“Excellent. We’ll speak together.” The King opened the cabinet behind his desk and pulled out two glasses with a small decanter of brandy. He poured a little into each and handed one to Azalea. “We don’t talk much, do we?”
Azalea eyed her glass, wary. What did the King want to talk about? Surely good things were not preambled with “We need to speak.”
“Tell me, Azalea,” said the King. “What did you all think about Lord Haftenravenscher?”
The King did not drink his brandy. He looked intently at Azalea.
“Lord Teddie?”
“Yes.”
Azalea smiled, considering Lord Teddie’s parlor tricks and boundless good humor.
“He’s a decent, happy sort,” she said. “The younger girls were mad after him. Even Delphinium liked him. But I think he only had eyes for Bramble.”
“Oh, you think so?” said the King.
Azalea’s smile faded. She rested her glass in her lap. “Is he hoping to give the riddle another go? Is that what this is about?”
“No, no,” said the King. “Nothing like that.”
Azalea thought of the jam cake hitting the floor that morning, and sighed. She couldn’t forget the spark in Lord Teddie’s hazel eyes when he looked at Bramble. Surely he was fond of her, but he had done everything all wrong. Azalea almost wondered if he really did only think them a jolly sport.
“That’s good, then,” she said. “I don’t think Bramble could stand to be humiliated again.”
“Humiliated?”
“It was just this morning?” said Azalea, exasperated.
“Oh,” said the King. “Yes, I remember.” He sat down on his stiff, high-backed chair.
Azalea sipped her brandy, a tiny sip, only enough to cover her tongue with the burning taste of wood and sour boots. She thought again of Lord Teddie’s hopeful smile when he looked at Bramble, and sympathy sprang inside her.
“Perhaps he could come to our Yuletide ball,” she said. “If he truly is fond of Bramble, he should prove he’s in earnest. Not this riddle nonsense. Something to show we’re not just sport to him.”
A frown started to line the King’s face.
“Yuletide ball?” he said.
“Oh, yes,” said Azalea, straightening in her chair. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I think—now that mourning is over, we should have a Yuletide. Not for me, naturally. It’s never mattered for me. You know that. But for Bramble and Clover, they’re both over fifteen now, and they should meet gentlemen. Real gentlemen and not the riddle nonsense. If they don’t, they’ll just fall in love with—anyone. I thought perhaps Clover could host it?”
The King’s frown, above his neatly sorted paperwork and blotters, was now fully pronounced. Azalea hurried on.
“Everyone’s been so excited for mourning to end,” said Azalea. “It doesn’t have to be a large ball, just a small one. Please.”
Azalea waited. The King stood, and paced in front of his desk, distracted. When he finally spoke, he did not meet her eyes.
“Azalea,” he said. “About mourning.”
Azalea lowered her brandy glass.
“You and your sisters have managed all of mourning quite well,” said the King. “I’m pleased with you all. But mourning, it is a symbol. A way of being. It…I—I don’t believe we are ready to lift mourning.”
This took a moment to sink into Azalea’s mind.
“Oh,” she said slowly.
“It’s rather not even mourning for you all. You still have dancing, and the slippers,” said the King.
“Oh,” said Azalea.
“And the gardens, too.”
Azalea stared at the brandy glass, shifting it from hand to hand, watching the reddish yellow drink swirl.
“I don’t know what I’m going to tell them,” she mumbled. “They’ve been so excited for the windows, and dresses and things.”
The King was quiet. “Azalea,” he said. “I know mourning means very little to you and your sisters, but it means a great deal to me. A very great deal.”
Azalea traced a brocade flower on the arm of the chair. She should have expected this. Everything else was going wrong; it was too much to hope that this wouldn’t. Only three more nights until Christmas. The world felt in a blur. She had to think of some way to ruin Keeper before then. The brandy in her glass shook. What was stronger than a blood oath?
The warm flickery bit. Oh yes, that was right. Ha. Mother had always spoken of it. Azalea wasn’t sure if she really ever had felt it. If it truly was stronger than the other sorts of magic, surely it could help somehow. Azalea raised her head to the King, who brusquely put the brandy back in the cabinet, and her heart fell. Even his movements were cold.
