Entwined

by Heather Dixon Wallwork

  “A dream,” Azalea echoed. “A dream…a dream…”

  She still remembered the scent, baby ointment and cake.

  The night before, she had somehow arrived back at the room through the shimmering curtain, trying to swallow the heaving within her stomach. The girls had come only minutes later, and still delighted with the ornaments they had crafted, they chattered on about embroidered holly and cinnamon-scented pinecones. Azalea pushed a smile as she helped undress them, then curled up in a ball on her bed, still in her clothes, wheezing in silent gasps until she had sunk into a fitful sleep.

  Now, the image of Mother fresh in her mind, Azalea’s feet overrode her head, and, taking a shawl, she slipped out of the palace into the cold, frozen morning.

  The graveyard tasted like icy mist, glowing blue in the dawn. Snow and frost covered every headstone, branch, and iron railing. It was like walking through a winter palace. Azalea pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders.

  The weeping angel over Mother’s grave had an icicle hanging from its hands and a hat of snow on its head. Mother would have thought it funny. Azalea did not. She brushed off the snow hat and snapped the icicle with the end of her shawl. She stared at it, forlorn and shivering, and as she more fully awoke, her spirits fell.

  What was she even doing here? She’d had some vague idea that people visited graveyards to find a connection—or something—with the dead. That somehow she would know what to do, if she stood next to Mother’s grave, hoping for some sort of answer.

  But now, huddled under the naked trees and staring at the frosted statue, she realized the graveyard was empty. Azalea’s throat grew tight.

  “Where’s that deep magic now, Mother?” she said. Her choked voice echoed through the graveyard. “That warm flickery bit? If any of it were even real, you could make it so I could at least—at least tell someone. You said it was more powerful than magic! Than Mr. Keeper—and—and—”

  The wash of prickles strangled the words from her as soon as she said Keeper, and she fell to her knees on the grave. The snow froze through her dress. She gasped for air, and slowly regained her breath as the tingles subsided.

  “I can’t even speak it to the dead,” she whispered. She laid her head against the skirt of the statue, wishing the frozen stone would burn through her skin. “Stupid oath,” she said. “Stupid me.”

  The iron gate shrieked.

  A gentleman entered the graveyard, carrying his hat and a ring of holly. He wore a thick brown coat, had a long nose and terrifically rumpled hair.

  Azalea had the fleeting idea to make the weeping angel pose, in hopes of blending in with the statue. Instead she shrank back against the statue, willing herself to fade away. But Mr. Bradford’s eyes immediately found her, huddled at the base of the statue. In a horrific thought, Azalea realized he had probably heard her yell.

  “Princess!” he said, removing his hat. “Forgive me. I sometimes come here, early, before morning Mass. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  “Not at all,” said Azalea, as though they chatted over tea instead of shivering in a graveyard. “I was just…visiting.”

  “It helps sometimes,” he said.

  “No,” said Azalea. “It doesn’t. It’s empty.”

  Mr. Bradford considered her. He crunched through the snow to Mother’s grave, knelt in front of it, and set the holly down in front of the angel, next to Azalea. She could feel the warmth of his arm.

  “My lady?” he said. “My shop is hardly a few paces away, and there’s always an ember going. Could I make you some tea? It will warm you up. You look frozen.”

  “It’s all right,” said Azalea, trying to lurch to her feet. “I have to get back to the palace. I can’t let anyone see me out. Mourning, you know. It isn’t far.”

  “The shop is closer,” said Mr. Bradford. “And your lips are blue.”

  “Surely not.”

  “More of a purplish, then.”

  Azalea pressed her lips together into a line, both trying to warm and hide them, and glanced up at Mr. Bradford. Part of his collar was twisted up against his face, the other side down, and his dark cravat was turned askew. Azalea twisted her fingers at the knot in her shawl to keep from reaching out and straightening it.

  “Please,” said Mr. Bradford.

  And his eyes—the same color as cinnamon bread, Azalea realized—had such a look of concern that Azalea melted.

  “You know,” said Azalea as he helped her to her feet with a strong arm, smiling nearly as crooked as his cravat. “One day you’ll rescue me, and I’ll actually look nice.”

