Entwined

by Heather Dixon

  There was a pause, so quiet the mist could almost be heard outside.

  “Nothing,” said Azalea. “He’ll go back to the library. Things will be the same.”

  “Like when Mother was here?” Flora and Goldenrod looked at Azalea with bright eyes.

  “No,” said Azalea, feeling a tight, hot sensation rising in her throat. “Look, we promised not to talk about the King.”

  “We can’t…just pretend—like—like he’s dead,” said Clover.

  “Why not?” said Bramble. “I mean, things would have been different, wouldn’t they? If it was him instead of Mother who—”

  She abruptly stopped, her face flaming.

  “I didn’t mean that,” she said. “I didn’t.”

  “It’s true, though,” said Delphinium. “Don’t you remember, how much it hurt, when he never came to dinner? How much it hurt, when he said—”

  “Stop!” said Azalea, on her feet. “Stop, stop, stop! We don’t talk about this!”

  Azalea paced, her fists clenched so tightly they shook. Her nails bit into her hands, in spite of the gloves she wore, and she clenched them harder, wishing it would sting harder. When her hands stung, the inside of her didn’t so much.

  The girls kept their lips pinched, their eyes wide on Azalea. Normally Azalea kept her temper hidden, but now it burned to her eyes, and her skirts swished hard about her.

  “He’s going to find out about this, you know,” said Delphinium, from the floor. “The pavilion. Us dancing.”

  “No, he’s not,” Azalea spat. “He won’t. He has no part of this. It’s the only thing we have now, and I won’t let him take it away!”

  The words seared, whipping the mood into a smoldering head.

  “Hollyhock will blather it about,” said Delphinium quietly. “You know she will.”

  “I will not!”

  “We could promise to keep it a secret,” said Flora timidly, huddling close to Goldenrod as Azalea paced in front of her. “Goldy and I shake hands when we have a secret.”

  “It has to be more than that,” said Azalea. “It has to be something we’d never break, something we would never give away!”

  She turned sharply, and stopped at Jessamine’s frightened bright blue eyes, and Ivy’s pudgy hand clasping Clover’s. The pavilion felt muffled, silent, but Azalea was suddenly aware of how her words rang. She swallowed, trying to calm herself down.

  “Sorry,” said Azalea. “I just—”

  Realizing her face was wet, she pulled the handkerchief from her pocket. It flashed and glimmered in the pavilion light. Always taken aback by the slight tingling sensation when she saw it, a new idea occurred to Azalea. She folded the handkerchief in her hands, considering.

  Would it work?

  “I once made a promise,” said Azalea. “I haven’t broken it yet.”

  She told them, with difficulty, what had happened that holiday night, in Mother’s room. Not about how cold Mother’s hands were, or how white Mother’s lips had been—but she told them about the promise.

  “There’s something to it,” said Azalea. “I’m always reminded of it, whenever I look at the handkerchief.”

  The girls’ mouths were slightly open. Bramble raised her chin.

  “All right,” she said. “If Mother did it, then—we’ll give it a go, too.”

  The handkerchief was large enough that everyone could touch a piece of it—just. Azalea spoke the promise. She had them promise not to tell anyone, or show anyone, and never let anyone know about the passage or the pavilion or the Keeper. Especially not the King.

  The moment the girls echoed the last word, Azalea felt the odd tingling sensation spread from her middle and shiver through her whole self, leaving remnants of goose prickles across her arms.

  The girls let the handkerchief go, at once. Eve brushed off her hands, as though they had something on them, and Clover just looked from her fingers, to the handkerchief, and back to her fingers.

  “What,” said Bramble, “was that?”

  Azalea shivered as the tingling dissipated.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “I think,” said Clover. “That…is a promise we had b-better keep.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Azalea had an odd dream, not many days later. Not the one with Mother. Instead, it was just the assortment of scenes Azalea often had when she realized she was dreaming, but too tired to wake up from it. She and her sisters danced in the snow, leaping, turning, while Bramble talked about pickled apricots.

