Entwined

by Heather Dixon Wallwork

  A strange sensation of cold, tingly prickles passed through Azalea. She cringed, feeling the wash and needles of it to her fingertips, and looked at the other girls. Eve was shaking her hand, as though trying to shake off the feeling. Hollyhock wiped her hands on her skirts. Bramble cast a glance at Azalea, one thin eyebrow arched. They had obviously felt it, too.

  “We…can’t tell you,” said Flora, to the floor.

  “We promised we wouldn’t.” Goldenrod shrank against the rosebush ledge, looking very much like she wanted to disappear.

  “With ’Zalea’s silver handkerchief,” said Hollyhock.

  The King’s entire countenance changed, from maligned to staggered. He turned to Hollyhock, his eyebrows furrowed, his eyes searching.

  “You made an oath?” he said. “On silver?”

  Hollyhock flushed so much it hid her freckles.

  “We promised t’ not tell the King,” she mumbled.

  The King stepped back, pressing his hands against the table ledge behind him. If it hurt his bandaged hand, he did not show it. Instead he fixed Azalea with an icy blue stare. Azalea could not read it.

  “What you have done,” he said, “is called Swearing on Silver. It is a very serious oath. Where did you learn such a thing?”

  Azalea clutched the handkerchief in her palm, so tightly it dug Mother’s initials into her hand.

  Swearing on Silver.

  So Mother had made her Swear on Silver. Azalea didn’t know what it meant, but it couldn’t be bad, not if Mother had done it. Azalea bit her lip, closing her eyes against the frigid gaze. She could never tell the King about Mother, how cold her hands were and how she had made her promise.

  “Very well,” said the King, when Azalea kept her eyes closed. “Very well.” He took the basket of slippers from the table.

  “These will be flung into the stove—”

  “Oh!” cried Delphinium, followed by a thump-thumphf.

  “—and you are all to spend the rest of the day in your room, considering the implications of mourning,” said the King, stepping over Delphinium on the floor. “At once. You may not take the bread with you.”

  CHAPTER 12

  That night, the girls put a chair up against the door and slipped through the billowing silver passage, down the stairs, through the forest, and to the pavilion in their stiff, hard boots. Their heels made a clickety click click the entire way. Mr. Keeper met them at the entrance, bowing as usual. His eyebrow twitched at their shoes, and his dark eyes met Azalea’s. They took in her set jaw, her blazing eyes, her starkly straight posture, and he backed away, bowing again before leaving.

  The dance began with an esperaldo, and Azalea, cheering up a mite, taught the girls the hard stomp-click-stomps of the rhythm, showing them how to scuff their soles with the beat, and how to make the sound of their shoes match the accents of the music.

  After a while, with the continued chafing, and the rough twists and turns of the boots, the girls started to sit out dances. By the end of the night, they limped. They limped back through the silver forest, up the winding staircase, through the passage to their room. Azalea poured a steaming kettle of water into basins for the girls, and they soaked their red, chafed feet, yawning.

  “We did it,” said Delphinium, raising her chin. “The King thought he could stop us from dancing, but he didn’t.”

  “Oh, aye,” said Bramble. She looked at everyone’s red feet, and winced. “We showed him.”

  The next morning, the younger girls complained as they put on their boots, and the older girls clenched their jaws and bit their tongues. Azalea, who had danced harder than anyone else out of sheer stubbornness, felt her right foot throb with each step. Fortunately they did not see the King all day, for he was out on R.B., dismissing the regiments, and therefore was not there to reprimand them on their self-inflicted injuries.

  That night, after fish stew and biscuits in their room, the girls click-clicked down to the pavilion, slower this time. No one felt like dancing, but they did anyway. Their movements were ungainly and unbalanced. By the third dance, the younger girls whined and sat on the sofas, eating cream buns. Azalea tried to coax them into a simple reel, but they wouldn’t budge.

