Entwined

  Bramble’s face had the largest grin Azalea had ever seen on it.

  The King looked at a loss. He ran his fingers through his hair, distracted. Azalea, knowing Mother would have been able to manage this, stepped forward.

  “Lord Teddie?” she said. “Will you stay for tea?”

  “Rather!” said the carpet.

  Before Lord Teddie’s ship left, he was allowed one hour in the gardens with Bramble, chaperoned by Mr. Pudding. All the girls stared out the windows, watching Lord Teddie and Bramble chatter up a storm, then run off, leaving Mr. Pudding lost in the snowy gardens. The girls made a great search for them, and finally, after an hour’s hunting, they found them in the butterfly forest, Bramble sitting on an overturned bucket and giggling while Lord Teddie kissed her fingers. Both Mr. Gasperson and the King dragged him away, late for the ship. Bramble leaned on the newel post, looking dizzy, and beaming.

  Bramble’s constant gushing chatter of Lord Teddie did not improve things with Clover. As much as Azalea disliked Fairweller, she couldn’t bear hearing Clover weep late into the night. Clover had lost her appetite, too, only picking at her food and giving most of it to Ivy. Azalea worried.

  “I honestly don’t know how in the world you could even like him, Clover,” said Delphinium, one morning as January drew to a close. They had moved back into the palace, now that the windows were all set, and were delighted to be back in their own boring, unmagicked room. Sunlight poured through the windows as they dressed, casting gold over everything.

  Clover remained sitting on the edge of her bed, clutching the ends of her shawl and saying nothing.

  “Let’s face it,” said Bramble, tying a green ribbon around her collar. “We haven’t heard a word from him since Christmas. That was ages ago! He’s abandoned you. Surprise!”

  Clover’s hands tightened over the ends of her shawl.

  “Oh, wait,” squeaked Ivy, who looked out one of the west windows to the front court below. “He hasn’t—Fairweller’s here!”

  Clover leaped to the window. The other girls flocked around her. Below them, gentlemen walked across the gravel, LadyFair tethered to the balustrade.

  “His steward is here, too.”

  “Oh, look, the King’s gone out to greet him.”

  “With a gun,” said Bramble.

  Everyone leaned forward.

  “Pistols!” cried Clover. She fled the room.

  “Clover—duels aren’t—oh, hang,” said Bramble. “She’s going to do something rash. Well, at least we can see it from here.”

  Two seconds later, Clover streaked out the entrance hall doors, down the marble stairs, her skirts flying behind her. The gentlemen had a split moment to look up before Clover threw herself onto the King in a scatter of gravel, sobbing as she hung about his neck.

  The window muffled their voices. Everyone leaned even farther forward.

  Clover fell to her knees and kissed the hem of the King’s coat.

  “Oh, now, let’s not go overboard,” Bramble muttered.

  Fairweller removed his coat and set it over Clover’s shoulders; the King threw it off and put his own coat over her shoulders. Then he gestured Fairweller to follow him inside.

  The girls paced outside the library, waiting for Fairweller, Clover, and the King to finish. The King’s voice carried through the door at intervals—usually angry. Clover’s honey tones came through, strong and unstuttering. No one could make out the words, however.

  After some length of time, the door slid open, and Fairweller emerged, looking like a man who had been rescued by a choir of angels. Dazed, hair mussed, he looked around him with glazed eyes. Clover beamed.

  “Not a day before—” snarled the King.

  “Yes, naturally,” said Fairweller. “As you say, Your Grace.”

  “And you will leave—”

  “Yes—straightaway. As you say.”

  He bowed deeply to the King. And to Azalea’s surprise, swept a bow to her and all the girls. Then he delicately cupped Clover’s hands in his, and kissed them with a brush of his lips. He left, almost walking on air.

  “Oh, Papa!” Clover cried when the door had closed. She threw her arms around the King. “Thank you!”

  “Don’t—don’t—don’t!” said the King. “I am very cross with you, young lady! Azalea!”

  He leaned in to Azalea as Clover released his neck and danced across the entrance hall rug, twirling the younger ones with her in a reel.