  The setting faded from the gardens to their room as a door creaked, followed by heavy footsteps. Bramble was suddenly wearing boots. They laughed as she stomped to Jessamine and Clover’s bed, next to the door, stopped, and walked to the next bed.

  “Should we wake them then, sir?”

  Mr. Pudding’s voice sounded at the doorway, and suddenly he was in the dream, too.

  “Certainly not. Let them sleep.”

  Immediately, it was the King who wore the boots, not Bramble. And her sisters were not dancing, but asleep in their beds. Azalea stirred.

  In her dream, the King walked to each bed and pushed the bedcurtains aside, looking down at Azalea’s sisters. He reached Azalea’s bed, and Azalea felt the brightness of a lamp being held over her. The King made a noise in his throat.

  “Sir?” said Mr. Pudding.

  “It is nothing. They have…grown so, that is all.”

  “Aye, they do that.”

  More footfalls, this time stopping at Lily’s bassinet near the door.

  “Lily,” said the King.

  Everything was silent for such a long time that fairies started to hop around the room. They disappeared as the footfalls started again, and the door closed with a creak. For a moment, Azalea lost herself in dreams of dancing at the pavilion. Her upper consciousness tugged at her.

  The King, the King, he was here, he was here…his voice…it had sounded so real. It occurred to Azalea, in a dreamlike way, that it had been real. This hadn’t been a dream…wait, this hadn’t been a dream!

  “Gah!” she cried, leaping from her bedsheets.

  It was morning. The girls were crowded about the window over the front court, kneeling on the pillowed windowseat and peeking through the edges of the drapery. Azalea rubbed her sore shoulder and joined them. They gazed through the crack of the window down below, and Azalea’s throat tightened, seeing the King.

  The girls said nothing, and the silence was heavy. They stared down through the window. The King turned Dickens about, and Azalea saw his left hand had been bandaged.

  “He’s been wounded!” she whispered. “That wasn’t in the papers!”

  “Aye.” Bramble was pale. “Probably he didn’t want a fuss made over it. He can’t manage the reins with it. It must hurt.”

  “He fwightens me,” whispered Jessamine. Although four, she hardly ever spoke. Hearing her glass-spun voice was a rare occasion.

  “Me, too,” said Azalea. She pulled the drapes closed.

  Brushed, washed, braided, and scrubbed, everyone except Flora and Goldenrod went down to breakfast. Goldenrod often had trouble waking after a late night, and Flora always stayed with her to coax her down to breakfast. Azalea promised they would save a bit of porridge for them.

  When they arrived at the folding nook doors, however, everyone gave a cry of delight. On the table lay a spread of deep brown cinnamon bread and jugs of cream. There were even three bowls of jam and sugar.

  They stifled the cry when they saw the King standing at the head of the table, looking at the bay windows as though there were no drapes. Azalea felt the girls instinctively draw near her skirts. Even Lily, in Azalea’s arms, clutched at her collar.

  “You’re late,” said the King, and he turned to face them.

  Azalea felt a jolt.

  Months had passed since she had seen him, face-to-face. His light hair and close-trimmed beard had streaks of white, and the lines in his face seemed deeper. Even so, he stood tall, sturd
y, so much like the kings she read about in history books. None of the girls moved.

  “Go on, sit down,” said the King. “It won’t do, half past eight! It is out of order. The bread is nearly cold.”

  Still the girls did not move. Bramble’s lips were pursed so tightly they became a thin, razor-sharp line. Azalea held Lily so hard she whined. Azalea’s arms shook, too. Partly from nervousness, but more from the searing boiling sensation that flamed within her.

  “We apologize for being late.” Azalea’s voice came out smooth and cool. She gained courage from this. “Your ship arrived last night?”

  “Just so,” said the King. He sat down at the head of the table, and motioned for the girls to sit. “I didn’t think mush would suit today. Come along.” He took a cinnamon-swirled loaf from the table, and began to break it into pieces in a bowl. He did this with some difficulty, because of his bandaged hand.

  “It l-looks like it hurts,” Clover whispered, leaning in to Azalea.

  Bramble leaned in on her other side. “What do you think happened?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know,” Azalea whispered back.

