Entwined

by Heather Dixon

  Keeper stood framed by the entrance of the pavilion, his face lined. Behind him, in the middle of the dance floor, stood a pure white maypole, twisted like a marshmallow candy stick. Twelve colored ribbons dangled from it, bright and sleek. It could have been Azalea’s imagination, but Keeper looked paler, and a touch older than he had that morning.

  “Not a word to Mr. Keeper,” said Azalea quietly. “We know how it feels to be trapped.”

  The girls gave the palace a full combing for the sugar teeth the next day. Rain pattered against the draped windows as they searched in the silver cabinet, turning up mismatched forks and spoons and an old shriveled potato. They sorted through the cabinets and even picked the lock to Mother’s room. All her powder boxes, dresses, and jewelry had been locked tightly away, her nightgown lay on her bed, and everything felt strange and muffled. The girls left the room, trying to swallow the choking emotion without smelling the white-cake and baby-ointment scent.

  They searched through the portrait gallery, among the spindly sofas and tables, while the younger ones sat on the long red rug and ate bread and jam.

  “What about this?” said Eve, at the end of the hall. She peered through a glass case on a pedestal, which held Harold the First’s silver sword. The same one the King had taken with him to war. He took it to parliament meetings as well, and when the occasion called for it, speeches. It was ceremonial.

  Azalea, for the first time, looked at it closely through the glass. More of a rapier than a real sword, the sort gentlemen two hundred years ago would duel with, it was old, dented, unpolished, and the mottled dark gray masked curly carved ornamentation along the side. Azalea peered closer and saw the thin crack up the side. Her brow creased, thinking of the sickening clang it had made when she’d fallen against it at the port.

  “It can’t be that,” said Bramble. “That’s not magic.”

  “Wait,” said Azalea. “It was broken earlier this year. And it’s old enough. We might as well see.”

  With Bramble’s help, Azalea lifted the case and set it gently on the ground. She pushed her sleeve back.

  “Don’t touch it,” said Eve when Azalea reached for it. “Only the King can use the sword. It’s…legend, or something. I read it.”

  “Lighten up, Primmy,” said Bramble.

  The girls held their breath. Azalea slowly grasped the handle beneath the swirls.

  She screamed.

  The girls panicked and screamed, air-curdling screams.

  “Ha—ha ha.” Azalea laughed and pulled her hand away. “Just kidding.”

  The girls glared at her. Azalea thought that rather unfair. If Bramble had done the same thing, they all would have thought it a riot. She sighed.

  “It’s just an old sword,” she said, replacing the glass. “Even if it was magic, we couldn’t get rid of it. It’s governmental property.”

  The girls continued their search of the palace, progressing slower and slower as the day wore on, until they ended with a halfhearted search in the leather-and-wood-smelling library. The King was gone on R.B., and the younger girls played with the ladders underneath the iron mezzanine, rolling along the bookcase walls and hitting the end with a thump.

  A commotion of cries and gasps brought Azalea to the King’s carved wood desk, the other girls following after. Eve gaped over the morning’s edition of the Herald, which Delphinium gripped tightly in her hands. Their eyes were wide.

  “Is it Lady Aubrey’s column again?” said Azalea, a hint of a smile crossing her lips.

  “Just look at this!” Delphinium cried. She had a shrill, cutting voice, and it rang across the walls of books. Azalea’s smile faded. She took the paper from Delphinium, open to the announcements section, and skimmed over the engagements and births and weddings. There, between two engagement posts, lay a large advertisement with an ink tick next to it. Azalea read.

  ROYAL BUSINESS; STRICTLY

  FOR THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO MEETS THE CRITERIA—

  A RIDDLE TO SOLVE:

  WHERE THE TWELVE PRINCESSES OF EATHESBURY

  DANCE AT NIGHT

  AS WELL AS LIMITED ACQUAINTANCE

  WITH THE PRINCESS ROYALE

  THREE DAYS’ STAY IN THE ROYAL PALACE

  WILL BE GRANTED.

  THE FOOD AND BOARD WILL BE FREE.