  “You will have to introduce Clover to a lot of gentlemen at balls and soirees and such,” he said in a low voice. “Before she turns seventeen. You must get her acquainted with other gentlemen. Preferably those of our own party!”

  “Of course,” said Azalea, watching the laughing, hopping girls about Clover. The light that filtered down from the half-moon window above the door cast bright golden highlights in Clover’s hair and, smiling, she looked the prettiest Azalea had ever seen her. “Only…well. He certainly seems to love her.”

  “Traitor,” said the King.

  CHAPTER 30

  “What’s kissing like?” said Delphinium, one morning in early February. The King had gone out to tend to R.B., and the girls crowded in the nook over bowls of steaming mush, their eyes hungry, but not for porridge.

  For the past few days, Bramble and Clover had been positively nauseating. They wrote lengthy letters to their gentlemen, Bramble chattering on about how ripping Lord Teddie was, and Clover speaking of how kind and sober Fairweller was. Sober. That was the word she used.

  “Mmm—like dancing, actually.” Bramble pushed her porridge to Ivy and grinned. “You know, the part after a spin, when the room turns around you. What do you think, Clover?”

  Clover shook her golden head.

  “I think it more…when the gentleman catches you in his arms, that warm feeling that makes your toes sort of curl.”

  Bramble’s face twisted. “No…that’s not right. Well, dash it, if we knew more dances—”

  “Azalea knowf lotf of danfef!” piped Ivy through a mouthful of mush.

  “Oh, yes!” said Flora. And then, catching Azalea’s expression, her face fell. “Oh—no, I suppose not,” she said.

  Azalea stood so sharply her chair knocked against the rosebush ledge.

  “No, definitely not!” she said. She threw her wadded napkin at Bramble—who at least had the decency to look contrite—and stormed out of the nook.

  When she reached their room, she did not cry. She was too angry for it. Instead she cleaned, punching pillows in place, wadding up strewn dresses and throwing them into the basket, mending stockings with a vengeance. It was unbearable, to hear Clover and Bramble go on, when she hadn’t heard a word from Mr. Bradford. She worried, in an overwhelming twisting-stomach pain, that he did love her, but not enough.

  Azalea was at the point of unpicking the stockings and re-darning them when the King arrived.

  “The girls said you would be here,” he said, from the doorway. He watched Azalea stab at the linens with a needle.

  “Azalea,” he said.

  “Yes, I’ve been up here,” said Azalea, in a brittle, happy voice. “Of course I would be, mending and things need to be done, Clover and Bramble haven’t been tending to it, so I will. I’ve got the time, haven’t I?”

  Her eyes stung. The King tapped his fingers against the door frame.

  “Follow me,” he said. “I have something I want to give you.”

  The King produced a worn silver harold from his pocket and walked to the fireplace.

  “Oh, no—no, no,” said Azalea, pulling back. “I’m not going down there again.”

  “Come now. Bear up,” said the King, taking her hand. He gently pulled her through the silver curtain and allowed her to grip his arm with a shaking hand as he helped her down the musty wooden stairs. Azalea looked about her, swallowing the unpleasant memories of it.

  The storage room was bright, a window at the top casting light across them. Broken Yuletide ornaments had been
swept into a pile at the corner of the room. The King went to a box, tucked in the corner, and produced a small piece of jewelry.

  It was the brooch. The King walked back to her and placed it in her hands.

  “What? No!” said Azalea, fumbling with it. “I can’t—this is Mother’s!”

  “It is yours, and your sisters’, now,” said the King. He placed his hand over hers. “It is only glass, you know. Nothing fine or grand. Your Mother knew it, when she accepted it with my hand. And she knew I danced as well as a tree. She knew about the politics and duties and responsibilities of marrying into royalty. She knew all those…unfortunate things. Things some people might even call ghastly.”

  Azalea looked up quickly. A smile tugged on the corner of the King’s lips.

  “But—ah! Wouldn’t it be sad if she had not?”

  Tears pricked Azalea’s eyes. Her fingers curled around the brooch. She imagined her father, a young king, and wondered if he had had finely dressed ladies flocked about him, flattering with false, pretty words…not because they cared for him, but only because they wanted to be queen. For the first time it occurred to her that even though the King couldn’t dance, he understood her completely.