  “You always look nice,” said Mr. Bradford.

  Azalea could have kissed him.

  Mr. Bradford’s shop wasn’t far. Just in the square outside the cathedral. Fortunate, too, since Azalea’s feet had frozen into blocks of ice and she half stumbled and was half carried. Mr. Bradford helped her along as though she weighed nothing. He wrapped her up in his coat, and his warmth seeped into her skin.

  The clock shop smelled of wood and oil. Dozens of clocks—cuckoo clocks, bell clocks, clocks with rose-shaped pendulums—lined the walls and sat in a glass case at the front of the shop. It was a fine old building that could afford to have an ember lit in the stove at any hour.

  Mr. Bradford set a kettle on the stove and unlocked an understairs closet, revealing more coats hanging from pegs, while Azalea slowly unthawed on a stool by the stove.

  “Are you here often?” said Azalea, raising an eyebrow at his familiarity with the shop.

  “Yes,” Mr. Bradford admitted. “I often come to help Mr. Grunnings with the clocks.”

  “Help?”

  “I like to take them apart.”

  Ah, thought Azalea. She remembered once how the King had unshelved the entire library and sorted through the books a different way, because he had said it would work better. Azalea hazarded a guess.

  “And you like to put them back together in different ways?” she said.

  Mr. Bradford lit up.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “Some of those clockwork designs are terribly antiquated. You have to wind them two times a day, at least. Surely there is a better way to harbor energy in such a tiny mass.” Still smiling, Mr. Bradford turned to the coats, which were old-fashioned and far out of style. It looked more like a storage closet than anything. A very old, shabby rag cloak hung from one of the pegs. Mr. Bradford glanced at Azalea’s feet. “Perhaps another coat, about your feet?”

  Azalea smoothed back her skirts to look. She closed her eyes with embarrassment. She couldn’t find her boots in the dark that morning and, frustrated, had grabbed what she thought were her green dancing slippers from the basket. One was. The other was Bramble’s red slipper, knotted around her left foot. It looked terrible…and festive, in a way.

  “I—ah, can be a touch impulsive, I’m afraid,” Azalea admitted, cringing. She tucked her mismatched feet back under her skirts.

  “It’s true, then,” he said. “You really do dance at night.”

  Azalea had opened her mouth when movement outside the shop window caught her eye. A great white horse pawed at the cobblestones. A dark figure came up the stairs.

  In a rush of billowing skirts, Azalea ran for the nearest hiding place—the closet.

  Which Mr. Bradford was already in. He was shoved against the wall as she leaped into it, pressing her skirts flat and yanking the door shut behind her.

  Pitch blackness enveloped them. A broom handle clunked against someone’s head, and it wasn’t Azalea’s. A bell jangled outside the closet, signaling a customer’s arrival.

  There was an awkward moment of silence.

  “Eerck,” came Mr. Bradford’s voice.

  “Sorry,” Azalea whispered, realizing she pressed right up against him. He smelled like fresh linen, soap, and pine. She resisted the impulse to bury her nose into his cravat and inhale.

  “It is, ah, togetherness,” he stammered. “I think—”

  “Please,” Azalea whispered f
ervently. “Please. Fairweller is out there. Don’t let him see me. Please.”

  A walking stick rapped against the counter. Mr. Bradford’s hand took Azalea’s.

  “Forbear,” he said. Then, with quite a lot of racket and rustling of coats, skirts, and the maligned broom, he was out, carefully closing the door to a crack behind him. Azalea peeked through the sliver of light.

  “Minister,” said Mr. Bradford. “Good morning. The shop isn’t open yet. Mr. Grunnings will be in, but in two hours, I should think.”

  “I saw a light,” came Fairweller’s voice, completely emotionless and flat as always. “I thought to come in. I ordered a lady’s watch from Delchastire that was to be sent here, and it is already a day late. Do you have it?”

  A lady’s watch! Azalea leaned forward for a better look, catching a bit of Fairweller’s face and the counter.

  “A shipment came yesterday afternoon, I believe. What does it look like?”

