Entwined(65)

Azalea gazed at the glow of the fire flickering in the hearth next to her, thinking about the warm flickery bit. She hadn’t felt it for days, even when she danced. It was easy to believe in things, when Mother was here. Now, thinking of Mother, images of white lips and red thread passed through her mind, and it was as though a bucket of frigid stream water poured through her lungs and stomach. Azalea stood quickly, upsetting her cheese and bread, and hurried to the glass case that held the sword.

“Earlier this year,” said Azalea, “I broke this, at least in part. Would the magic be strong again, if it were mended?”

“I expect not. It would have to be sworn on again, many more times after it was fixed,” said the King.

“Oh.” The gush of ice-cold water coated her inside again, and Azalea shivered so hard her teeth began to chatter. She jumped when the King placed her shawl over her shoulders.

“It is late,” said the King. “I’ll stoke the fire in your room, if you like.”

“Sir,” said Azalea as he led her out of the gallery, “the blood oath the High King made—to not die until he killed Harold the First…didn’t Harold the First die of old age?”

“Not to die until he killed the Captain General, I believe it was. No, he unfortunately lived to be a great old age.”

“Unfortunately?” said Azalea.

The King sucked in his cheeks, as though loathe to tell her. In the faint light, he looked like the first king’s portrait hanging on the gallery wall behind him; same jaw, light hair, close-trimmed beard.

“He went mad,” said the King. “Our first king. It is…a bit of a family secret. He overthrew the High King, unmagicked the palace with the sword, but—” The King shifted. “He thought the High King was still here. In the palace.”

The blood drained from Azalea’s face.

“He believed the High King’s essence, or something of the like, still existed, in the foundation or paneling or such. It is silly, of course, to consider it now. Even so, when he passed the title of Captain General to his son, Harold the Second, he fell into madness. He wandered the halls at night, certain the High King would return to murder—”

“The Captain General, the Captain General!” Azalea cried. “That would be you!”

“Miss Azalea, it was years ago! Your color—it is only a story!”

“The first king! He was telling the—”

Azalea was bludgeoned.

When she was seven, she had been thrown from a horse and had the air knocked from her. It left a hollow space of nothing, and she heaved for air to fill it. This was much the same, but with a great rush of hard prickles. It took her breath away and choked her throat, stole air from her lungs. A great wave of icy tingles flushed to her fingertips and feet, and over her head. She gasped.

“Good heavens, Azalea, are you all right?”

The oath! Azalea fell against the wainscot of the hallway, the painful tingling coursing through her in riptides. In a dizzy whirl, she felt herself plucked up and into the King’s arms.

Five minutes later, a ruckus ensued in the room as the King set Azalea onto her bed. Lily awoke with a cry, and Kale, who was never happy when she was tired, began to scream. Candles were lit and lamps turned up, and girls sleepily flocked to Azalea’s bed. Azalea gasped for air, feeling the cold pinpricks ream up and down her skin.

“What happened?” said Clover, wetting a cloth in the basin, and dabbing Azalea’s face.

“She had a sort of fit,” said the King. “I think her underthings may be laced too tightly.”

All the girls, including Azalea, blushed brilliantly.

“Sir,” said Eve. “You’re not supposed to know about the U word!”

“Am I not? Forgive me.”

When the color returned to Azalea’s cheeks, they pushed the King out of the room, a crease between his eyebrows, and set to unbuttoning her. Azalea hoped the unlacing of the corset would return her breath to her, but it took an hour and two cups of piping hot tea for the strangled feeling to leave. The fear and hopelessness remained, however, and Azalea slept in a choke.



Azalea slept so late she nearly missed dinner the next day. She rushed to the dining room, shaking off the groggy stupor, and found the girls setting the table, their faces stung red from playing outside. They chattered about the day’s events. Clover looked especially pretty, with her hair pinned up and her corseted figure ablossom, a lady even though she was just fifteen. Fifteen! Today was Clover’s birthday, and Azalea had slept through nearly all of it, including the Great Corseting and the birthday center reel. Feeling sick all over again, she caught Clover’s hands and tried to smile.

“Many happy returns!” she said. “I can’t believe I slept through so much of it.”

“You were ill,” said Clover, squeezing Azalea’s hands.

“I’ll make it up to you. I promise. Do you like the corset?”

Clover tried to keep from smiling, but her face glowed.

“I…can feel my heartbeat in my stomach!”

“Aye, that’s what it feels like to be a lady!” said Bramble, among the general riffraff and clattering of seat taking and plate getting. “It’s corking. I love it.”

Azalea only picked at her bowl of potato soup as dinner progressed. Her hand kept twitching to feel the watch in her pocket that wasn’t there, anxious for the time. She feared Keeper would become angrier with each passing minute they weren’t there.