Entwined(13)

“Um, yes,” he said after a pause.

“Attack!”

The battle cry echoed throughout the tower, making the bells reverberate. Bramble’s voice! At once potatoes flew through the air. Thump! Thump! Thump-thump! In the dim light at the bottom of the stairs were all the girls, their skirts pulled up like baskets as they threw. Potatoes rained, hitting brick walls, the spindly railing, thumping against the wood floor, and hitting Lord Bradford. He blocked them dexterously with his arm.

“Have you all run mad?” cried Azalea. “Stop at once—ow!”

A potato boffed her on the side of her head. Delphinium lobbed another one, which Lord Bradford caught in his tall hat before it hit her.

“What are you doing?” said Azalea, running down the remaining steps. “Eve! Flora and Goldenrod! And Clover—not you!”

Clover, who had not thrown anything at all, stepped back, blushing to tears.

“And you,” said Azalea, turning on Bramble. “What are you, three?”

Bramble at least had the decency to look ashamed. For about two seconds. Then she raised her chin, coloring angrily.

“We can’t just do nothing,” she said. “If he doesn’t start the tower again, we’ll never be on time for anything, and if we’re never on time—”

“The King will be even crosser than he was before!” said Delphinium.

“He’s leaving for war soon and we may never even see him again.” Goldenrod’s voice broke.

Once again, Azalea stood in the midst of girls, the familiar chin wobbles and wet cheeks overcoming them. Jessamine curled up on the floor, her lacy pantelettes poking up in black ruffles, and began to wail in a tiny crystalline voice.

“I have a watch.”

Azalea started, remembering Lord Bradford. He stepped to the bottom of the stairs and offered his hand to Azalea. On it lay a gold watch, chain, and fob.

“Please take it,” he said. “You can keep it in your pocket, hidden away for mourning, and you can still keep time.”

Azalea could tell it was an heirloom. The gold between the ornamental swirls had been worn down to black.

“We can’t take that,” said Azalea.

Bramble snatched the pocket watch from his hand and drew back, holding it against her chest.

“You—!” Azalea made to fetch it back, but Bramble pulled far out of her grasp.

“We’re keeping it for ransom,” said Bramble. “You can have it back when you set the tower.”

Lord Bradford bowed. “As you say,” he said.

“It’s ours until then.”

“Just so.”

“You can’t get it back until then.”

“As you say.”

“And—and—well—all right, then,” said Bramble.

Sick with embarrassment, Azalea picked up the potatoes while the younger girls crowded about Bramble, who showed them how a pocket watch wound and clicked open and shut. Not until everything had been tidied did Azalea realize Lord Bradford was no longer in the room.

Azalea flew out the tower door, through the hall to the entrance hall mezzanine. He was just leaving. Azalea, breathless, stopped at the top of the stairs and leaned against the banister.

“Sir,” she called out. “Lord Bradford.”

He turned. His eyes lit up, seeing Azalea.

“Thank you,” said Azalea.

Lord Bradford bowed deeply, removing his hat, which re-rumpled his hair. When he straightened, he was smiling, as crooked as his cravat, and Azalea couldn’t help but smile back.





CHAPTER 5




The funeral was the next day. The princesses huddled together beside the grave, as far away from the stone as they could without being disrespectful. The graveyard was filled to the brim with mourners, overflowing to the street, all in black suits, black veils and bonnets. Horses for the procession had been brushed with black dye; streetlamps swathed with black fabric. Everything, black.

Snow fell, stark pieces of white against the scene.

The King stood across the grave from them, with members of parliament. He kept his hands firmly to his sides and sucked in his cheeks, which he did when he was displeased. He did not look at the grave. He did not look at them. He looked at…nothing.

Prayers said, pine boughs, holly, and mistletoe placed on the grave, and the masses of people sifted out the rickety gate. A luncheon for family and parliament members would be held afterward, at a coffeehouse. The King left with the mourners, without a word. He hadn’t even cried. Azalea tried to keep her nails from digging into her palms. They still stung from yesterday.

The girls remained behind until the graveyard became empty and desolate. They stared at the weeping angel statue. Snow landed on their hair, bits of white against their heads of red, gold, and brown, melting to droplets in the silence.

“They’ll miss us,” said Azalea, after a while. “And we’ll eat with the King. He has to, if there are guests. That’s the rule.”

The girls kept silent, clutching their cloaks and shawls tightly around their shoulders, shivering.

“Miss Azalea.”

Azalea turned to see Fairweller, looking graver than usual. He motioned to a small path through the gravestones and trees, hat in hand.

“If you will walk with me?”