The King remained frowning, taking in Lily’s pale face, then Azalea’s, framed with black bonnet and veil. He turned his attention to the girls timidly playing in the sunlight, faces white, and his frown became more lined.
“I expect it does,” he said. “Don’t be long.”
The King made to leave for the street. Azalea struggled inside herself.
“Wait,” she said.
The King turned, and Azalea tried to stammer out something.
“Thank you,” she said. “For the slippers.”
The King sucked in his cheeks, leaving indents on either side of his face. His fingers tapped the rim of the hat he held.
“I am not condoning this,” he said.
“No, sir,” said Azalea quickly.
“We are a house of mourning. You will be on time to all your lessons, and your meals, and there will be absolutely no talk of dancing. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I most certainly do not approve of you all keeping secrets. You know I know where you go, and I know you know I know of it.”
“Um,” said Azalea. She tried to untangle the sentence, and gave up. She wondered how much of the magic in the passage he knew about. Did he know about the forest? She doubted it. Without Mr. Keeper, it was probably just an old storage room.
“There will be no secrets in this household.” The King set his hat on his head. “I will walk home. Mr. Pudding will wait with the carriage. And, Miss Azalea, take care your sisters don’t muss themselves. We are having guests for dinner tonight.”
The girls’ room that evening was a chatter of disagreement, the younger girls alternately jumping on their beds and peeking through the windows, keeping the lookout for arriving horses. They hadn’t had guests to dinner in months.
“No,” said Delphinium, stubbornly sitting on her bed. “We can’t. We swore to have meals in our room forever. We can’t stand eating with the King, remember?”
“She has a point, Az.” Bramble brushed through her sleek red hair. “I’d rather just stay up here. He can’t really expect us. Besides, I get too…chokey around him.”
“It is the rules,” said Flora.
“Seventeen, section two.” Eve rubbed her spectacles on her pillowcase hem.
Clover, who could never think unkindly of anyone, said, “He did—let us have our slippers.”
The girls pursed their lips and looked from Azalea to Delphinium to Clover to Bramble to Eve. Azalea clicked Lord Bradford’s watch open, shut, open, shut. She imagined the dinner table, the King and the guests sitting in awkward silence, staring at their soup. And after, the coffee in the library. The King was terrible at conversation—it was always up to Mother to glide between topics and steer the discussion. Azalea looked at her palms, still marked from her nails, then looked at the basket of slippers, tied together and ready for the night. She clicked the pocket watch closed.
“Rule number seventeen,” she said. “Everyone wash up.”
Washed and combed, the girls arrived at the dining room arches only a few minutes late. The King stood quickly when they arrived, and stared at them for several moments. His expression was unreadable.
Fairweller, Azalea was chagrined to see, was a guest. He sat to the right of the King and looked mildly annoyed, as always. His neck looked better.
The third guest had a gentle, solemn air to him. Azalea hesitated at the entries, her hand automatically touching the watch tucked in her pocket.
It was Lord Bradford. He bowed his head at her.
Azalea had to remind herself to breathe. He was back! And all right, too. She knew he’d been all right, of course, the papers never reported him as wounded, but it was an entirely different matter seeing him here, those soft brown eyes twinkling at her….
“It’s that rotten shilling-punter nuffermonk who stopped the tower!” Bramble whispered. “I hope he chokes!”
“He is a lord,” said Azalea. “And if you do anything to him, I’ll break your neck.”
Mrs. Graybe came from the kitchen door with a dozen plates, as though she had expected the girls to arrive at any moment, and Azalea helped her set the table while the gentlemen helped the girls with their chairs. Above the noise and clatter of dishes, the King leaned in to Azalea.
“It is high time you all decided to eat dinner as a family again,” he said in a low voice.
“It’s just for tonight.” Delphinium, seated next to Azalea, spoke without moving her eyes from the plate.
“Rule number seventeen,” said Eve reluctantly, from the other side.
The King straightened. His face held an odd expression. For a moment, he simply stood. Then his expression lapsed into unreadable, and he turned away.
