Entwined

by Heather Dixon

  “Trapped?” said Clover.

  “It’s not dangerous!” said Flora.

  “Magic, shmagic,” said Bramble, setting her teacup down with a clink. “We can see right through you! You’re only here because you wanted to become acquainted with us. Admit it.”

  Fairweller’s lips narrowed to razor-thin.

  “It is not…the only reason,” he said.

  Azalea nearly spit her mouthful of tea. Bramble gaped, horrified. Clover’s face was so pink even her ears blushed. Flora broke the silence first.

  “But you’re a Whig,” she said.

  “This has nothing to do with politics,” said Fairweller.

  “We’re very picky about our husbands,” said Bramble, picking apart her bread. “And our brothers-in-law.”

  Fairweller stood, nearly hitting his head on the pine branch.

  “You make yourselves perfectly clear,” he said. “But then, you always have.”

  He left. He didn’t thank them, or even bow. He just stepped over Lily, who played with the blanket hem, fought his way out of the needles, and was gone.

  “Well, that went well,” said Bramble.

  Azalea sliced more bread, tucked shawls tighter around the girls’ shoulders, trying to smooth things over. Everyone was cranky as they realized they had to go inside now. Azalea tried not to think of Fairweller, his thin mustache and piercing gray eyes.

  Minutes later, as they bundled things up into the basket, another voice sounded, carrying through the cold air. This one, if possible, was worse than Fairweller.

  “My lady,” the voice called in a singsong tone. “My lady—I know you are out here—”

  “Great waistcoats,” said Bramble as the color drained from everyone’s faces. “It’s Viscount Duquette! He’s back!”

  Clover, pale as death, only had a moment to slip out the back of the pine tree and flee before a pair of shiny boots appeared at the branch-flanked entrance. This was followed by a handsome, smiling face and then all of Viscount Duquette, brushing off pine needles and smiling wolfishly.

  “Ah, here you are,” he said. “Bundled up in a little cocoon. Where is the butterfly?”

  “Oh, brother,” said Bramble.

  “What are you doing here?” said Azalea, grasping in the basket behind her for the butter knife. Her hand found a teaspoon. It was better than nothing.

  “I’ve come to make a proposal,” he said, his eyes raking over them. “Before anyone else does. As soon as she is of age, gentlemen from everywhere will be flocking here, and I plan to snatch her up—”

  “Your Majesty!” Azalea screeched. “Your Majesty!”

  She knew the King couldn’t hear her. He was inside, tending to papers. Still, Azalea clung to the hope that yelling would be enough to scare the Viscount away.

  “Ah, perhaps she slipped out the back, then,” said the Viscount. “She can’t be far away.”

  Another pair of shiny black boots appeared at the entrance.

  Azalea almost cried with relief. Almost, except that these boots did not belong to the King. This figure didn’t even bother to bend down into the entrance, but instead pushed his way through the upper branches. Pine needles showered over them.

  Minister Fairweller.

  He surveyed the scene, Azalea backed up against the tree trunk, grasping a spoon, and the girls huddled behind her, clutching their teacups, cowering away from Viscount Duquette.

  After a long, awkward moment of silence, Fairweller turned to the Viscount.

  “Who are you?” he said, in his cold, flat voice.

  The Viscount, half a head shorter than Fairweller, sized up his fine dress and walking stick, and gave Fairweller a short bow, clicking his heels.

  “Viscount of Anatolia, sirrah, knight of the fourth order and—”

  “You are Viscount Duquette.”

  Something in Fairweller’s tone made the Viscount twitch.

  “He wants to mawy Cwover,” whispered Jessamine in a tiny, crystalline voice.

  “So I have heard,” said Fairweller, unmoved. “Also, from what I have heard, Miss Clover does not care for the match.”

  “Ah, never mind that,” said the Viscount with a wry smile. “We are men of the world, are we not? Ladies like her are easily bullied.”

  Fairweller’s finger twitched against his walking stick.

  “Minister, Clover’s gone, isn’t she?” Azalea bit her lip and pleaded to him with her eyes. Fairweller stared back at her, his iron eyes unreadable. Azalea’s heart fell. He wasn’t going to take her lead.