  INQUIRIES TO BE SENT TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS

  HAROLD WENTWORTH THE ELEVENTH OF EATHESBURY

  “What?” Azalea cried.

  Bramble took the paper from Azalea’s hands and read it herself. Confusion, then anger, passed over her. The younger girls whined to see what the fuss was.

  “Oh, we shall see about this!” said Bramble, brandishing the paper. She marched out of the library, the girls running after. As if on cue, the entrance hall door opened, and the King stepped through. He was dripping wet from the rain. He hardly had his umbrella closed before the girls flanked him.

  “What,” said Bramble, brandishing the paper in his face, “what, sir, is this?”

  The King frowned, looking mildly surprised and chagrined.

  “Oh,” he said. “So you have found it.”

  “Of course we found it!” said Delphinium. They followed him, a swarm of bees, as he methodically removed his soaking overcoat and hat. “A ‘riddle to solve’? Balderdash!”

  “How could you?”

  “Now the whole country knows we dance at night!”

  “If you are willing to tell me where you go,” said the King crisply, “I will be happy to rescind the advertisement. As such, however, perhaps you will think twice before you make an oath like that again.”

  “But sir,” said Eve. “Don’t you already know where we go? Why turn it into R.B.?”

  The King sighed and set his soaking umbrella against the hound umbrella stand.

  “Because, Miss Evening Primrose,” said the King, “even I will admit we must get certain things accomplished in mourning.”

  …acquaintance with the Princess Royale…

  Azalea leaned against the heavy library door, hand on her stomach, trying to swallow a sick feeling. A Yuletide parlor game came to mind, one in which the gentlemen would step on slips of paper. They danced the gorlitza with whichever lady’s name was written upon it. This was worse, though; this was marriage arranging, not just a game.

  Other memories came, too; the King handing Azalea the invitation and saying, The question is, how to become acquainted with gentlemen while in mourning. Years ago, when Azalea had discovered that the crown princess of Delchastire was betrothed to a prince nearly forty years her senior, Azalea had fussed with the article so much it had turned her fingers black with ink.

  Mother brushed through Azalea’s hair that night, and Azalea didn’t have to say anything; Mother knew.

  “Oh, goosey,” she had said. “Don’t worry so. The King would never set you with someone you weren’t fond of.”

  “You’re on a king hunt!” said Bramble, bringing Azalea back to the present. The girls cornered the King against the umbrella stand, where he firmly stood his ground.

  “No, no, no,” said the King, looking annoyed. “That isn’t it at all. There is method in it. You will see.”

  “Mother wouldn’t have done this!” said Bramble.

  “She wouldn’t have used Azalea as bait!” said Delphinium.

  “Enough, enough!” said the King. “That is enough. You shall have to come to the reckoning that it is I who you have, and not your mother, and so it is. Nothing can help that. Despise me for it, as I know you all do, but when the guests arrive, we shall all be agreeable, and we shall all eat dinner together as though we are a very, very happy family! Which we are! Is that clear?”

  The King’s voice ended short of a yell, silencing them.

  “Excellent,” he said. He rubbed his bandaged hand over his forehead. “I look forward to having meals with you all again.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Three days later, just as lessons finished up and the girls stacked books and brushed off slates
in the nook, the King arrived at the glass folding doors. A gentleman was with him, meticulously dressed in a deep blue suit with an extremely ruffled cravat.

  “Ladies,” said the King, in his stiff, formal way. “This is Mr. Hyette. He’s a distant relative of ours. And our first guest.”

  The girls broke into hushed whispers. Mr. Hyette’s eyes took in the chalk-smudged tablecloth, the wilted rosebushes, and dozing Tutor Rhamsden. His eyes grimaced, if his face did not. He eased into a smile and a bow.

  “Why, these are the little princesses I’ve heard so much about,” he said, straightening. “And—ah, this is the future queen.” He stepped forward and took Clover’s hand.

  Azalea flushed. The younger girls giggled. Clover blushed furiously and tried to slip her hand from his.

  “N-n-no—no—not I—”

  The King stepped between the gentleman and Clover, frowning and breaking their hands apart. “Mr. Hyette, indeed! This is the third eldest. She is not even of age yet!”