The dinner of basted chicken, potatoes, and cake progressed well. Bramble seized the salt cellar, and Ivy spooned gobs of jam onto her chicken, but overall they behaved properly. At the end of the table, Fairweller and Lord Bradford discussed politics, and the King remained pensive.
“Parliamentary elections begin this next year,” Fairweller was saying. “The House could use a fine young head…. His Majesty and I thought you might be persuaded.”
Next to Azalea, Bramble had borrowed one of Delphinium’s drawing pencils and was writing on her napkin.
“To run?” said Lord Bradford.
His way of speaking fascinated Azalea. He was frugal with words. It was a stark contrast to her life with a dozen girls and thousands of easy words.
Kale, next to Lord Bradford, had eaten one piece of potato and seemed no longer hungry. She stood on her chair and reached for Lord Bradford’s wine. When he moved it out of reach, she pouted and sat down hard on her chair. Then she snuggled up to him, rubbed her cheek against his arm, and bit him.
Lord Bradford inhaled sharply.
“I’d rather not,” he said to Fairweller, gently untangling Kale from his arm. “I haven’t a head for politics.”
“In my experience,” said Fairweller, “the best men for the country are those who do not. Your father was a very fine member of government. It has always been expected that you would run as well.”
Azalea caught a glimpse of what Bramble was writing on her napkin, faint in Delphinium’s violet pencil:
We still have your watch. You can have it back tonight. All you need to do is sneak up after dinner, set the tower, and flee the country. Agreed?
Azalea burned with embarrassment as Bramble folded the napkin around the pencil and passed it to Lord Bradford with the rolls. Lord Bradford took it and unfolded it in his lap. His dark eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. Then he folded the napkin and placed it under his plate. Bramble’s yellow-green eyes narrowed.
“I’m flattered,” said Lord Bradford in his rich cream voice. Azalea hung on to the timbre of it, wondering if he had ever sung a glee or a catch. It was a voice that would mellow out the choir and give it a fuller sound. Lord Bradford continued. “I would rather not run for parliament.”
Bramble had taken another pencil from Delphinium, and Azalea’s napkin, and wrote something new.
You’re afraid of the King. Admit it.
Azalea grimaced at her untouched food, burning in humiliation as Lord Bradford took the napkin and read it. This time, he looked to be discreetly writing something back beneath the table.
“It’s not a matter of wanting to or not,” said Fairweller, who appeared more annoyed by the minute. “Or even what party you will run for. It is more a matter of duty. I find it odd you are shying away from this. He would be a fine member of the House, would he not, Your Highness?”
“What? Hmm? Oh. Yes. He would.”
Fairweller blinked at the King for a moment, in which Lord Bradford handed Bramble her napkin. She opened it and turned a rosy pink.
My lady, it read, who isn’t?
Bramble pursed her lips and kicked Lord Bradford beneath the table—hard. His face twitched before regaining its solemn expression. Azalea buried her face in her hands.
“All we a
sk is for you to consider it. That is all,” said Fairweller.
“Oh.” Lord Bradford’s voice was slightly strangled. “Yes. Thank you.”
Bramble threw the pencil-smudged napkin onto her plate. “I’m done,” she said. “May we go to our room now?”
For the first time since the beginning of dinner, the King snapped to awareness.
“Oh, no,” he said. “Certainly not. To the library, young ladies.” He stood and cast a significant look at them all. “Those are the rules.”
Already horrified by her sisters’ treatment of Lord Bradford, Azalea spent the evening in the library sitting on the sofa across from him, dying a thousand tiny deaths. Delphinium “accidentally” spilled coffee on him, Lily crawled to his shoe and began gnawing on his laces, and Ivy and Hollyhock crowded him on both sides, stitching samplers and asking him every two minutes what he thought of them. He replied he thought them very fine.
In fact, he almost seemed to be enjoying himself. Inexplicably, so did the King.
Intent on saving some aspect of the evening, Azalea herded the girls upstairs, then slipped to the front court, where Mr. Pudding tended to Lord Bradford’s horse. Azalea explained why she was out, and he gave her the reins, patted her on the head, and went inside.
