“I’m not doing a very good job of it,” Azalea mumbled.
The King’s firm, heavy hand rested on Azalea’s shoulder. It was such an unexpected gesture of affection that it rendered Azalea speechless. The King removed it, quickly, but his voice was gentle.
“You’ve done a fine job,” he said. “You cannot expect it to be as powerful as the sword. But I should think your handkerchief harbors a deep magic nonetheless. You have made it so.”
Azalea focused on her bread and cheese to keep from making a scene. She thought of Mother, hand over Azalea’s heart, sitting next to her in the ballroom, and telling her about the deepest sort of magic. The warm, flickery one. Azalea knew it wasn’t the common magic, nor was it the cold, shivery prickles of Swearing on Silver.
“What of the other magic?” said Azalea. “The one Mother used to speak of? The one without a name?”
There was a pause, the longest yet. The King stroked his well-trimmed beard, looking at the drapes across the hall. His eyes were bright, but sad.
“Yes,” he said. “They say there is a third sort of magic.”
Azalea waited, her food forgotten in her lap. The King shifted, stiffly, and considered the fire poker in his hand.
“It is,” he said finally, “the deepest magic of all. So deep, and rare, it doesn’t even have a name. It needs no silver. It has to do with the piece of you that is you, inside. Your soul. A promise so deep, it blurs the line between mortal and immortal, souls that have passed on. This unnamed magic has caused many strange things to happen. So it is said.”
“Such as?” said Azalea.
“I don’t know.”
“You…haven’t seen any evidence of it?”
“No.”
“Do you believe in it?”
The King sighed. “I don’t know, Azalea. I truly don’t. But your Mother did. More than anyone I knew.”
Azalea gazed at the glow of the fire flickering in the hearth next to her, thinking about the warm flickery bit. She hadn’t felt it for days, even when she danced. It was easy to believe in things, when Mother was here. Now, thinking of Mother, images of white lips and red thread passed through her mind, and it was as though a bucket of frigid stream water poured through her lungs and stomach. Azalea stood quickly, upsetting her cheese and bread, and hurried to the glass case that held the sword.
“Earlier this year,” said Azalea, “I broke this, at least in part. Would the magic be strong again, if it were mended?”
“I expect not. It would have to be sworn on again, many more times after it was fixed,” said the King.
“Oh.” The gush of ice-cold water coated her inside again, and Azalea shivered so hard her teeth began to chatter. She jumped when the King placed her shawl over her shoulders.
“It is late,” said the King. “I’ll stoke the fire in your room, if you like.”
“Sir,” said Azalea as he led her out of the gallery, “the blood oath the High King made—to not die until he killed Harold the First…didn’t Harold the First die of old age?”
“Not to die until he killed the Captain General, I believe it was. No, he unfortunately lived to be a great old age.”
“Unfortunately?” said Azalea.
The King sucked in his cheeks, as though loathe to tell her. In the faint light, he looked like the first king’s portrait hanging on the gallery wall behind him; same jaw, light hair, close-trimmed beard.
“He went mad,” said the King. “Our first king. It is…a bit of a family secret. He overthrew the High King, unmagicked the palace with the sword, but—” The King shifted. “He thought the High King was still here. In the palace.”
The blood drained from Azalea’s face.
“He believed the High King’s essence, or something of the like, still existed, in the foundation or paneling or such. It is silly, of course, to consider it now. Even so, when he passed the title of Captain General to his son, Harold the Second, he fell into madness. He wandered the halls at night, certain the High King would return to murder—”
“The Captain General, the Captain General!” Azalea cried. “That would be you!”
“Miss Azalea, it was years ago! Your color—it is only a story!”
“The first king! He was telling the—”
Azalea was bludgeoned.
When she was seven, she had been thrown from a horse and had the air knocked from her. It left a hollow space of nothing, and she heaved for air to fill it. This was much the same, but with a great rush of hard prickles. It took her breath away and choked her throat, stole air from her lungs. A great wave of icy tingles flushed to her fingertips and feet, and over her head. She gasped.