  “Miss Clover,” said Minister Fairweller to the Viscount after a long moment, “is not here. She has gone to a speech with her father, in Werttemberg. I could set you up with a carriage, if you’d like.”

  The girls’ mouths dropped open. Viscount Duquette did not see.

  “Well!” he said, clicking his heels together. “It is nice to see that someone behaves like a gentleman around here!”

  The girls found Clover about an hour later, hiding among the untrimmed unicorn and lion topiaries, weeping on a stone bench. They flocked to her, wrapped an extra shawl around her shoulders, and told her the story.

  “Werttemberg, though,” said Eve. “That’s two countries away!”

  Clover wept and laughed at the same time.

  CHAPTER 17

  “Can I not trust you for five minutes with a gentleman without scaring him away?” said the King, displeased when he found them later, playing spillikins in the entrance hall and decidedly Fairweller-less.

  The girls smiled sheepishly and did not tell him about Viscount Duquette. That would render him murderous, and he had been in such an agreeable humor of late. He still lectured, naturally, when he caught the twins sliding down the banister, or when Kale spilled an inkwell on the dining room rug, or Hollyhock embroidered the curtains together. But he paid attention to them at dinner, too, and asked them how their day had passed. None of them supposed they had grown fond of this (they always felt so nervous around him), until one night the King was gone on R.B., and the girls had to have dinner without him.

  It felt…empty.

  “He saw us shivering, in the kitchen,” said Flora as they tied up slippers one early December night. “And he had Mr. Pudding build up the fire in the kitchen stove and the fire in the nook and put two extra scuttles by each!”

  “And he always wants them to be well built!” said Goldenrod.

  “And he says, when it is Christmas, we shan’t have any gentlemen come!”

  “It will be a holiday! A real holiday!”

  The girls beamed. A glimmer of excitement had sprung to life within them when the gardens had frosted, curling the leaves and coating the flower bushes, statues, and pathways white. They waited anxiously for snow and, with hopeful eyes, for something else: the end of mourning.

  “It’s less than a month now,” said Eve as Azalea braided Hollyhock’s bright red hair. Her cheeks were rosy with excitement. She was becoming prettier every day, even with spectacles. “It’s hardly even three weeks,” she said.

  “I can hardly, hardly wait!” said Hollyhock.

  “We won’t need a gentleman to go out into the gardens!”

  “We can just…go!”

  “And we can wear color again!”

  “And we can dance!”

  “We already dance,” said Azalea, but she smiled as they hopped from one foot to another, bumping into their poufs and the round table and their beds, throwing pillows with excitement. That night, in keeping with the season, she taught them a Christmas jig. In this step, the lady put her hand to the gentleman’s, raised it to eye level, and they turned about each other. Clover played Azalea’s obliging partner, catching the gentleman’s steps perfectly.

  “Break apart, turn around,” said Azalea, her skirts twisting with her. She winked at the girls, crowded in a black mass on the marble floor, turned to face Clover again—

  —and found herself facing Keeper.

  “Oh!” said Azal
ea.

  “He…sort of…cut in,” said Clover, to the side of her. Her skirts still swished from Keeper spinning her out. She blinked, her pretty face alight with surprise.

  Keeper took Azalea’s hands in his, sending a shiver up Azalea’s spine, before she could pull away. He lifted them just above their lips, keeping his eyes on hers the entire time.

  “Ah, the holiday window,” he said, turning her about with ease. His cloak hem brushed the marble. “It didn’t seem right for you to dance it without a gentleman.”

  Azalea’s eyes narrowed. A hot flick of temper sprung in her chest, coursing to her hands. She didn’t like being pushed. Instinctively, she tugged her hands away.

  “Clover was doing fine—” she said.

  Lightning fast, Keeper snatched her hands back. He gripped them so tightly, Azalea inhaled sharply. Her fingers throbbed in his grasp.

  “You haven’t been looking for it,” he said. His voice was soft and low. His eyes bore into her, and she avoided them by looking at his neck, eye level for her. A muscle clenched in his neck, just above his cravat. “You haven’t even been trying.”