  “M-maybe we should—should ask—”

  “No,” Delphinium whispered from behind. “If he won’t tell us, then we don’t want to know.”

  “But—”

  The King frowned at them, gathered about the glass doors, the psss pssss psss of their whispered conversation making the frown more stern. He set the loaf down.

  “If you are inclined to speak,” he said, “you may speak aloud. We have rules in this household—”

  “What happened to your hand, sir?” said Azalea.

  The whispering hushed. The King’s two unbandaged fingers tapped against the loaf. He hesitated, then spoke.

  “It was cut on the side of a bayonet.”

  The girls gasped. Azalea gripped Lily.

  “Oh,” she said, flustered. The girls drew together, pss psss pssss, while Hollyhock whispered fervently, “What is a bayonet? Someone tell me what a bayonet is!”

  “Has Sir John seen to it?” said Azalea.

  “It is fine,” said the King. “Come in and sit down, at once. I won’t have you standing about.”

  The girls looked to Azalea, and she gave a short nod. Normally they seized upon the chairs like starving orphans. Now, however, they seated themselves quietly at the end of the table.

  The King frowned at this arrangement. None of the seats next to him had been taken.

  “Where are the twins?” he said.

  “A little behind,” said Azalea, handing Lily to Clover. “They’ll be here in a moment.”

  The King sucked in his cheeks. Azalea could see it was taking him great effort to keep from a lengthy lecture.

  “Very well,” he said at last. “We shall wait for them before we begin. But as of tomorrow, this tardiness will not be acceptable. Mr. Pudding informs me that you have been arriving to breakfast and lessons at half past nine! Half past nine, Miss Azalea! He tells me you retire at the proper time in the evening, and yet—What is to be said for it?”

  Azalea clenched her hands beneath the table, her nails digging into her palms.

  “Time is a bit hard to keep without the tower,” she said in a calm voice.

  “Then you may ask the hour of me, any time you like. I have a watch.”

  “Oh, marvelous,” Bramble muttered. “Just what I want to do, boff off to the King every time I need the minute.”

  Azalea gave her a warning look. The King sucked in his cheeks, paused…and changed the subject.

  “Miss Ivy,” he said. “What do you have in your hands?”

  Ivy, who sat next to Azalea, looked up from her lap to the King, to Azalea, to the King, then back to the object in her pudgy hands. It was a partially devoured loaf of bread. She didn’t say anything because her mouth was stuffed full. Her eyes filled with tears.

  “Oh, let her eat it,” said Azalea, putting her arm around Ivy before the King had a chance to say anything. “It’s her favorite food.”

  “There are rules in this household,” said the King, though not unkindly. “We have meals as a family.”

  And here, just as the King said it, the temper that Azalea had skillfully pushed and smothered flared into a horrible, hot beast. Even her eyes grew hot.

  “Of course,” said Azalea. “You would know a lot about that rule, naturally.” She adjusted the spoon next to her bowl. It clattered against the table. “If it is just the same to you, sir, I should like very much to have this meal in our room.”

  Everything stopped then; Eve’s feet scuffing against the floor, Hollyhock tugging on the tablecloth, Clover smoothing Lily’s dark curls—all froze. They stared at Azalea with wide eyes.

  The King’s expression darkened. Frowning, his eyes fell over the holiday spread, then to the girls. He did not seem to like the turn this breakfast was taking.

  “Very well,” he said. “As you wish. You might as well take tea and dinner in your room as well, as you seem so inclined to it.”

  “Excellent,” said Azalea crisply. An angry, absolutely euphoric sensation burned through her. “I would rather like to spend the entire next week with meals in our room.”

  “Oh, but why stop there?” said the King. “If you are so devoted to eating meals away from the table, then you may have them in your room for the rest of your lives.”

  “Excellent,” said Azalea.

  “Excellent,” said the King.

  It wasn’t exactly a glare that Azalea and the King locked on each other, but their eyes met with such intensity that it smoldered. Azalea finally broke, unclenching her fingers from her stinging palms. She stood and made to gather the loaves and stack the bowls.

  From down the hall, the echo of light feet and cheery, tiny voices reverberated into the nook.

