance floor. With a squeal of delight, the girls bounded up the steps and onto the marble. Azalea smiled and followed after, her slippers so soft she could almost feel the marble veins. They looked about them, taking in the velvet, backless sofas on the sides for resting, the dessert table piled with chocolates and buns, the domed ceiling above them.

  Azalea turned to see the Keeper at the entrance, folding his arms, his black eyes on her. She turned her head, feeling a blush rise to the tips of her ears.

  “I do hope my ladies will enjoy their night of dancing.” The Keeper backed out of the entrance, onto the first stair. Delphinium gave a cry of protest.

  “You’re leaving?” she said.

  Mr. Keeper smiled. Even his smiles were sleek.

  “I do not dance,” he said. “I am only the Keeper. I leave dancing to those who are more gifted than I.”

  The white rain gusted in thick patters above them, and pearls dripped in sheets over the sides. A curtain of white masked the Keeper from the entrance. When the drops subsided and the bridge and rosebushes were revealed once more, he was not there.

  “Wow,” said Hollyhock. “Wow!”

  The blush still heated Azalea’s face. She turned to the girls, smiling as the invisible orchestra tuned and sprang into a lively melody.

  “A schottische!” said Azalea. “Do you remember this? Mother taught it to us hardly a year ago—you’ll remember! Come along.”

  They joined hands, and Azalea taught them the dance. Step-hop, hop, touch, hop. She taught them to turn their feet just so, and the girls learned it quickly. Even two-year-old Kale stepped on the right beats in the next dance, a spinner’s reel.

  Quadrilles, gorlitzas, a redowa waltz, and more reels. The hours passed, the girls laughing as Azalea turned them in the steps.

  She loved this. The feeling of stretching herself tight, releasing, spinning, falling breathless and feeling the air across her face. Seeing her sisters so happy, their pale cheeks pink with delight. It was magic.

  Lord Bradford’s watch read well past one when the girls finally sat down together in the middle of the dance floor, exhausted, happy, their dresses like black blossoms over the milky dance floor. The youngest girls had fallen asleep, curled up on the red velvet sofas, and Lily, who had been passed from sister to sister and squealed with glee every time she was spun, slept soundly on a chair cushion. Her skirts poofed in the air, revealing ruffly little pantelettes.

  “My slippers are worn out,” said Delphinium. She untucked her feet and showed everyone her pink toes, peeking through the seams.

  “Mine, too,” said Hollyhock. She sat with her feet forward, her small green shoes torn. All the girls adjusted positions then, showing their ragged slippers. They laughed and wiggled their toes.

  “That means a job well done,” said Azalea. “When you wear out your slippers like that. That’s what…what Mother used to say.”

  The girls grew quiet. Flora clasped her hands in her lap. Azalea blinked at the ceiling, strings of pearls swooping in arcs above her.

  “I miss her,” Flora whispered.

  Goldenrod nodded. Bramble pursed her lips and stared at the floor. Clover traced a vein in the marble, just barely touching it with her fingertip.

  “When—when I dance,” she said quietly. “When I dance, I—I forget all the—the bad things.”

  Eve toyed with her spectacles. “Like Mother not being here,” she said.

  “Like mourning,” said Delphinium.

  “And the King,” said Bramble quietly.

  “I—I only remember the good things. That is the b-best thing about d-dancing.”

  “Then come back.”

  The low, smooth voice startled them.

  “Mr. Keeper,” said Azalea, standing quickly. The girls stood as well, smoothing down their black skirts. Mr. Keeper stood at the entrance, his face a touch sober, his voice steady.

  “You cannot dance up there,” he said, quietly. “I can see you are in mourning. But you ar
e welcome to dance here, among the magic. Please. Come and mend your broken hearts here. Come back, every night.”

  Azalea felt like laughing and crying at the same time.

  CHAPTER 9

  The next day, the girls brought the worn slippers to lessons in a basket, and after Latin Azalea taught them how to mend the torn seams. It took a stronger needle and thimbles, and Azalea only managed a mediocre job of repairing the dainty things. Even the twins, who had clever hands, took several hours before they had stitched the slippers properly. Everyone became frustrated at the task, and Hollyhock, brash and unthinking at eight years old, threw her thimble across the table.