  The younger girls giggled madly. Eve and Delphinium snorted into their grammarians. Mr. Hyette flashed a very white, straight smile.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “There are so many. Will you introduce me?”

  Introductions were made, sans Lily, who napped in the nursery. When the King finished the introduction with Azalea, Mr. Hyette’s eyes caught her, and his face fell.

  Azalea decided that these next few days were going to be very lonely ones for Mr. Hyette.

  “You are all to entertain Mr. Hyette this afternoon,” said the King. “In the gardens.”

  Slates clattered onto the floor.

  Five minutes later, the girls stood at the open kitchen door, blinking in the brilliant overcast light. The smell of lilacs, roses, sweet peas, and honeysuckle mixed with the scent of crisp late summer leaves. None of them had been in the gardens for nine months, and the bright saturated greens, reds, and violets overwhelmed them. It reminded Azalea of Mother, beautiful and bright, thick with scents and excitement. And the King—he was like the palace behind them, all straights and grays, stiff and symmetrical and orderly.

  “It’s really allowed?” said Flora, her eyes alight at the colors.

  “Allowed allowed?” said Goldenrod.

  “For the last time,” said the King, pushing them gently out the kitchen door and onto the path. “It is Royal Business! Go on. Get some color in your cheeks.”

  The younger girls screeched and ran off into the bushes. Bramble, Clover, and the other girls rushed after and gathered them back, reminding them of Section Five—Rules in the Gardens. Vast and sprawling, the gardens were so big it took nearly an hour to walk all the way around them, and young ones could get lost if they wandered off the brick paths. Azalea made to follow after them, through the trellised walkway, but a strong hand took her and held her back. Mr. Hyette.

  “I say,” he said, smiling his very white smile and pulling her a touch closer. “You don’t look half bad in the sunlight. It brings out a perky red in your hair.”

  “Oh, honestly,” said Azalea, trying to tug her hand away gently. “Mr. Hyette, please.”

  “You don’t find me handsome?”

  “No.”

  Mr. Hyette’s smile faded.

  “Now see here,” he said. “You certainly have no right to be picky. Everyone knows the point of this silly riddle is to find the future King.”

  “Well—so what?” said Azalea. She tried pulling her hand free again.

  “So your father had to advertise for suitors. And after meeting your rambunctious family, I can see why. Your pretty sister is the only one worth my time. However, if you are nice to me these next few days, perhaps I’ll—”

  “Mr. Hyette.”

  Mr. Hyette released Azalea as though he had been shot. The King still stood in the kitchen doorway, giving Mr. Hyette a cold, icy look. Azalea gratefully ran to him.

  “Mr. Hyette, go away,” said the King. “Azalea—a word.”

  Mr. Hyette, petulant, stormed down the path. The King made to say something, and for the first time in Azalea’s life, he looked uncomfortable. He looked as though his insides had curled into an overspun thread, twisting on itself.

  “Azalea,” he said finally, “as this charade progresses, you will tell me if you are…fond…of any of the gentlemen?”

  Azalea stared at him, a hot blush rising to her cheeks.

  “Nat—naturally,” she stammered.

  The King’s internal thread visibly untwisted.

  “Just so,” he said.

  Azalea ran through the gardens, her black skirts billowing in the breeze of honeysuckle and lilac. She had forgotten how fresh and alive the gardens felt, with bright flowers bursting all over it like fireworks. Though a bit unkempt, with ivy growing over the path and moss clinging to the marble statues, it towered above her in a fine display of overgrown topiaries, thick trees, and flowered vines curling about the trellises. Shadows dappled her as she ran.

  This riddle was an enigma, Azalea decided. And so was the King. She had thought, these past few days, that this R.B. was only a way to attract possible future kings. Like a ball, but allowed in mourning. Now, Azalea wondered, had the King contrived the game for her? Why would he be anxious if she was fond of a gentleman, before parliament decided?

  And the gardens. Azalea hadn’t expected that to come from this riddle. Had he known how much they missed it? And eating dinner with him. That was decidedly odd. He never seemed to care about it before.