“I wish you were someone I could talk to,” she said quietly. “I could always talk to Mother.”
“I am not your mother.” The King’s tone was brusque as he locked the cabinet.
That was true enough. Azalea set her brandy on the King’s desk. She felt slumped, weary, and even her gait lagged. Her gracelessness must have shown, for when she reached the door, the King said, “Azalea.” His eyebrows were furrowed. “Is something wrong?”
In the soft lamplight the King looked so deeply concerned that, for a moment, Azalea almost felt that she could talk to him. She paused.
“Sir,” she said. “When we dance at ni—”
Fwoosh.
A mass of prickles swept over her, hit her so hard it pummeled the breath from her. Azalea gasped. Her blood rushed in waves. It bristled in frigid pinpricks all over and stole her voice.
Dizzy weakness flooded her head. Speckled dots filled her vision and turned to blotches.
“Azalea—” The King’s voice sounded distant.
Everything fell black.
When Azalea came to, her head throbbed and she had to blink for her vision to clear. She lay on the sofa by the piano, and stared up at the underside of the mezzanine. The King knelt next to her. His eyebrows were furrowed.
Another face, equally concerned, solemn, and gentle stood over her. It had cinnamon-bread eyes.
“Oh,” Azalea moaned, reliving her last memory. “I didn’t faint?”
“You did,” said the King.
Azalea groaned.
“Mr. Pudding is fetching a bit of bread. You’ve been skipping too many meals of late; it’s very out of order, young lady.” The King pulled a blanket close to her chin, and the smell of fresh linen and pine encased her. She realized the blanket was actually Mr. Bradford’s dark, thick-weaved coat.
Humiliation tangled in her stomach, and Azalea tried to sit up. The King pushed her back down with a firm hand.
“Don’t get up, young lady.”
“Mr. Bradford,” said Azalea. “What are you doing here?”
“Captain Bradford wished to try his hand at the riddle,” said the King. “I told him no, of course. It is the holiday, after all.”
“Some other time, naturally,” Mr. Bradford said.
Hearing his mellow voice sent ripples through Azalea’s chest. Mr. Bradford’s face was etched with worry.
“You fell just before I came in,” he said. “I’ll leave straightaway, as soon as you have a little more color.”
Azalea pressed her cheek into the brocade of the sofa arm and wanted to curl into a ball. Betrayal, delight, and despair all passed in turn at seeing Mr. Bradford’s warm, solemn eyes. She didn’t know why he even wanted to see her, but she did know he hadn’t close family to spend Christmas with. Sympathy took over.
“Why not?” she said to the King, as he adjusted the coat at her feet. “Why can’t he stay? He lent me his coat—and—his watch—and…please. He hasn’t any family to stay with for Christmas.”
Possibly the King thought she was rambling. He folded up the collar of the coat so it covered her chin.
“Well, Captain,” he said finally. “It seems Princess Azalea should have you as our Christmas guest. Are you still willing?”
Mr. Bra
dford bowed.
“Hmm,” said the King. “You are lucky we are both in a generous humor today.”
Azalea slept through dinner on the hard library sofa, and awoke to eleven eager sisters flocking about her, pushing and poking her awake. They pulled her up to the room while shoving pieces of dinner roll at her mouth. Azalea felt groggy, but better. Slippers were tied, hair brushed and pinned in preparation for dancing that night. In spite of Azalea staring listlessly at her slippers, the girls were a chatter of excitement.
“You’ll never guess who’s here, Az,” said Bramble as Clover brushed through Azalea’s auburn tresses.
“Mr. Bradford.”
Bramble dropped the pins she held.
“He’s come to try the riddle,” said Azalea, getting it over with. “I asked the King to let him; he hasn’t any family to go to for Christmas. I couldn’t turn him out.”
“You invited him to stay?” Bramble’s eyes narrowed, and her grin became terribly devious, like a fox among chickens. “For Christmas? Well, well, we-ee-elll!”
Azalea braced herself for the Merciless Teasing.
“Mmm,” said Delphinium as the girls took poufs around Azalea. “Sturdy and tall. Such a long nose. But those eyes—pow!”
