Entwined(48)

“And we weren’t even wearing our boots!”

“Or even our stockings!”

Thumpfwhap. The King threw Mr. Hyette up against the paneling. Mr. Hyette’s head slammed against the wainscot.

Kale stopped midscream, hiccupped, and giggled.

“Mr. Hyette!” said the King.

Mr. Hyette struggled against the King’s steel grip.

“Ow,” he said. “I say, ow!”

The King yanked Mr. Hyette from the wall and grabbed him by the scruff of his fluffy cravat. He handled Mr. Hyette out the entrance hall doors, slamming them behind him. Outside, gravel scuffled.

“I say,” said Bramble, in an impeccable impersonation of Mr. Hyette. “I say, I say! I say—this Royal Business could actually be quite a lot of fun!”





CHAPTER 16




Mr. Hyette set sail that evening, with his limbs still intact. Azalea was glad the King didn’t challenge him to a duel. The King was old-fashioned like that, and Azalea sincerely didn’t think Mr. Hyette deserved a bullet in his arm.

It did mean, however, that the girls had to stay inside the next two days. They stubbornly ate meals in their room, and between lessons Azalea had them help her search through the attics for the sugar teeth. “Searching” consisted of Azalea bossing the girls into rifling through the old trunks and dusty hatboxes, which they did with loud complaints. Whenever Azalea turned away, they ran off.

Instead, in preparation for the next gentleman, they made a List of Kingly Qualities. It included things such as “Nice to sisters” and “Gives sisters presents.” The list was four pages long by the time the second gentleman, a Mr. Oswald from the Delchastrian university, came.

He arrived with stacks of books, inkwells, and a general good-natured air that did not mind if the girls flocked to him and teased him about his bushy muttonchops.

“He is writing a book,” said the King, following them out into the sunny, crisp gardens. “About the gardens here. We have two of his books already. Library, north side, O. What say you, Miss Azalea? Does he pass that list of your sisters’?”

Azalea cocked her head. Was the King actually teasing her?

“He’ll have to shave,” she said, deciding to take his lead.

“And what,” said the King, stroking his own close-trimmed beard, “is wrong with whiskers?”

Azalea laughed, surprised at the King’s uncharacteristic funning.

Dinner was different, too, with the girls bringing in flowers for the centerpiece, teasing Mr. Oswald, and chattering on about the gardens over fish stew. The King asked them how their day went, and they answered shyly that it had been very fine. Azalea asked him how his hand was, and he sucked in his cheeks, raised his bandaged hand, and wiggled his fingers in response. Dinner didn’t progress so differently than it did when they had eaten with him before, but it was…nice. Something twisted inside Azalea. She had missed eating as a family.

In his three days’ stay, Mr. Oswald toured the gardens and scribbled in his notebook while the younger girls plucked snapdragons and pansies to show him. He was fascinated with the lilac labyrinth, the fountains, and the midnight flower clock, ringed about with stepping stones. The King remained in the gardens, too. He brought all of his work, inkwells, papers, blotters, and set them on a stone bench, stubbornly keeping sight of them all. He worked over papers while the girls took tea underneath canopies of ivy and honeysuckle, the fresh breeze ruffling their hair and dresses.

At night, Azalea pinned the soft blooming flowers into the younger girls’ hair, and they crowded in front of the vanity, trying to catch a glimpse of their reflections in the small mirror.

The next gentleman came as Azalea sorted underneath the beds in their room, searching for the sugar teeth and only turning up dust, buttons, and several dead spiders. She abandoned her search to tend to the gentleman, reluctantly.

It was Mr. Penbrook, from the Yuletide. Still moist, too. A thin sheen of sweat glazed his face. While they took tea that afternoon in the gardens, he talked, and talked, and talked about parliament, passing bills, and how much his estates brought in. Bramble stood behind him and pretended to pour tea on his head.

Eventually the girls scarpered off with the cheese, and Bramble made to follow them into the blossoming foliage.

“Wait,” said Azalea, nearly overturning her wicker chair. She grabbed Bramble’s hand. “We haven’t finished searching the room.”

“Oh, really, Az,” said Bramble, pulling her hand away. “We have plenty of time. If we find them now, that’s the less time we have to dance in mourning.”

“But what if we don’t find them before Christmas?”

“Oh, they’ll turn up,” said Bramble, smiling brightly. “Ready to massacre the next person. Maybe we’ll get lucky and it will be him.”

From his wicker chair, Mr. Penbrook smiled at both of them. A vague, clueless smile.

“Don’t leave me,” said Azalea. “Please.”

Bramble dipped into a flowing gracious-to-leave-you curtsy, her thin strand of balance infuriatingly perfect. Then she took off into the bushes.

“Miss Azalea!” said Mr. Penbrook. He grasped her hand. “We are finally alone! It is fate!”

“Mr. Penbrook!” said Azalea, trying to twist her gloved hand from his grip. “Really!”