  Azalea threw her arms around him.

  He was stiff and solid. She loved that about him.

  “Well,” said the King, looking both awkward and pleased as Azalea pulled away. “Haste away, young lady. A young Captain Bradford is waiting for you in the ballroom. He’s spent many hours filling out parliamentary paperwork, as well as a lengthy wait for parliamentary approval, before I would allow him to see you.”

  The full meaning of this sank into Azalea’s mind, and she fairly leaped up the stairs, giddy to her center. She paced impatiently with a toe-touch side turn as the King followed after, retrieving the silver coin. A glimmer caught the corner of her eye. She turned.

  Next to her foot lay a small pile of ashes.

  Azalea forgot her rush, bent down, and touched it. The ash stuck to her finger, and sparkled as she turned her hand in the dim light.

  “Sir,” said Azalea. “Papa?”

  “Mmm?”

  Azalea’s voice caught in her throat.

  “Never mind,” she said. She brushed the soot from her finger, leaving streaks of gray-silver on her skirts, remembering the light that seemed to wash over her, how warm the King’s hand had been—and the flicker of warmth she still felt inside of her. And she thought she understood. She knew now why that sort of magic—the deepest magic—hadn’t been named. Some things couldn’t be.

  Azalea helped the King down the staircase to the ballroom, becoming more and more nervous. The King, for some reason, seemed to feel the same, fidgeting with his pocket watch and slowing as they reached the ballroom doors.

  “Er…Azalea,” he said.

  “Yes?” Azalea raised herself to her toes, down again, anxious.

  “I forgot to mention something.”

  Uh-oh, said a voice in her head.

  “There’s, ah, going to be a proposal, you know,” said the King.

  Azalea nearly leaped out of her boots with delight. She spun around the King, her feet lithe as springs.

  “I…rather suspected,” she said, laughing and hopping at the same time. “Well…hoped, really. I mean, now that he’s running for parliament and everything and…Bramble and Clover are already engaged, and—”

  She stopped mid-spin at the King’s expression.

  “Ah, Azalea,” said the King. “He’s not going to be the one proposing.”

  The springs in Azalea’s feet went poioioing.

  “Sorry?” she said.

  “You outrank him, you know.” The King shifted, uncomfortable. “It would be highly inappropriate for him to propose to you. The Delchastrian queen had to propose—”

  “I will do no such thing!” said Azalea.

  “Azalea,” said the King in a firmer tone. “Come now, follow the rules. Besides, it is your chance to have the final say, is it not?”

  “I always have the final say!” said Azalea. “How horrifically unromantic!”

  “Well, do you want me to send him away?”

  “No! Don’t do that!”

  “Go to it,” said the King, pushing her through the ballroom doors. He nearly closed them on her skirts, in his rush to shut them. Azalea turned about in a whip of crinolines and kicked the door.

  “Thanks a lot!” she said.

  A polite cough-laugh sounded behind her. Azalea turned to the marble dance floor, seeing the highlights of sun against the new gilded mirrors and the crisp light cast over Mr. Bradford. Wearing a fine suit, he looked the most uniform Azalea had ever seen him—his collar lay flat and his cravat was pinned straight. His blond-brown hair, however, remained incorrigibly mussed. He clutched his hat, kneading the rim, and beamed at her.

  “Princess,” he said.

  “Captain!” said Azalea, hugging the door behind her. She beamed at him, giddiness tickling her. It was all she could do to keep from giggling.

  “You look pretty, as always,” he said.

  Azalea grinned, deciding not to remind him that the last times he had seen her, she had been soaked, frozen, unconscious, and a torn mess of the undead.

  “You’re running for parliament?” said Azalea.

  “Yes—I should have done ages ago. I was a coward, I think.”

  “Balderdash. You don’t smash through a ballroom window if you’re a coward.”

  Remembering the task at hand, Azalea’s smile flickered, and she swallowed. She remained hugging the ballroom doors, the latches pressing against her back.

  “Mr. Bradford,” she said. “I’m not going to propose to you.”

  The twinkle in Mr. Bradford’s eyes faded. So did his smile. He managed to keep it on his face. It looked painful.