  So she danced by herself. The hard soles gave her speed when she spun, and the girls cheered for her. It ended badly; she overbalanced and twisted her ankle. The girls flocked to her side in an instant, helping her up while Azalea insisted she was fine. Standing with careful balance, her cheeks warmed as she turned to the entrance and realized Mr. Keeper had seen her fall. His dark eyes drank her in, but he pulled back, as she was flanked with so many sisters. Azalea felt the strange thrill of fear and delight course through her.

  “Perhaps my ladies ought to retire for the night,” he said in his chocolate-smooth voice, as the girls tagged after Azalea, who, with Bramble’s help, limped past the entrance.

  “Thank you, Mr. Keeper,” said Azalea, sure her face was crimson. She could feel the sticky slickness of blood between her toes. “I don’t know how we’ll ever repay you for letting us dance here.”

  The faintest of smiles traced Mr. Keeper’s lips.

  “I’m sure I can think of something,” he said.

  Everyone put up a fuss the next morning about wearing boots. Azalea coaxed and teased and eventually they all laced up, making faces. Hollyhock made the most noise, and Azalea realized why after removing a spool of thread, a spoon, a penny, and three green buttons from her shoes. Since their boots were passed from sister to sister, the younger ones were expected to stuff the toes if they didn’t fit.

  “Oh, Holli.” Azalea sighed, stuffing Hollyhock’s boots with her own stockings. “These things won’t help your feet. What about the old samplers from last week?”

  “I los’ them at the pavil’n,” Hollyhock mumbled. Her face was radish red, almost matching her hair. “I took off m’ boots and no one saw me but I forgot t’ put them back on.”

  Azalea sighed again. Hollyhock was always losing things.

  “I hate being poor,” said Delphinium, serving herself some porridge from a pot on the round table. “If we weren’t, we could afford shoes that actually fit and weren’t worn by a hundred older sisters.”

  “You know, speaking of losing things, I can’t find my embroidery needle anywhere.” Flora pursed her lips as she finished dressing Lily in a frilly black outfit. “I was nearly finished with the sampler, too.”

  “That’s rum,” said Bramble as she buttoned up her blouse, ignoring her bowl of porridge. “Last week I lost my pair of lace gloves.”

  “Really, you all,” said Azalea. “Perhaps we should index everything like the King does, just so we know where things are.”

  Lessons began late that morning; Tutor was already asleep at the table. Books and grammarians were passed around, slates and chalks, and Azalea began the lessons in a whisper. Hardly two minutes later, the King arrived at the folding doors, a bowl of stir-about in his bandaged hand and a stack of post in the other. He appeared preoccupied, but when he saw them all, he drew up.

  His eyes took in Tutor Rhamsden, dozing over his cane, and Azalea, standing at the head of the table, SPONDEE, SPONDERE, SPONSUM written on her slate.

  “Young ladies,” he said.

  “Good…m-morning,” Clover managed to stammer. The rest of the girls sunk in their chairs, keeping their eyes on their chalk-smudged hands. The King frowned but did not comment. Instead he set his bowl on the table and handed Azalea the stack of letters he held.

  “Miss Azalea,” he said. “These are addressed to you.”

  The room burst with a ruffle of whispers, skirts, and the scraping of chair legs, as the girls flocked to Azalea, looking over her shoulder with oohs and aahs. These were nice letters, embossed with swirled words and sealed with ribbons.

  “Invitations!” said Delphinium.

  “For balls and things!”

  “Oh, Lea, you’re so lucky you’re of age!”

  “Just remember, they’re not i
nviting you because you’re you, they’re inviting you because whoever marries you gets—”

  “Oh, shove it, Delphi!”

  “Open them!”

  “Why would they send invitations?” said Eve, always so logical. “We’re in mourning.”

  “It’s impolite not to,” said Azalea. “When Mother was ill, we still received invitations, though they knew she couldn’t go. I’ll show you how to write a letter of declination this afternoon.”

  One by one, Azalea broke the wax seals. She recognized names from the Yuletide guests and several of Mother’s friends, all inviting her to upcoming balls and promenades and drawing-room dances. Pleased, Azalea saw that several also instructed her to bring “Miss Bramble,” and one even included Clover in the invitation, though she wasn’t of age quite yet. Bramble grinned, almost shyly, and Clover lowered her pretty blue eyes to the tablecloth, beaming. Azalea passed the invitations around, giving the girls a chance to touch the embossing and smell the perfumed stationery.