“Aye, you’ll have childlets with brown eyes. The brown usually wins out, you know.”
“Oh, honestly!” said Azalea.
A soft knock sounded on the door, interrupting them. It wasn’t the pointed knock of Mrs. Graybe or the King’s firm, hard knock. Azalea couldn’t place it. Goldenrod, nearest the door, opened it a crack and peered out.
“No one’s there,” she said. She pulled the door open wide, letting in gust of air, to show the girls.
Tiny shivers crawled up Azalea’s arms.
“I feel so odd,” said Jessamine. Her glass-spun voice resonated with all of them. Azalea stood.
“Let’s get this over with,” she said.
The unsettling feeling followed them through the magic passage and into the silver forest. They huddled together, jittery. Azalea clutched at the lamp. It shook as she led them through the silver, and shook harder when Keeper bowed them in. His eyes met Azalea’s before he backed away into the mist, and Azalea had to set the lamp down before she dropped it.
Even though they had missed the last two days, no one felt much like dancing. Azalea held Jessamine, who was still frightened, on her lap. Bramble pushed a smile or two, but remained on one of the pavilion sofas, pensive. Delphinium didn’t want to bother teaching the younger girls, and Eve wasn’t bossy enough to do it, either. The twins didn’t know enough to teach. Clover was left to teach Hollyhock, Ivy, and Kale while everyone looked on.
“Try it again,” she said in her honey-sweet voice as they gave awkward curtsys. “Mother—Mother used to say, it takes a thousand steps to make the perfect curtsy.”
Kale’s tiny eyebrows knit.
“Mother?” she said.
“Oh, come now, Kabbage,” said Bramble, a length away. “You remember Mother.”
Kale’s dark blue eyes remained blank.
“She’s dead,” Jessamine whispered.
Azalea adjusted Jessamine on her lap so she could see her tiny white face. Funny, how four-year-old Jessamine could seem so old sometimes. Did she remember Mother, who had drawn her fingers through Jessamine’s black curls and let her feel the baby kick? How could one forget something like that?
Clover pushed a strand of dark blond hair from Kale’s eyes.
“She’s just in heaven,” she said, in a honey voice.
“Just in heafen!” Kale squeaked.
Azalea suddenly felt stifled, as though she had been overlaced in a stuffy room. She nudged the girls to go. Keeper’s dark form appeared through the mist of the entrance, and instinctively, Azalea stood, upsetting Jessamine on her lap. She ran to the front of the girls, putting herself between them and Keeper, who strode in silky strides to the middle of the dance floor.
“Is everything all right?” he said in his chocolate voice. “Only you seem in poor spirits tonight.”
The girls, smiling shyly, assured him that everything was all right. Azalea said nothing. Her eyes locked with his in an intense glare. So intense the room pulsed with her heartbeat. Keeper broke it first.
“I thought to give you all a treat,” he said, nodding to the girls. A roguish strand hung in his eyes. “A waltz. None of you have seen a closed dance for nearly a year. Miss Azalea?”
He held his outstretched gloved hand to her. Azalea stared at it. It seemed to grow bigger in her vision. His words from the dark pavilion reverberated in her mind. Never to refuse me another dance again…
After a lengthy pause, Azalea took his hand.
“Oh, goodies,” said Delphinium, perking up along with the younger girls. Clover and Bramble, on the other hand, had confusion on their faces.
“But we haven’t been properly introduced,” said Clover, on her feet. “Mr. Keeper—”
“No,” said Azalea, putting a halt to it. “It’s all right. You’ve got to see the gentleman’s part sometime.”
Keeper brought Azalea into dance position in the middle of the floor. He closed his eyes and inhaled, and his long fingers traced up and down the edge of her shoulder blade, just above her corset. Azalea held as still as she possibly could, trying not to breathe.
“You have such excellent form,” he whispered. “If only you would stop shaking.”
The music began; an Ungolian waltz. Keeper guided her smoothly in a traveling circle around the dance floor, into a hesitation step, an under-arm turn, and gently brought her back into dance position. Everything he did was exaggeratedly gentle. Somehow this made it worse. They brushed past the seated girls, Azalea’s skirts sweeping over their faces. They giggled.