  Azalea understood their impatience, though it disheartened her. They couldn’t request the services of their shoemaker, even in secret. Mr. Pudding was in charge of the accounts while the King was gone, and they couldn’t stir up any suspicion. Azalea tried to be cheerful.

  “I think we may be able to make them last two or three weeks,” she said, bundling the last pair of slippers into the basket. “If we back them with a sturdier fabric, and are careful. That’s plenty of dancing.”

  “Oh, only two weeks?” said Flora.

  “What if we danced barefoot?” said Hollyhock.

  “Why, Hollyhock,” said Azalea raising her eyebrows and turning to the red-headed, freckled girl.

  “Where were you born?” Bramble and Clover chimed with Azalea, their fingers at their collars in a gesture of shock.

  Everyone giggled. That was one of Mother’s phrases. Hollyhock ducked her head, beaming sheepishly.

  “I know,” she said. “I forgot.”

  “I wouldn’t want—want Mr. Keeper especially to—to see our ankles again,” said Clover, who busied herself retying the slippers’ ribbons into dainty bows. “His eyes seem to catch everything.”

  Azalea had to agree with that. It made her chest tickle.

  Though they had agonized over the mending, that evening the girls hopped with excitement as Azalea helped them tie on the repaired slippers. Even Lily liked them, grabbing at the bows around the girls’ ankles and stuffing them in her mouth. The girls slipped through the passage and into the silver magic, their slippers peeking in bright, colorful glimpses from beneath their black skirt hems.

  The pavilion was dark when they arrived, but Mr. Keeper was there. He smiled when they climbed the steps and bowed deeply, with a “My ladies.” The girls passed by him onto the dance floor, but Azalea stayed back and gave Mr. Keeper a graceful curtsy.

  “Thank you,” she said, before joining the girls on the dance floor. When she glanced at the entrance again, Mr. Keeper had vanished.

  “Off-putting, how he does that,” said Bramble.

  In the middle of the dance floor sat twelve teacups in a ring. In each one stood a candle, flickering merrily.

  “The candle dance!” said Azalea. She picked up one of the teacups. The candle sputtered but did not go out. She smiled and placed a teacup on each of the girls’ heads.

  “We haven’t danced this for years,” she said. “Not since Mother took ill. Don’t let the teacup fall off. Grace—balance, that’s what this dance is about.”

  Azalea showed them how to move on their feet without letting the top part of them bounce. The invisible orchestra accommodated them, only playing slow songs, and by the end of the night, even Ivy and Jessamine stepped without losing their candles.

  “And two, feet together, and dip. Very good! Sweep a curtsy to your gentleman.”

  The girls dipped a curtsy. Their teacups fell off their heads and clattered to the ground. Azalea, laughing, picked them back up, and the candles inside flitted back to life.

  “Curtsies next time,” she said.

  “Azalea,” said Flora as they set the teacups on the dessert table. “Could you show us the Soul’s Curtsy?”

  The chattering hushed. Azalea hesitated.

  “Go on,” said Bramble, grinning. “They’re old enough now.”

  Azalea smiled, inhaled, and touched her right foot in front of her. She traced it in a circle behind her, then slowly sank to the left knee. With strained balance, she folded herself up as she disappeared into the poof of her skirts. Her legs twisted like pretzels beneath her. She bowed her head, nearly kissing the floor, and extended her right arm above her, her left tucked behind her back. The girls applauded.

  “How beautiful,” said Flora.

  “Now that’s a curtsy,” said Bramble, helping Azalea up.

  “But it’s not just for anyone,” said Azalea. “It has to be for your husband, or royalty. Like a king.”

  Flora giggled. “For you that will be the same thing!”

  Azalea smiled again, but this time it was strained, and as Bramble teased the girls into learning the dip, Azalea escaped to the edge of the pavilion. She leaned on the railing and looked miserably over the misty lake.

  She hated feeling helpless. It writhed in her stomach, choking her with thoughts of dancing the rest of her life in the arms of a gentleman who pushed her about and laughed when she stumbled or, worse, didn’t even look at her at all. She wondered if she would be able to give the Soul’s Curtsy, with all her heart and soul, to anyone, and the thought made her ill.

  Around her, the leaves of the rosebush ivies rustled, then curled and entwined through the lattice. Their buds bloomed into fat, silver blossoms, revealing pearls for middles.