  “We have,” whispered Azalea, hot blood searing her cheeks. Her fingers throbbed in Keeper’s squeezing grip. “Let me go.”

  Keeper smiled, gently. “Perhaps you could try just a touch harder?”

  Azalea writhed her hands from his grip. They slipped from their gloves, which remained hanging in his long fingers.

  “We have until Christmas,” she said.

  Keeper, his eyes never leaving her, tucked the empty gloves into his waistcoat. For the first time, Azalea realized how dead and cold his eyes were. Unlike Mr. Bradford’s, they had no light in them.

  “So you do,” he said.

  The next day, Azalea’s fingers were bruised and swollen. It hurt to hold a pen and button her blouse, and she was annoyed and angry.

  “Honestly, if no one is going to help me find the sugar teeth,” said Azalea as they bundled up for the gardens, “then we shouldn’t even be dancing there.”

  An uproar of protestations and foot stomps met this, as well as a thundercloud over the girls’ temper. Azalea clenched her fists, which only hurt her fingers more.

  “What about the stream?” said Bramble. “Have you looked there? The sugar teeth are probably nosing about for the rest of the tea set.”

  Taking Bramble’s advice to heart, Azalea strode to the furthermost part of the gardens that morning. This part of the gardens hadn’t been tended to for years; tree roots broke up the pathway into stumbling bricks, and the dried fall leaves of the trees blocked out the sun, branches right at eye level. It smelled of rotting wood and wet weeds. Ivy, moss, and tree roots grew over everything, and it was coated in a blanket of crispy fall leaves.

  Lord Howley, the newest gentleman of the game, followed after Azalea. He was a Delchastrian MP, had thick sideburns and a mustache, and was so arrogant he wouldn’t even speak to the younger girls. He had badgered and badgered Azalea, asking her where she was going, until she finally told him.

  “Magic tea set?” he said, tripping over a tree root. “I thought the Eathesburian royal family had sold that old thing. I saw it advertised.”

  “We didn’t,” said Azalea. She didn’t go into details. The year before, when Mother had gotten terribly ill, the King had sent for a Delchastrian doctor. Silent and brooding, he prescribed medicines so expensive they had to dismiss one of their maids. The King even threatened to dispose of their dance slippers, but did not, at Mother’s insistence. Instead, Azalea and the girls spent hours baking muffins and breads to sell. The King had advertised the old magic tea set, but for some reason, no one wanted sugar teeth that could gouge their eyes out.

  Still, it had turned out all right. Mother had gotten better—a little.

  “You know, you wouldn’t need to sell your things if the King raised the taxes on your imports and exports,” said Lord Howley as they picked their way over the uneven brick, bringing Azalea back to the present. “Tax and two-point-five variable percentage rate—”

  “The King hasn’t raised the taxes in over two hundred years,” Azalea retorted. She pushed a branch out of her face, and it snapped back, hitting Lord Howley’s. Lord Howley sputtered but pressed on.

  “If I were king,” he said, “I could change that.” He pushed a sly smile. It made his mustache bristle.

  Azalea turned about on the corner of a brick, balancing with impeccable grace. She smiled broadly at him, the sort of smile where she knew her dimples showed deeply.

  “Lord Howley,” she said. “Why don’t you tell the King about that marvelous three-party system you were explaining earlier? He’d love to hear it.”

  Lord Howley pushed a branch out of his face. “I don’t think he likes me very much,” he said.

  “He’s that way to everyone. Besides—” Azalea clasped her hands together, still beaming. “It would impress him!”

  “Do you think so?” Lord Howley brightened.

  “Oh, yes. He loves it when people tell him how to run the country.”

  Lord Howley strode off to find the King, who tended to paperwork in a nearby section of the gardens, and Azalea exhaled in relief. Several minutes later, she stood at the edge of the garden stream, a picturesque thing with a stone bridge arched over it.

  After looking into the rushing current, Azalea lost hope. The stream was too deep and choppy to see the bottom. She balanced on a rock, leaning over to spot any glints of silver, and when she couldn’t, daintily leaped to another rock in the middle.