  Azalea found the girls in the fountained section of the gardens, crowded with white statues and ponds rimmed with marble. Water burbled and gushed, and a small breeze blew a curtain of mist about, making bits of rainbows. The younger girls had taken off their boots and stockings—strictly not allowed, as the gardens were public—and dipped their toes in the mossy pools.

  Sitting on the edge of a marble fountain, Azalea told them about what the King had said. A thoughtful silence followed, only the burbling water breaking it.

  “You know,” said Eve, trying to pin a freshly picked flower into her dark hair, “I sometimes wonder if the King is, you know, clever. Not like us, of course. But clever in a quieter sort of way.”

  Bramble dipped her fingers into a standing pool, sending ripples and bobbing the lilies. She looked more serious than Azalea had ever seen her.

  “If it’s true,” she said slowly, “then we all have more of a hand in our future gentlemen than I thought.”

  “It’s me that has the arranged marriage, remember?” Azalea folded her arms. “The rest of you get your choice.”

  Bramble looked up from the pool and smiled, but it hadn’t any wryness to it.

  “No, Az,” she said. “I don’t think we do.”

  She stood, dried her hand on her skirts, and kept the unhappy smile still on her face. She dipped a deep, graceful Schleswig curtsy to Clover.

  “Clover,” she said, “is so beautiful. She is the prettiest of all. You saw how Mr. Hyette was with her. He would have been delighted to marry her.”

  Clover fumbled with the flower she pinned in Kale’s hair.

  “Horrors,” she said, trying to smile.

  “Once she comes of age in December,” said Bramble, “she’ll be snatched right up by the first gentleman who sees her. Like a golden nightingale. And she’s so blasted sweet. She’s far too sweet to object. She would just go along with it.”

  Clover blushed furiously. “N-no,” she stammered. “It won’t—be like—like that.”

  “And me,” said Bramble, and even her pushed smile faded. “Well…me. I’ve got too little dowry and too much mouth. And no gentleman likes that. The King will be grateful to have anyone take me.”

  The fountains burbled, the trickling masking the girls’ silence. Azalea touched her stomach, thinking of the terrible sick feeling that overwhelmed her every time she thought of her future gentleman. Now, she realized, Clover and Bramble had it, too. They looked miserable.

  Azalea stood.

 
“There’s a dance Mother once taught us,” she said, walking to the standing pool. Among the lily pads stood twelve octagonal stepping stones, in a circle. The water lapped just above them. “Here, on the stones. Let’s try it.”

  Though not a soul was about, the older girls were slightly worried that someone might wander by and see their ankles. Still, with a little coaxing, everyone’s shoes and stockings lay in a jumbled pile, and Azalea walked about the rim of the pool, helping everyone to their granite stones. They nudged the lily pads off with their toes.

  Azalea took her stone, slimy and skiffed with water, and the girls giggled as the water lapped at their toes. The point of this dance was balance: jumping from stone to stone without falling into the water.

  “You always manage it,” said Bramble, curling her toes on the slick stone. “Turning things right.”

  “That’s what sisters do,” said Azalea. “We watch out for each other. Don’t we? The King would never arrange your marriage—and I would never let him. I promise.”

  Bramble’s thin lips curved in a smile to the water at her feet.

  Azalea counted off; two emphasis beats in six, everyone made ready to step off—when the hydrangea bushes a length away rustled and bobbed. The girls nearly slipped off their stones.

  “Someone’s there,” whispered Jessamine as they all caught themselves.

  Azalea followed her bright blue eyes into the bushes.

  “Ah-ha!”

  The girls shrieked. Azalea fought for balance on her stone, her hem dipping into the pond. A splash sounded behind her, followed by another splash, and Azalea twisted around, finding Kale and Eve sitting in the water, coughing and sputtering and soaking wet. Eve’s spectacles were askew. Kale had a lily pad on her head.

  Laughter sounded from the bushes. Mr. Hyette emerged, a walking stick tucked underneath his arm, laughing heartily. He clapped his hands.

  “Well done, my ladies,” he said. “Well done. Caught you dancing in public, and in mourning. Oh, dear, won’t the King be pleased I’ve put a stop to it.”