Entwined(51)

Fairweller’s lips grew thin.

“I would rather not talk about politics at this moment,” he said.

The girls exchanged glances.

“Can you talk about other things?” said Bramble.

“I can be agreeable,” said Fairweller. “If the other party is.”

“Oh, well,” said Bramble. “There goes that, then.”

“Minister, why are you doing this?” said Azalea, setting her teacup on its saucer. “I mean, it’s nice of you to offer so we can be in the gardens, but surely you would rather be in your own manor? We know you don’t like us very much.”

Something flickered in Fairweller’s face as his colorless gray eyes took in all of them.

“I am doing it,” he said, “because it is clear to me you have found one of the palace’s magic passages in your room.”

Teacups rattled. Flora grasped Azalea’s hand.

“And if you expect me to stand idly by,” said Fairweller, “and let you become trapped or worse with magic—”

“Trapped?” said Clover.

“It’s not dangerous!” said Flora.

“Magic, shmagic,” said Bramble, setting her teacup down with a clink. “We can see right through you! You’re only here because you wanted to become acquainted with us. Admit it.”

Fairweller’s lips narrowed to razor-thin.

“It is not…the only reason,” he said.

Azalea nearly spit her mouthful of tea. Bramble gaped, horrified. Clover’s face was so pink even her ears blushed. Flora broke the silence first.

“But you’re a Whig,” she said.

“This has nothing to do with politics,” said Fairweller.

“We’re very picky about our husbands,” said Bramble, picking apart her bread. “And our brothers-in-law.”

Fairweller stood, nearly hitting his head on the pine branch.

“You make yourselves perfectly clear,” he said. “But then, you always have.”

He left. He didn’t thank them, or even bow. He just stepped over Lily, who played with the blanket hem, fought his way out of the needles, and was gone.

“Well, that went well,” said Bramble.

Azalea sliced more bread, tucked shawls tighter around the girls’ shoulders, trying to smooth things over. Everyone was cranky as they realized they had to go inside now. Azalea tried not to think of Fairweller, his thin mustache and piercing gray eyes.

Minutes later, as they bundled things up into the basket, another voice sounded, carrying through the cold air. This one, if possible, was worse than Fairweller.

“My lady,” the voice called in a singsong tone. “My lady—I know you are out here—”

“Great waistcoats,” said Bramble as the color drained from everyone’s faces. “It’s Viscount Duquette! He’s back!”

Clover, pale as death, only had a moment to slip out the back of the pine tree and flee before a pair of shiny boots appeared at the branch-flanked entrance. This was followed by a handsome, smiling face and then all of Viscount Duquette, brushing off pine needles and smiling wolfishly.

“Ah, here you are,” he said. “Bundled up in a little cocoon. Where is the butterfly?”

“Oh, brother,” said Bramble.

“What are you doing here?” said Azalea, grasping in the basket behind her for the butter knife. Her hand found a teaspoon. It was better than nothing.

“I’ve come to make a proposal,” he said, his eyes raking over them. “Before anyone else does. As soon as she is of age, gentlemen from everywhere will be flocking here, and I plan to snatch her up—”

“Your Majesty!” Azalea screeched. “Your Majesty!”

She knew the King couldn’t hear her. He was inside, tending to papers. Still, Azalea clung to the hope that yelling would be enough to scare the Viscount away.

“Ah, perhaps she slipped out the back, then,” said the Viscount. “She can’t be far away.”

Another pair of shiny black boots appeared at the entrance.

Azalea almost cried with relief. Almost, except that these boots did not belong to the King. This figure didn’t even bother to bend down into the entrance, but instead pushed his way through the upper branches. Pine needles showered over them.

Minister Fairweller.

He surveyed the scene, Azalea backed up against the tree trunk, grasping a spoon, and the girls huddled behind her, clutching their teacups, cowering away from Viscount Duquette.

After a long, awkward moment of silence, Fairweller turned to the Viscount.

“Who are you?” he said, in his cold, flat voice.

The Viscount, half a head shorter than Fairweller, sized up his fine dress and walking stick, and gave Fairweller a short bow, clicking his heels.

“Viscount of Anatolia, sirrah, knight of the fourth order and—”

“You are Viscount Duquette.”

Something in Fairweller’s tone made the Viscount twitch.

“He wants to mawy Cwover,” whispered Jessamine in a tiny, crystalline voice.

“So I have heard,” said Fairweller, unmoved. “Also, from what I have heard, Miss Clover does not care for the match.”

“Ah, never mind that,” said the Viscount with a wry smile. “We are men of the world, are we not? Ladies like her are easily bullied.”