  “They’re…lovely,” said Azalea, after the initial surprise. “Mr. Keeper.”

  She turned and there he was, behind her, soundless as midnight. Azalea’s heart beat a pace faster.

  “You’re upset,” he said, in a low, gentle voice. Azalea felt the warmth of a blush creep up her neck.

  “No,” said Azalea. “Not.”

  “Ah,” he said quietly. “But I can guess what you’re thinking. You are thinking, if you were born after one of your sisters, perhaps things would be different for you. Are you not?”

  The warmth of the blush dropped, replaced with cold shock.

  “Not—quite—I—” Azalea stammered.

  Keeper held up his gloved hand.

  “I should think,” he said, taking a step closer to her, so close Azalea should have felt his warmth, but did not. “If you were born after your sisters, it would be one of them faced with such a duty. And, from what I have seen of you, Princess Azalea, you would do anything to keep them from unhappiness. Look.”

  Azalea looked over at the dance floor, where Bramble had made the younger girls sit on the floor, while she, Delphinium, and Eve leaped over them. The younger girls squealed uproariously whenever the skirt hems brushed their faces. Bramble was saying, “Don’t jump up, Ivy, you great idiot, do you want your head to get knocked off?” Azalea stifled a laugh, and the terrible, helpless feeling eased. A little.

  “One day, my lady,” said Mr. Keeper, stepping aside and allowing her to join them, “I should hope I would be fortunate enough to see such a graceful, unearthly curtsy from you again.”

  The girls were late to breakfast the next morning, and to lessons. When they arrived at the nook, their now-cold porridge sat on the table, and their teacher, Tutor Rhamsden, was there as well. He sat in his usual seat and was, in fact, asleep, leaning on his cane, upright but snoring.

  He slept quite a lot. No one ever had the heart to wake him.

  “Why is breakfast so early?” Bramble moaned, laying her head on the tablecloth. “Why are lessons so early?”

  No one answered, for they all nodded in a doze. Four-year-old Jessamine curled up on her chair and buried her head in Azalea’s lap.

  That night, however, after a long afternoon of mending the slippers, the girls were wide awake with excitement, passing through the silver forest. Mr. Keeper greeted them at the entrance, bowing them in and disappearing with a faint smile. Azalea was glad—she suddenly felt shy and nervous around him.

  The girls discovered twelve delicate lace-and-satin fans waiting for them, and they gasped with how fine they were. Clover, who was good with fan
s, taught them how to snap it open with a flick of the wrist, how to throw it in the air and catch it, and how to flutter it just above the nose, shyly, demurely. The girls cheered for her.

  “I’m only good…because—because I’m shy,” she said, blushing.

  They returned through the fireplace to their room with visions of fan tatting rippling through their minds. The next night, they learned new waltz steps, how to flow up and down on the beats. The next night, jigs. And the night after, a morris dance, with silver-and-white satin sticks that had bells attached with ribbons.

  No words could describe those warm summer nights, dancing at the pavilion. Euphoric, delightful, brilliant, all would fit. It was what Azalea felt when she saw the girls, beaming from learning a new step, or how to balance on just their toes, or when Azalea tucked them into bed, their cheeks flushed and smiling.

  “Sometimes I wake up,” Flora said one morning, “and I wonder if it’s even real.”

  “It feels like a dream,” Goldenrod agreed, sleepily.

  Mornings came much too early, and after the girls had groggily dressed, they stumbled to breakfast late. They mended slippers over their porridge, or in the afternoons in the cool cellar. The slippers became more tattered each day, and Azalea had to back them with extra fabric from old tablecloths, because the satin frayed so. They couldn’t last much longer, Azalea knew, but she would sew her fingers raw to make them do. She had to immerse herself in the silver forest, in the dancing, if only for one more night.

  And though she wouldn’t dare admit it to anyone, she wanted to see Mr. Keeper again.

  He hardly ever spoke to her or any of them, other than to welcome, bow them in, and wish them a good night when they left, but the essence of him lingered. When Azalea spun, spotting her head as her skirts billowed around her, she could swear she glimpsed his midnight eyes watching through the lattice, or at the entrance, but when she turned about again, she saw only rosebuds. His sleek movements mesmerized her, and she wondered how he danced. She wished desperately to see it.