Entwined(3)

Azalea clenched her fists and bit back a sharp retort. Two years! Nearly two years she had run the household while Mother was ill, and he still made her knock! She strode out of the library, slid the door shut with a snap, counted to two, and knocked smartly.

“Yes, you may come in,” came the King’s voice.

Azalea gritted her teeth.

The King was already dressed for the ball, fine in formal reds and silvers. His military uniform had meticulously straight rows of buttons and medals, and he wore a silver sash across his chest to his waist, like Azalea. As he sorted through papers, Azalea caught words like “treaty” and “regiments” and “skirmish.” As Captain General, he would be leaving, along with the cavalry regiments, to help a neighboring country’s war in just a few short weeks. Azalea did not like to think about it.

“That is well enough,” he said when Azalea stood before his desk. “One cannot run the country without laws; one cannot manage a household without rules. It is so.”

“Sir,” said Azalea. “It’s Mother.”

The King set his papers down at this.

“I think we need to send for Sir John,” said Azalea. “I know he was here this morning, but…something’s not right.”

The image of Mother’s lips, white, then slowly, slowly turning to red, passed through Azalea’s mind, and she rubbed her fingers. The King stood.

“Very well,” he said. “I will fetch him myself straightaway.” He took his hat and overcoat from the stand near the fireplace. “Tend to the guests. They will be arriving soon. And—” The King’s brow furrowed. “Take care that your sisters remain in their room. I’ve made them promise to stay inside, but—it is them.”

“You made them promise to stay inside?” said Azalea, indignant. “Even Bramble?”

“Especially Bramble.”

“But it’s tradition to peek at the Yuletide! Even Mother—”

“Tradition be hanged, Miss Azalea. I will not allow it, not after the complete debacle last year.”

Azalea pursed her lips. She didn’t want the ball to end like it had last year, naturally, but caging them up in the room was unfair.

“That will do, Miss Azalea,” said the King. “I’ve sent goodies to your room, and a dissected picture for them to piece together. They shan’t be desolate.”

The King turned to go, and Azalea spoke after him.

“You’ll be back within the hour?” she said. “For the opening dance?”

“Really, Azalea,” said the King, putting on his stiff hat. “Is everything about dancing to you?”

It was, actually, but Azalea decided now wasn’t the best time to point that out.

“You will be back in time?” she said.

The King waved his hand in dismissal. “As you say,” he said, and he left.





CHAPTER 2




Nearly an hour later, when the tower chimed eight and guests filled the ballroom like brightly colored bouquets, and perfumes and nutmeg and pine scented the air, and the Christmas trees in the corner glimmered and sparkled with glass ornaments, Azalea found herself clasped on the arm of Prime Minister Fairweller.

“He truly can’t come?” said Azalea, worried, as Fairweller led her to the center of the ballroom floor. “Is everything all right? Or is he just trying to get out of dancing?”

“He sends his regrets,” said Fairweller, “and admonishes you to tend to the guests. He wishes to remain with your mother. Your doctor did not seem concerned.”

Azalea pushed the image of white lips out of her mind. Instead, she glowered at Fairweller’s black-gloved hand on her arm, escorting her. Why did the King have to ask Fairweller to take his place? Fairweller wasn’t bad looking, and he was young—especially for a Prime Minister. But, heavens! Azalea remembered their former Prime Minister, a Lord Bradford. Though the same age as the King himself, he had died when she was little. He was an agreeable gentleman who smelled of soap and coffee and always had a hint of a smile and a light in his eyes.

Fairweller, by contrast, was a thundercloud. He never smiled. The only color he wore was black, even his waistcoat and cufflinks, giving the impression of a sleek, overlarge spider. With the added disadvantage that you couldn’t squash him.

“Is Mother having the baby?” said Azalea. “It’s a bit early for the baby, isn’t it?”

“I hardly know,” said Fairweller.

Azalea gave him a dangerously sweet smile.

“I hope you’re good at dancing,” she said through her teeth. “Or this ball will be completely ruined.”

Fairweller brought her into perfect dance position.

The musicians began, the chattering hushed, and Azalea stepped off in waltz time with Fairweller. To her surprise, he was a masterful dancer. He swept her along the dance floor, guiding her about the corners and between skirts, flowing perfectly with the music. In fact, the only thing wrong with dancing with Fairweller was…well, dancing with Fairweller.

The waltz ended, the Prime Minister escorted her to the edge of the ballroom, and Azalea was flocked with gentlemen all asking for a dance.

The lively music, the decorations, the snow whorling past the windows and reflected in the mirrors on the other side, and the dancing transformed the ballroom into something almost magical. Azalea nearly forgot, as she danced the jigs, promenades, and waltzes, that the ballroom was old and drafty and the windows leaked when it rained.