  “…but I really don’t know if we can make them last another day,” Flora’s voice was saying. “I mean, look at this hole!”

  Blood drained from Azalea’s face as Flora and Goldenrod appeared at the glass doors, beaming…

  …and holding the basket of slippers. Flora was holding up Hollyhock’s small green slipper.

  They froze at the scene before them.

  “Oh!” cried Goldenrod.

  The King’s eyes fell on the twins, then on the basket, a jumbled mess of dance slippers. His eyebrows rose.

  “Run,” said Bramble.

  The girls scattered.

  In a flurry of overturned chairs and crinolines, girls fled down the hall. Azalea ran after, trying to catch up to them. Hollyhock had flown to the kitchen, Delphinium down the side hall, Eve up the servants’ staircase in a flicker of black skirts. Clover, pale as death and near tears, clutched Lily, unmoving. Azalea caught up to the twins, fleeing to the entrance hall, Bramble taking the slippers from them at a run.

  “Never fear, young chicks!” said Bramble, pulling the basket into the crook of her arm. “Hide in the gallery for now, beneath the north exhibit. I’ll come and fetch you in a minute. If I don’t come back—don’t slow me down!”

  This last part she directed at Azalea, who had grabbed her arm.

  “What are you, mad?” said Azalea. “Now he’ll really know we’ve been up to something!”

  “Who cares?” said Bramble, yanking her arm away from Azalea. “I can’t stand him!”

  A firm, solid hand grasped Azalea’s wrist.

  “Into the conservatory, young ladies,” said the King. “Now.”

  Bramble broke free, gripping the basket with both hands. She bounded in an arc about the newel post and leaped up the stairs.

  “Miss Bramble!” said the King.

  “Down with tyranny!” Bramble cried. “Aristocracy! Autocracy! Monocracy! Other ocracy things! You are outnumbered, sir! Surrender!”

  Sucking in his cheeks, the King did not chase after Bramble, but instead militarily escorted Azalea and the chin-wobbling twins to the conservatory, which was what the King called the nook. Clover, Lily, and al
l the rest except Bramble stood in a line against the rosebush ledge, cheeks flushed, hands clasped, eyes down.

  The King disappeared; several minutes later, a loud crash came from the kitchen, followed by the clatter of spoons scattering across the floor, then a falling lid, ending the chaos with a wah-wah-wa-wa-wawawawawathunk.

  In a moment the King returned, firm hand clenched on Bramble’s shoulders, guiding her into the nook, the other holding the basket. He had a spoon-sized welt across his cheek. Bramble’s lips were so thin Azalea couldn’t see them.

  The King closed the folding glass doors and set the basket on the table. The twins hiccupped as the King examined the mess; tattered, jumbled, patched beyond recognition. He lifted a used-to-be-red slipper, and the ribbon fell off.

  “Well,” he said, after a long, long moment. “Well.”

  He set the slipper down, sucked in his cheeks, clasped his hands behind his back. He took in air to say something, then exhaled. He picked up a slipper from the basket, and put it back.

  “I am heartily disappointed in you all,” he said quietly. “Heartily disappointed.”

  None of the girls could even raise their eyes to meet his. Eve plucked a leaf from the wilting rosebushes in the ledge, shredding it into minuscule bits, and Ivy didn’t even eat a bit of the cinnamon bread she had snuck from the table.

  “Please don’t be cross with them,” said Azalea. “It was my fault in the first place.”

  The King sighed.

  “And I expect you wear every pair out each night, Miss Azalea? Nonsense.” He folded his arms. “So this is why you are behind your time every day. Dancing at night, in mourning, when it is strictly forbidden. You all know it is not allowed!”

  “No one hears us,” said Hollyhock, twining the end of her apron string around her eight-year-old hand. “They can’t hear a peep.”

  “No, I expect they probably can’t,” said the King. “If there was enough floor to dance in your room, which there is not, it would most certainly make a grand racket, would it not? So. If you cannot be heard from your room, then, where could you be dancing? Hmm? There are no secrets and underhanded dealings in this household, young ladies. If you are harboring a secret, then I will be told at once.”