Entwined(17)

“Azalea—” he said. Azalea cut him off.

“You knew how much we thought of you! You could have at least—at least acted like you cared!”

She pulled his overcoat from her shoulders, and wadded it into a heavy, wet ball.

“Shame on us for giving our affections to someone so undeserving. If you don’t want us, then—fine! We don’t want you!”

She threw the coat with all her might at the King. It fell only a foot from her in a soggy pile on the platform.

“Good-bye!” she said.

She jerked Thackeray around and pushed him into a hard gallop, away from the port, through the slick streets, back to the palace. A marvelous, euphoric feeling fired her to her fingertips and cheeks, and she almost laughed with a sheer, angry giddiness.

By the time Thackeray had reached the palace gate, though, the blaze had faded to a dull throb, the giddiness to hurt. She turned the horse about and stared down at the sliver of river, lit by the pinpricks of port lamps. The sleet melted on her face and weighed her down to exhaustion.

“Good-bye,” she said.





CHAPTER 6




“Masterful!” Mother laughed. “You’re better than me! Up, up, up. Very good! Ladies’ cloaks, in the library, gentleman’s hats—”

“In the entrance hall. Yes, I remember.” Azalea stood and smoothed her skirts.

“Brilliant. The gentleman will be mad for you.”

“I wish you could come,” said Azalea.

“Your father will be there.”

“Actually, no,” said Azalea. “He’ll be up here with you. I’ll end up dancing with ghastly Fairweller.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Mother.

“Great scott,” said Azalea. “I’m dreaming it. Again!” And she awoke.

For a while she lay staring at the bedcurtains draped above her, her hair in auburn tendrils over the pillow.

That dream! She thought she’d gotten rid of it. She’d not had it for at least three weeks. That was better than at first, when it came nearly twice a week, three months in a row. It was always so real. She could smell Mother’s white-cake, medicine, and baby-ointment scent, and feel the warmth of the fire next to Mother’s chair. Azalea wished she could dream about the picnics and trips to the market. Not Mother’s last minutes, when she was in such pain. Azalea hated thinking of Mother in pain.

And yet Azalea wished she could have made the dream last longer.

Fumbling for Lord Bradford’s watch in her nightgown pocket, Azalea clicked it open, feeling grateful for it all over again. With the windows hidden behind black drapery, even daytime in the palace felt like night.

Still early. Azalea tucked the blanket around Kale, her bedmate, and made certain Lily slept in her bassinet, then slipped from the room.

Although it was June, the ballroom’s marble floor was cool against Azalea’s bare feet. The lamp she held made the chandeliers glimmer and reflected back from the mirrors. She set the lamp down and curtsied deeply to her reflection, pointing her back toe, lifting her arm out. She loved the stretch and pull of her legs when she danced. She lifted herself onto her toes and released into a spin, feeling her nightgown breeze around her, fixing her view on the far wall through each turn, her feet turning, her head turning faster, stopping at each rotation as her body swirled beneath her.

“Y-you look beautiful.”

Azalea eased out of the spin into a curtsy, then straightened to see Clover at the doors, holding Kale in her arms. The outlines of sleepy girls in nightgowns appeared behind them.

“Good morning,” said Azalea, smiling. “Early morning. Did Kale wake you?”

“Good guess,” said Bramble. She ran a hand through her tangled knee-length hair.

Azalea smiled and shook her head. Though only two, Kale had a screaming voice to shame a prima donna. In fact, once she started screaming, she only stopped if she got what she wanted, or if she threw up. Azalea lifted her from Clover’s arms, and Kale latched her hands around Azalea’s neck. Azalea shifted, keeping Kale’s mouth from her shoulder. Kale was also a biter.

“You—you had—the dream again, didn’t you?” said Clover as they all sat down around the lamp. Her golden hair reflected the lamplight. “That’s—why you came down here?”

Azalea shrugged.

“M-maybe you should—should write the King about it,” said Clover. “He might—know what to do.”

“Have you run mad?” said Bramble. “What would he care?”

Clover gave a half shrug and lowered her eyes to her hands.

“Come now, everyone,” said Azalea, straightening up. “We made an agreement. No talking about the King.”

The girls clasped their hands and kept their eyes down. It reminded Azalea of when she had returned to the palace that late December night, shivering, so soaked she dripped puddles on the rug. She didn’t tell the girls then. They could read it in her face. They had helped her into dry clothes and brushed and braided her wet hair, all without a sound.

Azalea didn’t say anything after that, either, because the words would fester and burn, searing anyone who heard them. So they blistered and raged inside her, curling into tightness in her throat. She hid it well in front of the girls. Tiny crescent scars marked her palms.