“Ah, you follow like an angel.” Keeper’s voice was a murmur. “You are the best I have ever danced with, and I have danced with many. I knew you would be the best. From the first time I saw you, gliding across the marble—”
Azalea misstepped. Keeper tenderly brought her into the rhythm again.
“You glide,” he murmured. “Just as your mother.”
Azalea stumbled, and this time it took several beats to ease into the flow of the music again. Azalea’s hand shook in Keeper’s flawless grip.
“Please, Keeper,” said Azalea as the silvers whirled around her. “Please. I need more time.”
“You have had a disgustingly plentiful amount of time, my lady,” he said. He swept her about the girls again, and Azalea caught a flash of black—their dresses—as she spun.
“More time was not a part of the agreement. I suggest you look harder.”
“Please—Mr. Keeper. The King is extending mourning. If I had more time—”
“You are a flurry of clever words, my lady,” said Keeper. “Too many words, I think. Your mother sports that same malady. Or, she did.”
Azalea tried to kick Keeper, but her knees couldn’t support her. Keeper caught her with lightning rapidity. With a snap of his long-gloved fingers, the music stopped.
“Enough,” he said, once again obnoxiously gentle. “I am sure your sisters want you back now. Do get some rest. I should very much like the next dance I have with you to be flawless.”
CHAPTER 23
Azalea slept poorly that night, awaking from dozes with nightmarish jolts. Even so, she had the presence of mind that morning to dress well, mending a torn bit of her favorite dress, pinning her hair to perfection, and smoothing herself in front of the mirror. Mr. Bradford had seen her at her worst; she wouldn’t let that happen again.
She arrived at the nook late, the girls halfway through their porridge, and everyone looked up as she quietly folded the doors behind her.
“Well,” said Bramble. “Don’t you look nice!”
A chorus of giggles rippled down the table. Delphinium whispered something to Eve, who in turn whispered it to the twins. The twins whispered something back. They scrunched their noses, grinning at Azalea. Mr. B
radford, on the other hand, just stared at her in a stunned sort of way, his spoonful of porridge halfway to his mouth.
“Good morning,” said Azalea.
Mr. Bradford started.
“Good morning,” he said, and he stood quickly, something he hadn’t done when she arrived. Now late, the gesture made Delphinium and Eve giggle even harder. Azalea flushed.
“Oh, do sit by me,” said Delphinium. The chair next to her was the empty seat by Mr. Bradford.
Azalea cast Delphinium a withering look and declined, sitting next to a porridge-covered Lily. Delphinium, Eve, the twins, and Hollyhock burst into another round of giggles.
“That will do.” The King, at the head of the table, looked up from a letter stamped with a green seal. His eyebrows knit when he saw her. “Azalea, you should be in bed.”
“I’m doing better,” said Azalea. “Really.”
The girls broke into another chorus of giggles.
“Much, much, much better,” said Bramble.
Azalea closed her eyes, wishing for death.
“Now, Lord Bradford,” said Flora, bringing her bowl to sit next to him. Goldenrod, on the other side, brought out a folded piece of paper. “We’ve made up a whole schedule for you—”
“There’s no lessons today, you know—”
“It’s Christmas Eve eve!”
“Holiday!”
“Let’s see—nine o’clock, we’ll show you the tree, and you can help us put the ornaments on the top branches. We need someone tall for that.”
“And then at ten, we’ll play a bit of spillikins—”
“And then we’ll show you the great pine in the gardens—”
“If it stops snowing, of course.”
Azalea stared at her porridge, nudging the mushy grains with her spoon before she decided she wasn’t hungry. She pushed her bowl to Ivy’s spot and slipped out the folding doors, the last scene meeting her eyes being all the girls, flanking Mr. Bradford, chattering and waving spoons, Kale tugging on his suitcoat and trying to get a spoonful of porridge in his mouth, Ivy sneaking a bit of porridge from his bowl, Lily climbing on him and grabbing his nose, and the King staring at the green-seal letter, deep in thought.
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