  “It’s so awful we’re in mourning!” said Hollyhock, rubbing her fingers over an invitation’s knobbly seal.

  “It doesn’t matter anyway.” Delphinium passed around the flower-scented invitation. “Azalea’s going to marry Fairweller.”

  Time halted.

  “Eve and I figured it out,” said Delphinium, barreling on. “No one would want a foreigner for king. Fairweller is Eathesburian and he’s the Prime Minister and he’s rich.”

  The blood drained from Azalea’s face. Her mind revolted, and she imagined colorless Fairweller, his spiderlike arms clasped around her waist and his breath in her ear. She gagged.

  “Oh, indeed,” said the King, giving the girls a start. He rubbed his bandaged hand by the rosebush ledge, frowning. “None of you shall be met with someone you are not fond of. That is the rule.”

  The sick heaving in her stomach faded enough for Azalea to stammer out a “thank you” to her slate.

  The next statement the King made was more to himself than to the girls:

  “The question is, how to become acquainted with gentlemen while in mourning. Hmm.”

  Azalea gathered the letters into a neat stack. Ivy limped to Azalea with the last invitation, her steps ungainly. The King looked up.

  “Ivy,” he said. “What is wrong? Have you a sore foot?”

  Ivy paled. She cast a desperate look at Azalea.

  “I—I—I don’t know,” she squeaked.

  “Come here. Let me see.”

  “It’s all right,” said Azalea. “Sit down, Ivy.”

  The King’s frown became pronounced as his eyes caught Azalea’s feet, nearly hidden by the chair legs. Azalea realized she was lifting her sore foot. She set it down, and winced.

  “Hmm,” said the King. He strode to Ivy, took her under the arms, and lifted her onto the table. Ivy, who was only five, after all, began to whimper as he unlaced her boots and gently tugged them off.

  The stockings came next, and the King frowned at her feet, blisters on her toes and ankles chafed red.

  “It’s just, you know, boots,” said Delphinium.

  “Off with your shoes,” said the King. “All of you. At once.”

  Cries of protest followed; the King did not relent. While Tutor snored, the King lifted Jessamine to the table and pulled off her shoes, revealing tiny red feet. An examination of Kale produced the same.

  Under the threat of sending for Sir John, the older girls slowly removed their boots, unlacing them and tenderly tugging. Delphinium’s feet had blisters at the toes and ankles, and Eve’s right foot was swollen. Bramble’s foot had bled into her stocking, but Azalea was surprised to see her own feet were the worst. Her toes had started to bleed again, giving her stockings a brownish red stain. Her left ankle was swollen.

  “Oh, indeed!” said the King, examining their feet. “Indeed! You have all been dancing! Dancing, after I expressly forbade it! Even so!”

  The girls’ faces blushed crimson, but they said nothing. A stubbornly quiet nothing. The King sucked in his cheeks, then exhaled.

  “You know what mourning is,” he said. “You know what mourning means. I will have no more of this dancing. How could you treat your mother’s memory in such an appalling way?”

  Azalea pressed her palm against the slate lying on the table, and pulled her thumbnail across it, trying to distract the hot, boiling words from reaching her mouth. It was Clover, however, who spoke for all of them, uncharacteristically brave.

  “We can’t stop…dancing,” she said, in a voice as sweet as honey. “It…reminds us of—of Mother.”

  The girls nodded eagerly. The King cringed, as though Clover’s words had burned.

  “It won’t help anything,” he said brusquely. “It won’t do anything. Nothing will come from dancing.”

  “But it does help,” said Clover. She kept her eyes down, lashes brushing her cheeks, but she pulled the courage to step forward. “Mother would—would dance at night, too. In the ballroom—and—and you were there, and you danced the Entwine, and—you caught her, and she kissed you. On the nose.” Clover blushed deeply. “I think it was the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  She said it with fewer pauses than usual, as though she had recited it a hundredfold. Azalea pulled her hand away from the slate, thinking of Mother and the Entwine, the tricky dance with the sash. If Mother had gotten caught, it was only because she had let the King catch her.