“Good heavens, Azalea, are you all right?”
The oath! Azalea fell against the wainscot of the hallway, the painful tingling coursing through her in riptides. In a dizzy whirl, she felt herself plucked up and into the King’s arms.
Five minutes later, a ruckus ensued in the room as the King set Azalea onto her bed. Lily awoke with a cry, and Kale, who was never happy when she was tired, began to scream. Candles were lit and lamps turned up, and girls sleepily flocked to Azalea’s bed. Azalea gasped for air, feeling the cold pinpricks ream up and down her skin.
“What happened?” said Clover, wetting a cloth in the basin, and dabbing Azalea’s face.
“She had a sort of fit,” said the King. “I think her underthings may be laced too tightly.”
All the girls, including Azalea, blushed brilliantly.
“Sir,” said Eve. “You’re not supposed to know about the U word!”
“Am I not? Forgive me.”
When the color returned to Azalea’s cheeks, they pushed the King out of the room, a crease between his eyebrows, and set to unbuttoning her. Azalea hoped the unlacing of the corset would return her breath to her, but it took an hour and two cups of piping hot tea for the strangled feeling to leave. The fear and hopelessness remained, however, and Azalea slept in a choke.
Azalea slept so late she nearly missed dinner the next day. She rushed to the dining room, shaking off the groggy stupor, and found the girls setting the table, their faces stung red from playing outside. They chattered about the day’s events. Clover looked especially pretty, with her hair pinned up and her corseted figure ablossom, a lady even though she was just fifteen. Fifteen! Today was Clover’s birthday, and Azalea had slept through nearly all of it, including the Great Corseting and the birthday center reel. Feeling sick all over again, she caught Clover’s hands and tried to smile.
“Many happy returns!” she said. “I can’t believe I slept through so much of it.”
“You were ill,” said Clover, squeezing Azalea’s hands.
“I’ll make it up to you. I promise. Do you like the corset?”
Clover tried to keep from smiling, but her face glowed.
“I…can feel my heartbeat in my stomach!”
“Aye, that’s what it feels like to be a lady!” said Bramble, among the general riffraff and clattering of seat taking and plate getting. “It’s corking. I love it.”
Azalea only picked at her bowl of potato soup as dinner progressed. Her hand kept twitching to feel the watch in her pocket that wasn’t there, anxious for the time. She feared Keeper would become angrier with each passing minute they weren’t there.
The King, on the other hand, looked in good spirits, seeing Azalea at the table, and Lord Teddie was in even finer spirits, because that was Lord Teddie. The younger girls fought for seats next to him and clamored for his attention.
“At least Azalea remembered,” said Delphinium in a low whisper. Azalea fed Lily, sitting on her lap. “The King hasn’t said a thing. Not one thing!”
“He’s forgotten. I was afraid he would,” said Eve.
“Great scott, Clover.” Azalea cast a glance at the head of the table. “You haven’t told him?”
“Well…we’re in mourning.” Clover smoothed the napkin in her lap. “And—it would just make him feel bad that he had forgotten.”
On the other side of the table, the girls squealed with laughter as Lord Teddie chattered like mad. He ate far too much soup and far too many biscuits to account for his lean, gangly figure, and he read them a book called The Eathesburian Holiday Guidebook, which he had brought from Delchastire.
“It has an entire section just on the gardens! The fountains and statues and all things gardeny,” he said, as the girls climbed over one another to peek at the etchings inside. “It says if you’re lucky, you might even see the rare flowers of Eathesbury!”
The girls giggled so hard, Hollyhock choked on her soup.
“That’s us!” she cried, after coughing. “We’re the flowers of Eathesbury!”
“And all of you, pretty as buttons!” said Lord Teddie, beaming at them. He looked over to Bramble, who wore a bit of holly in her deep red hair, and he smiled.
“Clover,” said the King, interrupting the melee. He had been casting distracted glances at Clover all through dinner. Azalea knew why. With her hair up and her eyes alight, Clover looked like a golden version of Mother. She even had the smile that lit the room. “Miss Clover…you look…very nice,” he finished, lamely.
