Entwined(14)

Azalea walked through the frozen twigs and frosted leaves with him, feeling the girls’ curious eyes follow her. She winced a little, thinking of all the endless teasing this would produce. Fairweller, handsome, young, disagreeable as hornets. He smelled like peppermints.

“The Delchastrian prime minister was here,” said Fairweller at length. The snow crunched beneath his feet. “At the funeral. Did you see him?”

Azalea recalled the bearded man with a monocle, and nodded.

“You know that Delchastire has, for some time, been pushing us to fulfill our alliance in their current skirmish, and that your father—and I, and the regiments—will be leaving for war soon?”

Azalea stopped abruptly. Her skirts upset the snow at the side of the path.

“He’s not leaving now?” she said.

Fairweller nodded, grave. “They gave him leave enough for your mother, but now he must tend to duty. The regiments may leave as soon as tomorrow, before the next storm sets in. I thought you should know before the papers do.”

Azalea was speechless. Mother had always been the one to tell her such things before, and smooth everything over. Hearing it from Fairweller added iciness to the wind. Azalea pulled her shawl closer.

“That’s so soon,” she said. “Surely he doesn’t have to leave yet? What about mourning?’

Fairweller gave a slight shake of his head. “Politics is notoriously unfeeling,” he said.

“But he’s the king! He doesn’t even have to go! The Delchastrian king won’t, surely!”

Fairweller reached above him and snapped an icy twig from its branch. He considered it in his gloved hands before speaking.

“There is an old magic,” he said slowly. “A deep one, made of promises. It hearkens back to the High King D’Eathe, and the first Captain General. Your father swore such an oath to Delchastire when we made this alliance. We all did. It cannot be taken lightly.”

“He swore an oath,” said Azalea, in an empty, hollow voice.

“As such, we must go. If it is any comfort, my lady, I do not believe it will be a long war. Less than a year, surely.”

Azalea leaned against the trunk of a frozen tree, trying for the umpteenth time not to cry. Fairweller’s gray eyes, colorless like the rest of him, considered her, and after a long moment, he bowed. He left through the iron gate a length away.

The bushes behind her rustled, not from the wind. Azalea stared at the snow-packed ground, and sighed.

“You can come out now,” she said.

Sisters emerged with hardly a sound from behind the tombstones and naked trees where they’d been hiding. They looked at Azalea with wide and frightened eyes. Clover clutched Lily to her chest. They remained quiet, all except eleven-year-old Eve, who scooped up snow, fashioned it into a snowball, and pelted Mother’s weeping angel statue. Piff.

“I hate that statue!” she said. “It doesn’t look like an angel at all!” Piff. “She looks like she’s choking on a spoon!” Piff.

“Eve,” said Azalea. Eve hiccupped, took off her spectacles, and rubbed her eyes with a red hand.

They all stood, miserable and still, their hair whipping about in the wind, now gusting. Azalea took a breath.

“Flora,” she said. “Goldenrod, can you do a mazurka step? Do it right here.”

Flora sniffed and shook her head.

“It’s not so hard,” said Azalea. “Just try it. It’s all right, you can do it here. No one will see you.”

Flora tried halfheartedly. She stepped back, quarter turned, but stepped on the wrong foot over and lost the step. Her chin wobbled.

“I can’t do anything in these boots,” she said. “They’re too stiff.”

“That was good!” Azalea lined the twins up next to her. “You had it halfway. Break it apart. Come along, Goldy. Left foot first, step back. Turn, good, hop right, slide-turn together. Good!”

“We did it!” cried Flora. She did the step again, her light brown braid bouncing with each hop. Goldrenrod echoed her steps.

“It’s easy!” said Goldenrod.

“You both learn so quickly,” said Azalea, smiling. “Let’s all try it, in a reel. Join hands. Holli, Ivy, you younger ones, just do the basic step. All right?”

None of the girls objected, not even Eve, who almost smiled and said, “We must be breaking at least fifty rules.” They joined hands, Clover stooping to link her free hand with Kale. In the snow, trying to ignore the tombstones about them, they began. Step, slide, together, forward. They touched hands together in the center, then broke apart, gave a clap.

The rhythm caught quickly. Azalea found herself forgetting about the wind and the cold, and dancing in a graveyard or even in mourning, about how wearing stiff boots hurt when she danced, and instead felt the familiar thrill flutter through her chest. The warm flickery bit. All the girls smiled now.

Just as Azalea began the next quarter turn, the girls broke apart. They crowded behind Azalea, ruining the dance, then folded their hands and looked to the ground.

“What’s wrong?” said Azalea. “You were lovely.” Frowning, she turned around—to see none other than the King over her.

The dance was knocked from her. Azalea stumbled back.

“Sir!” she said.

The King opened his mouth, then shut it. Then opened it again.