  “It is silver. A ribbon clock. And—” Something flickered over Fairweller’s face. Azalea wished she were closer. “And delicate. So delicate and fine that…a person would not touch it, for fear of breaking.”

  Azalea gaped. Fairweller! Fairweller was in love! She resisted the impulse to laugh an evil laugh. Oh, the poor lady. She waited while Mr. Bradford arrived from the back room, carrying a small box. The watch must have been expensive, as Fairweller wrote a bank note for it. When he took the box from Mr. Bradford’s hands, he handled it with the utmost care, cradling it. Azalea was astounded beyond words.

  When the door jangled closed, Azalea burst from the closet.

  “Good heavens,” said Mr. Bradford. “There’s a lady in my coat closet.”

  “Did you see that?” said Azalea. “Fairweller! In love! I’ll bet that was an engagement gift. I wonder who it is. Lady Caversham? She must be mad.”

  Mr. Bradford smiled. Azalea chattered on as she helped him prepare the tea from the boiling kettle, taking over the strainer when he fumbled with it. Soon enough they sat on the stepping stools in front of the black stove, Azalea wrapped in two coats and slowly unthawing while they drank tea from the shop’s old mugs.

  “I hope he loves the lady because she is her,” said Azalea, thoughtful as she stirred her steaming tea. “And I don’t like Fairweller, but I hope she loves him, too. I hope she’s not marrying him for his money. That would be so…sad. She should marry him for his mind and soul.”

  “You’re a romantic?” said Mr. Bradford.

  “No,” said Azalea. “Not. I think that’s what everyone wants. I mean, I would want someone like—”

  She cut off abruptly, horrified that her mouth had run off before her mind had caught up with it. She had almost said “like you.”

  And then she realized she had meant it.

  She was in love!

  The tea in her mug shook as she blinked at it. In love! Azalea had always smothered the thought—what was the point? Parliament would choose her husband. And yet here he was in front of her, the perfect king—even the King would admit that—and the perfect gentleman, with his soft, cinnamon bread eyes and his gentle touch, his quiet wit, rumpled hair, crooked, bashful smile. He was so lovable.

  Blood flushed to Azalea’s cheeks as she suddenly became shy.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Bradford. Even his voice was lovable. “I should think you are right.”

  “Ha,” said Azalea, giddy. “Yes.”

  “In fact, I feel a bit of pity for your older sister,” he said.

  The ticking of the wall clocks cracked like whips.

  Azalea slowly lowered her mug.

  Oh…

  That. She had forgotten about that! He thought she was Bramble! More unpleasant thoughts bubbled to the surface of her mind. They would probably never get his watch back. And—why the devil did he feel sorry for her?

  “You pity her?” said Azalea slowly.

  “Because she is the future queen consort. I expect a person can’t find genuine attachment in that.”

  Azalea’s fingers tightened on her mug’s spoon.

  “But…what if she…found someone who…perhaps…did love her?” said Azalea.

  “Would he be a good king, though?” said Mr. Bradford. “I should think—”

  “You would be a good king,” said Azalea.

  Mr. Bradford looked unsettled. He turned his spoon in his mug.

  “I think not,” he said.

  “You would,” said Azalea, clutching her mug so tightly it burned her hands. “You’re sensible, and kind, and good with politics—”

  “Well,” he said, coloring. “That is—kingship…I—I could never want it on my head.”

  Azalea’s insides sank. Her heart, stomach, all the blood and curly insides that lay in a person’s torso fell hard to her feet. She blinked at the dregs in her mug.

  “You really wouldn’t?” she said.

  “It would…be ghastly, don’t you think?”

  “Ghastly,” Azalea echoed. Beneath her smile, she wanted to cry.

  “Your father does an excellent job,” said Mr. Bradford, seeming to sense a conversation gone awry. “He is a fine king—our best. What I mean to say is—”

  “No, no,” said Azalea in a hollow voice. “You are quite right. Any gentleman with common sense wouldn’t want to be king. The Princess Royale shouldn’t possibly expect more.”

  Azalea stood, took her mug to the glass counter, and set it next to the teakettle, placing the spoon beside it. She was finished.