Clover’s deep blue eyes brightened.
“Do you think so?” she said.
The King cast another distracted glance at her, then glanced at Azalea. Azalea mouthed the word birthday.
The King’s face grew more confused. Azalea mouthed it again. The King opened his mouth, then shut it, frowning.
“It’s her birthday,” said Delphinium, who couldn’t seem to take it any longer. “It’s been her coming-of birthday all day, and she’s been waiting for you to remember, and you haven’t!”
The King froze with his wineglass halfway to his mouth, his expression unreadable.
“Birthday?”
“It’s her coming-of,” Azalea explained.
“And you forgot,” peeped Hollyhock.
The King unfroze and set his glass down. “Oh, indeed,” he said. “I—I can hardly remember my own birthday.”
“It was my coming-of birthday last January,” said Bramble, gripping the handle of her glass, “and you forgot that, too. You weren’t even here.”
“I turnt eight last spring,” said Hollyhock, “’n I didn’ even get any present at all!”
All the girls joined in.
“I was thirteen last April and it rained on my birthday and I didn’t even get to wear anything special—”
“We turned ten—just two months ago—”
“I usually get a book for my birthday—but—this year—”
“You forgot my birthday, too.”
“And mine.”
The girls looked miserable. The King opened his mouth, then shut it.
“Sir!” whined Lord Teddie. “You forgot my birthday, too!”
Bramble gave a surprised laugh, then slapped her hand over her mouth, as though shocked at letting it out. The tension broke. The girls laughed sheepishly, and Lord Teddie beamed. He probably did not have many ladies think him funny. In fact, he probably got slapped by a lot of them.
“That will do,” said the King. He looked somewhat relieved.
Eve was sent for some wine, and a touch of ceremony ensued as the King uncorked the bottle. Clover, however, turned her glass upside down.
“I would like to be temperance,” she said firmly.
“What, not like Fairweller?” said Bramble.
“Yes,” said Clover. “Like Fairweller.”
This immediately ushered in a round of teasing, especially on Bramble’s part, but the King immediately corked the bottle and sent the wine out.
“It is Clover’s birthday,” he said. “She can do as she pleases. Is there anything you should like for your coming-of, Miss Clover? Surely there is something you want.”
By the King’s voice, Azalea supposed Clover could ask for a pony. Clover gave her room-brightening smile.
“May we have a Christmas tree?” she said.
The King’s face wiped of emotion. Azalea bit her lip. Mother used to be in charge of the Christmas tree festivities. Even when she was ill, she helped with the trimming, laughing and singing and helping to make berry chains and watercolor decorations.
“Please,” said Clover. “We could—all go to the library, and—and make ornaments and thread berries for it? As a family—like we used to.”
“What?” said Delphinium. “But what about danc—”
Azalea trod hard on her foot.
“I think it’s a marvelous idea,” she said. “Oh, sir! Please say yes!”
The King’s fingers tapped against the glass, his cheeks sucked in.
“Oh, please! Oh, please!” cried the younger ones.
“Only because it is Clover’s birthday,” he said, finally, to cheers of “Huzzah!” “We shall see about the tree. We are a house of mourning, you will remember that!”
“Oh, yes, sir!” the younger girls squeaked, hopping around the table in a pseudo-reel. Clover beamed, so angelic it made the room glow.
CHAPTER 21
In the library, among the warm golds and browns of the book-lined walls, Clover took charge of the decoration making. She set Delphinium, who was good with pencils and colors, to watercolor bits of stationery, and Hollyhock and the younger ones to winding and knotting yarn into balls. Even Lord Teddie set to work, sweating over knotting the ornament strings to perfection. Over mugs of steaming cider, and the King’s slightly bemused expression at them as he penned a speech, the library echoed with laughter and warmth, and everyone felt an aura of holiday cheer.