  “Oh,” he said.

  “Mr. Bradford?”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you mind it so very much if…you know…you proposed to me?”

  The light in Mr. Bradford’s eyes jumped to life. He beamed so largely it almost wasn’t crooked.

  “If you want,” he said.

  He walked to Azalea, put her hand on his arm, and escorted her to the middle of the ballroom. Azalea’s boots click clicked across the marble.

  “Before anything,” he said as he brought her around to face him, “I want to give you this.”

  Fumbling in his suitcoat, he produced a small package wrapped in brown paper and string, and gave it to Azalea. Curious, she tugged at the strings of the light package until they unknotted. The paper fell away.

  It was a silver handkerchief. Supple and soft, just as Mother’s had been. In the corner were the embroidered initials A.K.W.

  Azalea laughed and cried at once. She threw her arms around Mr. Bradford’s neck, wanting to embrace him so deeply she could feel his soul.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes! Yes, yes, yes!”

  “Well—I—never even said anything,” he said.

  Even so, he pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her. Azalea pressed her cheek into his collar, rumpling it, and breathing into his cravat. It smelled of fresh linen. She felt Mr. Bradford’s cheek pressing the top of her head. His lips touched her hair.

  A muffled voice startled them both.

  “When are you going to kiss her?”

  They pulled away. In the ballroom windows, noses and hands pressed against the glass, were the girls. They stood among the prickly rosebushes, beaming wicked little grins. Delphinium and Eve whispered and giggled to each other; Bramble wore a magnificent grin on her face and a spark of light in her yellow-green eyes.

  Another figure stood among them. This one had his arms folded across his chest, stiff and firm and formal….

  …Yet he did not look displeased.

  “Those rotten little spies!” said Azalea.

  Mr. Bradford laughed and threw his hat across the ballroom floor. He pulled Azalea into an under-arm turn, her skirts flaring out and brushin
g against his trousers. His hand led her so easily, with just a turn and twitch of his fingers, that Azalea felt dizzy; happily so. He brought her in again, and spun her out.

  This time, Azalea didn’t spin back into his arms. Instead, she dipped into a curtsy. She gave this curtsy her all; every muscle and fiber of her focused on melting into a deep, flawless dip. Legs twisting, she disappeared into the poof of skirts pooling around her. She buried her nose in them, nearly kissing the floor, her right arm extended to Mr. Bradford, her left tucked behind her. A finer Soul’s Curtsy, Azalea was sure, not even Mother could do.

  She dared a peek at Mr. Bradford, whose mouth hung slightly agape. When she giggled, he laughed, too, and fell to his knees in front of her. He nudged her. The thin, crystal string of balance snapped. Azalea fell over, and into his arms. She blinked up at his face. He smiled, but more intent and solemn, and Azalea instinctively closed her eyes as his large hand gently touched her face, bringing it to his in a kiss.

  It was like dancing—both dizzy and giddy, but with the soft warmness of a gentle touch. It thrilled her soul and made it leap.

  The ballroom doors burst open with a gust of cold air and a chatter of voices. Mr. Bradford pulled Azalea to her feet as the cheering girls ran to them, tugging on Azalea’s skirts and Mr. Bradford’s suitcoat.

  Azalea, breathless and laughing, made them all take hands for a reel. A welcome-to-the-family reel, like the one they had given Lily over a year ago. There would be one for Lord Teddie, and for Fairweller, too, Azalea knew.

  “Well done, Ivy,” said Azalea. “Perfect form! Jess—hold hands. We’ll go slow so Lily can manage, now that she’s walking. Marvelous, Delphi. All set? Wonderful! Wait—”

  Their circle was incomplete.

  Azalea turned to the King, who stood several paces outside the circle, his arms folded and a bemused smile on his face. Azalea offered her hand to him.

  “Dance with us?” she said.

  A frown tugged at the corners of the King’s mouth.

  “Certainly not,” he said. “You know how well I dance.”

  Azalea did not care. She, and the girls running after, took his hands tightly in theirs. They pulled him into the circle with them and danced slowly, so he could follow their steps. Even so, Azalea felt a warmth flicker within her. It was the best dance they had ever done.