  “What I mean to say is,” said Mr. Bradford, finishing his thought. “Is—it is—Miss Bramble—” He stood, leaned in, then back, caught between going forward or retreating. In the end he remained by the cheery stove, holding his mug and nervously stirring with a clinkety clinkety clink.

  “What I mean to say is,” he said, “Miss Bramble, I know you are in mourning. But I had a thought. Perhaps…to call on you? After mourning is through? If it is agreeable with you, of course. Naturally. And your father. Naturally.”

  Clinkety clinkety clink clink.

  Clinketyclinketyclinkclinkclinkclink—

  “I need to go,” said Azalea.

  Mr. Bradford’s entire countenance fell. He was far too bright a gentleman, Azalea knew, to misconstrue that for anything else.

  “Naturally,” he said.

  “They’ll miss me at breakfast,” said Azalea.

  “Nat-naturally,” Mr. Bradford stuttered. He somehow regained his solemn composure and helped Azalea with her things. “If you want. I’ll call a cab and escort you back. Take this coat—it’s freezing out.”

  “I don’t want a cab,” said Azalea, near tears. “I’ll walk back.”

  “You will not,” said Mr. Bradford, with an edge Azalea had never heard before. “You’ll freeze. You will take a cab.”

  Azalea whipped around to face him—

  And Mr. Bradford said, “Please.”

  She relented. She had to. He was only being kind, and she couldn’t blame him for that. Azalea was wrapped in an old-fashioned lady’s coat. Mr. Bradford hailed a cab, and moments later they trundled in awkward silence to the palace. Mr. Bradford, sitting across from her, focused on the riding whip in his lap. He twisted the end loop of it around his fingers, around and around, until surely it cut through his glove. Azalea miserably stared at it.

  Oh, how could she be so stupid? She always knew it would be like this, she had just stupidly hoped that—

  Azalea cried. Not the noisy sort, but the sort you could blink away if you were careful and didn’t think about how awful you felt. She turned her face to the window.

  “You’re cross with me,” Mr. Bradford finally said. He leaned his head back against the leather seat, untangled his fingers from the riding whip, and fumbled in his suitcoat for a handkerchief, which he handed to her. “I’m—I should have done it properly. I should have asked your father first, or had my aunt invite you to tea—”

  “It’s not that,” said Azalea. “It’s nothing to do with y
ou. It’s just—circumstances.”

  Mr. Bradford blinked several times.

  “Circumstances,” he said. The edge to his voice was still there. “Naturally. Of course it is circumstances. I suppose you could have any fellow you wanted, couldn’t you.” He twisted the riding-whip loop around his fingers again, hard. “Well, I couldn’t let you freeze to death. Tell me, these circumstances, Miss Bramble. Do they have to do with a Mr. Keeper?”

  A stab of fear shot through Azalea. She looked up sharply, blood draining from her face. Now Mr. Bradford turned to the window, avoiding her eyes.

  “I heard you outside the graveyard,” he said. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have listened. Is he one of the gentlemen from your Royal Business?” Mr. Bradford kept his eyes on the passing town houses and brick shops.

  Azalea grimaced. Mr. Bradford took it as a no.

  “A gentleman, though?”

  Azalea could only dry swallow. Mr. Bradford turned to her. Concern was etched in his face.

  “Is it to do…with magic?”

  Azalea choked. The carriage jolted to a stop just outside the palace gates, and she flung herself to the door without waiting for Mr. Bradford to help her out.

  “I’m late,” she said. “Thank you for the tea. Good-bye.”

  Mr. Bradford leaped from the carriage after her. “Wait—Miss Bramble—”

  “Don’t call me that!” said Azalea.

  Something, perhaps hurt, flickered through Mr. Bradford’s soft eyes.

  “Princess Bramble,” he said.

  “I’m Princess Azalea,” said Azalea. “Azalea, for heaven’s sake. It was Bramble’s handkerchief I gave you at the ball. I…meant to tell you. I’m sorry.”

  Mr. Bradford’s dark eyebrows knit, then rose. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

  Azalea did not stay to see any more. She ran through the gate and through the gardens, skirts billowing and lungs burning. She slammed against the brick of the palace, sobbing, trying to erase the image of Mr. Bradford’s hurt expression from her mind.