  The King backed up, taut, against the rosebush ledge, the dry thorny branches pressing into his back. His face had become severe.

  “It helps to remember,” said Clover.

  “We will not speak of your mother,” said the King. His voice was even, but harder and colder than frozen steel. “You are finished with your lessons. Go to your room.”

  The words lashed. Clover cowered, swallowed, then pushed her way out of the nook, clutching her boots and limping. They could hear her choked weeping echoing down the hall.

  “Oh, Clover!” cried Flora. Hands linked, she and Goldenrod bounded after.

  “Oh, look what you’ve done!” said Delphinium, crying angrily. She swept Lily into her arms and took off unevenly after them. Kale, Eve, Jessamine, Hollyhock, and Ivy ran out, followed by Bramble, who shot the King a flaring look as she left.

  Tutor Rhamsden snorted, reciting Latin in a doze. “Tero, terere, trivi,” he wheezed.

  “Azalea—” said the King.

  Azalea stacked the slates, her nails digging so hard into them that her fingers hurt. She stopped at the folding doors before leaving.

  “Perhaps they remembered,” she said quietly, “you couldn’t abide us.”

  Sir John came that evening. The girls sat on the edges of their beds, and he knelt in front of each of them, asking questions in his quiet, doctorly way. Ointments, bandages, and candy sticks were given. The King stood in the doorway, his arms crossed and face lined.

  The poking and prodding made Azalea nervous, and she hugged a pillow while Sir John bandaged her ankle, frowning at her feet. He spoke in low tones to the King as they left the room.

  That night, when Mrs. Graybe and one of the maids came to deliver a dinner of potato soup, they left another basket on the table. The girls seized upon it, and when Azalea unfolded the cloth from the top, she gasped.

  Nestled inside, in a bundle of colors and ribbons, lay twelve pairs of dancing slippers.

  Azalea was so relieved she laughed aloud. The girls squealed with delight and overturned the basket, sending a waterfall of satin onto the rug. They found their slippers and tied them on. There was even a tiny blue pair for Lily.

  “Lovely!” said Delphinium. “Real slippers! It’s like walking on air! Even with the bandages on!”

  “Oh, joy, rapture, joy, all that,” said Bramble. Her yellow-green eyes sparkled at Azalea. “Sir John must have convinced the King.”

  A card had been tucked inside the basket, and Azalea unfolded it to read:

  I expect you to be on time to all your lessons.<
br />
  I will not hear a word of your mother, or dancing.

  It was the King’s hand. Azalea blinked at the note.

  “Is—is something wrong?” said Clover.

  “No,” said Azalea, feeling lost. “We win.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Dancing in slippers after two nights of boots was heaven; stepping on clouds. Although none of them could dance for very long, they laughed as merrily as though the Great Boot Bungling had never happened. They felt especially cheered in learning the next morning that the shoe arrangement would be the same as before, when Mother had taught them dancing. The shoemaker would mend their slippers every day, bringing the mended set to the palace and taking the basket of the torn ones away. When the twins realized this, they nearly cried with relief. They had pricked their fingers raw trying to stitch the soles.

  The next day was Sunday, the girls’ favorite day. Before mourning it had been the scourge of the week. Now, on their only day allowed out, they sat obediently through Mass, even more subdued than usual because the King stiffly sat with them. Then, when the bells rang, they slipped out to the graveyard behind the cathedral.

  It wasn’t much of an outing, nothing like the flowered hedges and mossy fountains of the gardens, but the sun fell over everything in dappled yellows, and the air smelled like leaves, and the girls delighted in their time outside the palace.

  After some time, the King arrived at the iron gate, tugging his glove over his bandaged hand, to see them draping posy strings over the weeping angel. He frowned.

  “The carriage is waiting,” he said when Azalea came to him, Lily in her arms. “Azalea—”

  “Don’t be cross,” she said, trying to stand up to his towering sturdiness. “Let them have a little more time. It’s our only chance outside. It counts as Royal Business, doesn’t it?”