Azalea waited patiently, twisting the reins around her hands. Lord Bradford’s horse pawed the gravel, but was well trained enough that it did not try to nose her hair, a horse trait Azalea hated. Presently Lord Bradford appeared at the door with a stack of books, probably political, as the King and Fairweller bid him good night. Azalea ducked behind the horse, grateful that black blended in with so many things.
When the door closed, Azalea stepped out from behind the horse.
“Lord Bradford—”
“Gaah!”
He fell back against the banister, tripping over the stairs.
“Sorry! Sorry!” said Azalea. “I didn’t frighten you?”
“No, no, quite all right,” he said. He peeled himself from the banister and set to picking up the scattered books. “Naturally—”
“Naturally—” said Azalea, relieved. She picked his hat from the gravel and helped him with the books. “Sorry. I just had to apologize. About tonight. Honestly, we don’t kick or bite or throw potatoes at all our guests.”
A crooked smile touched Lord Bradford’s lips.
“Your family has spirit,” he said, taking his hat from Azalea. “I enjoyed the evening.”
“Well, yes, you’ve just come from a war,” said Azalea.
Lord Bradford laughed. It was a nice laugh. Quiet, unpracticed, sincere. Azalea liked it.
“I’m so sorry we’ve kept this for such a long time,” she said, pulling the watch from her skirt pocket. She unfolded Mother’s handkerchief from around it, and offered it to Lord Bradford cradled in her hands. “We shouldn’t have taken it in the first place.”
Lord Bradford’s eyebrows rose at the offering, and he opened his mouth, then closed it. He lowered his eyes to the books in his hands, then back to Azalea, and he managed a smile.
“When we first met,” he said, “ages ago, you gave me a candy stick. Just like you did now, with your hands like that. Do you remember?”
Azalea raised an eyebrow.
“It happened when my father had just died,” he said, quietly. “You came to the graveyard, licking a candy stick. You saw me. You put the stick in my hands, folded my fingers over it, and kissed my fingertips.”
“That must have been sticky,” said Azalea.
Lord Bradford laughed. A warm, tickling sensation rippled through Azalea, and a memory flickered through her mind; one of wandering off from Mother on market day. The air smelled of cider. And then, peeking through the iron slats of the graveyard gate and seeing a forlorn boy on a stone bench. The memory, so distant, felt like a faded dream.
“You know,” he said, “all these years I thought you were your sister.”
Azalea gave a nod-shrug. “A lot of people make that mistake. It’s because we’re so close in age—less than a year apart each. In fact, of all of us, Clover looks the oldest, we think.”
“I still have your handkerchief, from the Yuletide.”
“Raspberries, do you really?”
He produced a crumpled, clean handkerchief, and gave it to Azalea. She tried to hand him the watch, but he wouldn’t take it.
“It’s still for ransom, is it not?” he said. “I’ll collect it when I set the tower again.”
Azalea smiled, warmth rising to her cheeks. “Well, it has been awfully useful. Thank you, Lord Bradford.”
He mounted with ease, even with the books, and smiled a crooked smile.
“Mr. Bradford,” he said sheepishly.
“Mr. Bradford,” said Azalea. And now, her cheeks burned. It wasn’t unpleasant.
“Thank you,” he said, tipping his hat. “For the pleasant evening. Sleep well, Princess Bramble.”
“What?” said Azalea.
But he was already off at a canter, spattering gravel. Azalea gaped after him, then turned to the handkerchief in her hands. The sloppily embroidered B.E.W. in the corner made all the warmth drain from Azalea’s face.
“Bramble!” she said. Ever since the Yuletide, he had thought her Bramble!
Azalea looked up to see him pull up at the gate. His eyes caught her, still at the steps, and he smiled and saluted. Then he was gone.
Azalea hugged herself, thinking that she would have to set things straight when she saw him again. If she saw him again.
“Good night,” she said.