  Something out of the corner of her eyes caught her attention. A dark figure—not black, but dark brown, broad shoulders, holding a tall hat and a stack of books. Azalea had a moment to take in the rumpled hair—

  —before she lost her balance and crashed into the stream.

  Ice water enveloped her. The shock slapped air from her and she flailed, the current pulling her crinolines and skirts. The world muffled into freezing, garbling underwater sounds of heartbeats in her ears. Azalea panicked.

  A warm arm grasped her about the waist and pulled her to the surface. Gasping for air, Azalea found herself looking into an even warmer pair of soft brown eyes. Mr. Bradford!

  Azalea coughed and sputtered, flushing because the water was only waist deep. And then she flushed deeper, because Mr. Bradford had his arm around her waist, keeping the current from taking her.

  “Are you all right?” he said. Water dripped down his face and long nose.

  He’s talking to you! her mind yelled. He’s talking to you! Say something clever! Say something clever!

  Azalea said, “Mffloscoflphus?”

  “The water is rather cold,” he said. He pulled her to the bank. Azalea chattered and shivered and coughed, and he continued asking her if she was all right. She wasn’t. She was morbidly embarrassed, that’s what she was.

  “Thank you,” said Azalea, through chatters. She managed a shivering smile as he helped her to the broken path. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come to return the books I borrowed,” he said. Even dripping wet, his hair still stuck up in tufts. “I’ve been looking for the King.”

  Azalea guessed he had gotten lost—she still could get lost in this part of the gardens. She insisted on taking him to the King, who wasn’t far. She also insisted on helping Mr. Bradford gather his books and hat, which he’d thrown down pell-mell and which lay in a jumble over tree roots and fallen leaves.

  To his credit, Mr. Bradford did not ask what Azalea had been doing in the stream. Together they walked over the uneven path, ducking tree branches, leaving a trail of water on the old brick.

  “What would you do,” said Azalea, to keep from chattering as they hurried on. Their boots oosh eesh oosh eeshed with every footfall. “I mean, if you did win a seat in the House?”

  The light in Mr. Bradford’s eyes brightened.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Gutters for the Courtroad bridge, so it doesn’t
get icy?” Azalea teased. Mr. Bradford grinned bashfully, and absently smoothed down his wet hair.

  “I’ve been thinking about transportation and things,” he admitted. “Railways.”

  “A railway!” said Azalea. “In Eathesbury?”

  “I went to the Delchastrian Exposition last year,” he said as they progressed into the tamer part of the gardens, where the trees actually stood in rows and the trellis above them didn’t have too many vines hanging in their faces. He had a spring to his steps and was more animated than Azalea had ever seen him. “Such technology, it is beyond me! They’ve a new engine; the pistons utilize the steam differently so it harbors more energy. It’s a wonder. I could only think, if Eathesbury had that! All our imports and exports are through ship and cart—”

  He spoke on, of roads and checkpoints and imports, surplus and expenses, and in his excitement, Azalea could only think, Egads. Fairweller was right. You would be a good M.P.

  “…I suppose it’s a bit boring,” he admitted, when he had finished after several minutes. “But I could talk all day about it.”

  “Not boring at all,” said Azalea, smiling. “Mr. Bradford, why don’t you run for parliament? You would be quite as good as your father.”

  Mr. Bradford’s cheerful demeanor went out like a snuffed candle. He fell quiet, his eyes solemn and serious.

  After a long moment, he said, “Government wore my father down.” His rich-cream voice was low. “After my mother died. It etched in every line of his face and pushed him to breaking.”

  Azalea reached out a soggy glove and touched his arm. Softly, just at his elbow. She wanted to give him toast. The sort that had melted butter and a bit of honey spread on top. It was a stupid thought, but there was something comforting about toast.

  Mr. Bradford turned, and though his eyes were sad, they were hopeful, too. He placed his own soggy gloved hand over Azalea’s. Azalea’s heart nearly exploded.

  “Princess—aaack!”

  They broke apart, stepped away from each other, and turned to see Lord Howley at the end of the trellis path, shaking out a handkerchief to hold to his face. In the distance, on a stone bench, was the King. He looked irritated. “Lord…Howley,” Azalea stammered.