Everyone, except Azalea. The crafting would keep the girls from dancing, and it both pleased and worried her. Shaking, Azalea kept pricking herself on the needle she used to thread the dried berries. Finally, after drawing blood from her thumb, she excused herself and ran upstairs.
It was late now. Fear curled in her stomach as she rubbed her handkerchief against the passage.
Please, she thought to herself as she pushed through the passage. Please…please…let Mother be all right….
Azalea rushed through the silver forest and arrived at the bridge, shawl wrapped so tightly around her shoulders she felt them pulse. Equally tightly she grasped the handkerchief, her one comfort. It was magic. It, perhaps, kept Keeper from doing anything really terrible. She remembered, once, how he had flinched at it.
In the pavilion, Keeper paced, a flat silhouette against the silvers.
“Ah!” he said, without stopping to bow. “Good evening, Princess. So Her Highness feels inclined to grace me with her presence tonight. Come for a dance?”
Azalea kept her mouth shut and her feet planted on the bridge.
“Where are the rest of you?”
“It’s…Clover’s birthday tonight,” she managed to stammer.
“And the night before?”
Azalea dug her fingers into the silver weave.
“Come now,” said Keeper. “I am only curious. You have never missed dancing before.”
“The…King read them a story, and…they fell asleep.”
“How sweet.” Keeper leaned against the arched doorframe. Twined throughout his fingers was the scarlet embroidery thread. Azalea stared at it, the red burning green into her vision. “Especially since you all hate him so much. Oh, don’t flinch like that, my lady. You think I haven’t seen it in you?” Keeper’s long fingers wound around the thread, twisting it and pulling it into weblike shapes. “If it is any comfort, I hate your father as well.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“Do I have to? I hate him because he is the Wentworth General. I’ve thrived on that hate. Hate, in its own way, is a virtue.”
Azalea cast a furtive glance at the willow branches behind her. She scrunched the handkerchief even tighter in her hand. “Mr. Keeper,” she said. “Please. About Mother—you won’t…that is, if you could—could maybe cut—”
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“Perhaps,” said Keeper, cutting her short. “Go back, and bring your sisters tomorrow. Do not miss another night. And then, we shall see. You have been looking?”
“I hardly have a choice.”
“No, you hardly do. Goosey.”
The needle, dangling from the end of the thread, flashed in the pale light. Azalea cowered against the swirled railing of the bridge.
“Go now. Bring them back tomorrow, and dance your little dances. You will not miss another night.” His voice was dangerously smooth.
Against the pale mist of the pavilion, Keeper held up the thread, a knitted web shape between his hands. In reticulated scarlet string, it read:
3 days.
“Masterful!” Mother was laughing, her bubbled laugh that put everything at ease. Her hair was askew, as always, the mussed look making her even more charming. “You’re better than me! Up, up, up. Very good! Ladies’ cloaks, in the library, gentlemen’s hats—”
“In the entrance hall. Yes, I remember.” Azalea smiled, too, and pushed herself to her feet, the crinolines and silks of her ballgown settling about her.
“Brilliant. The gentlemen will be mad for you. Dance with every single one and find out which one you like best.”
Even the milk-turning feeling from talking of her future gentleman didn’t feel so curdled, not when she was with Mother, who made everything better, like treacle in a pie.
“I wish you could come,” said Azalea.
“Your father will be there.”
Azalea shook her head sadly.
Perhaps it was because Azalea had broken from the real script of the dream, or that her eyes couldn’t quite meet Mother’s—even so, as she did, the flower-papered walls of Mother’s room faded and seeped away with the sound of freezing ice, to the dark pavilion, packed with masked dancers and black-thorned vines. Mother had tear streaks down her face. She tried to smile, but cringed with pain. Her lips had been sewn shut.
The dancers swept forward, their powdered wigs and dripping lace dresses pushing Azalea backward, throwing her off her feet.
She fell, her stomach twisting—
—and woke with a jolt, panting.
The early morning fire had died, and the room was cold. Shaking, Azalea slipped from her bed and added coal, unsteady from the dream. She tried to smother images of dancers pulling Mother away, her face marred—
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