CHAPTER 14
That week, Azalea taught her sisters the Entwine. It was a tricky waltzlike dance, and a competitive one, where the lady and the gentleman each held an end of a long sash and weren’t allowed to let go. The gentleman would try to “catch” the lady—bringing the sash about her wrists by pulling her into under-arm turns and stepping about her, while the lady would turn and unspin and twist out of his arms, trying to keep the sash from tangling. Two years before, Mother had brought a skilled dance master to lessons to dance the Entwine with Azalea. Azalea had deftly ducked and slipped from his quick, skilled movements, and by the end of the three minutes, both of them exhausted, the dance master smiled and gave her a bow of admiration and respect. Ever since then, whenever she danced the Entwine, Azalea felt a high-trilling piccolo in her chest and her feet felt like springs.
Bramble tied a handkerchief around her arm and played the gentleman, speaking in gruff tones and making such a spectacle that the girls laughed madly.
“My laaaaaadeee,” said Bramble, bowing deeply to Azalea. The girls giggled uproariously, and Azalea sighed. Teaching closed dances without a gentleman was the most difficult thing so far.
“My lady,” came another voice, and all the girls turned to see Mr. Keeper at the entrance, watching them with dark eyes. He smiled, and the two long dimples on each side of his mouth deepened.
Azalea stepped back. The piccolo trill in her chest glissandoed like mad. She swallowed, discreetly trying to wipe her hands on her dress. His eyes seem to see right into her.
“Do forgive me,” he said, stepping onto the dance floor. His feet made no sound. “I could not help but notice. Perhaps I could have the honor of this dance?”
A hush fell over the girls. Azalea imagined herself in Mr. Keeper’s arms, and the piccolo trill in her chest squeaked into tones only tiny birds could hear. If he danced like he moved—in smooth ripples—he was a very good dancer indeed.
“I thought you said you couldn’t,” said Eve.
“My lady, I said I do not dance. That does not mean I cannot.”
“Do you even know the Entwine?” said Flora.
Mr. Keeper strode to Azalea, his dark eyes drinking her in. His cloak billowed behind him.
“My lady,” he said, without turning his eyes from Azalea, “I invented it.”
In a satinlike movement, Mr. Keeper had wrapped Azalea’s arm about his and had escorted her to the middle of the
dance floor. So silky and gentle. Azalea blinked and realized that he had turned her around into an open dance position. She swallowed. It was hard.
“We’ve only been practicing with this,” said Azalea, producing Mother’s handkerchief. “It’s a bit short, I’m afraid.”
It flashed silver in the pale light. Mr. Keeper flinched.
“That won’t do,” he said. “But, ah! Here is one.”
Mr. Keeper flicked his hand, and a long sash appeared from nowhere. He shook it out with a snap. The bright red color flared against the pale whites and silvers. It was Azalea’s turn to flinch.
Bramble took charge of Mr. Bradford’s pocket watch, setting it on the dessert table to mark the time. The Entwine was exactly three minutes long. The girls watched, giddy with anticipation, as the invisible orchestra began a slow waltz.
Azalea shook, nervous, as Mr. Keeper stepped in time, turning the sash about her as she stepped out. He did dance like he walked and spoke, with polished movements. Unhumanly graceful.
“My lady glides like a swan,” he said. He pulled the sash up and brought her under his arm. “You are the best I have ever danced with. And I, my lady, have danced with many.”
He pulled the sash even closer, and Azalea caught a look in his eye—the same hungry glint she had seen when he had Mr. Bradford’s watch.
Convulsively, Azalea dropped the end of her sash.
That was immediate disqualification. The orchestra stopped.
“Only forty-five seconds,” said Eve, looking at the watch, disappointed.
“You know, Mr. Keeper,” said Azalea. “We’ve never really been properly introduced. Mother always said—”
“Ah, your mother,” said Mr. Keeper. His black eyes were completely emotionless. “I expect your mother always had sweet little things to say. Such as, ‘You’re only a princess if you act like one,’ and other such nonsense.”
“Well,” said Azalea, coloring. “What’s wrong with that?”
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