Entwined(68)

The dancers swept forward, their powdered wigs and dripping lace dresses pushing Azalea backward, throwing her off her feet.

She fell, her stomach twisting—

—and woke with a jolt, panting.

The early morning fire had died, and the room was cold. Shaking, Azalea slipped from her bed and added coal, unsteady from the dream. She tried to smother images of dancers pulling Mother away, her face marred—

“A dream,” Azalea echoed. “A dream…a dream…”

She still remembered the scent, baby ointment and cake.

The night before, she had somehow arrived back at the room through the shimmering curtain, trying to swallow the heaving within her stomach. The girls had come only minutes later, and still delighted with the ornaments they had crafted, they chattered on about embroidered holly and cinnamon-scented pinecones. Azalea pushed a smile as she helped undress them, then curled up in a ball on her bed, still in her clothes, wheezing in silent gasps until she had sunk into a fitful sleep.

Now, the image of Mother fresh in her mind, Azalea’s feet overrode her head, and, taking a shawl, she slipped out of the palace into the cold, frozen morning.



The graveyard tasted like icy mist, glowing blue in the dawn. Snow and frost covered every headstone, branch, and iron railing. It was like walking through a winter palace. Azalea pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders.

The weeping angel over Mother’s grave had an icicle hanging from its hands and a hat of snow on its head. Mother would have thought it funny. Azalea did not. She brushed off the snow hat and snapped the icicle with the end of her shawl. She stared at it, forlorn and shivering, and as she more fully awoke, her spirits fell.

What was she even doing here? She’d had some vague idea that people visited graveyards to find a connection—or something—with the dead. That somehow she would know what to do, if she stood next to Mother’s grave, hoping for some sort of answer.

But now, huddled under the naked trees and staring at the frosted statue, she realized the graveyard was empty. Azalea’s throat grew tight.

“Where’s that deep magic now, Mother?” she said. Her choked voice echoed through the graveyard. “That warm flickery bit? If any of it were even real, you could make it so I could at least—at least tell someone. You said it was more powerful than magic! Than Mr. Keeper—and—and—”

The wash of prickles strangled the words from her as soon as she said Keeper, and she fell to her knees on the grave. The snow froze through her dress. She gasped for air, and slowly regained her breath as the tingles subsided.

“I can’t even speak it to the dead,” she whispered. She laid her head against the skirt of the statue, wishing the frozen stone would burn through her skin. “Stupid oath,” she said. “Stupid me.”

The iron gate shrieked.

A gentleman entered the graveyard, carrying his hat and a ring of holly. He wore a thick brown coat, had a long nose and terrifically rumpled hair.

Azalea had the fleeting idea to make the weeping angel pose, in hopes of blending in with the statue. Instead she shrank back against the statue, willing herself to fade away. But Mr. Bradford’s eyes immediately found her, huddled at the base of the statue. In a horrific thought, Azalea realized he had probably heard her yell.

“Princess!” he said, removing his hat. “Forgive me. I sometimes come here, early, before morning Mass. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Not at all,” said Azalea, as though they chatted over tea instead of shivering in a graveyard. “I was just…visiting.”

“It helps sometimes,” he said.

“No,” said Azalea. “It doesn’t. It’s empty.”

Mr. Bradford considered her. He crunched through the snow to Mother’s grave, knelt in front of it, and set the holly down in front of the angel, next to Azalea. She could feel the warmth of his arm.

“My lady?” he said. “My shop is hardly a few paces away, and there’s always an ember going. Could I make you some tea? It will warm you up. You look frozen.”

“It’s all right,” said Azalea, trying to lurch to her feet. “I have to get back to the palace. I can’t let anyone see me out. Mourning, you know. It isn’t far.”

“The shop is closer,” said Mr. Bradford. “And your lips are blue.”

“Surely not.”

“More of a purplish, then.”

Azalea pressed her lips together into a line, both trying to warm and hide them, and glanced up at Mr. Bradford. Part of his collar was twisted up against his face, the other side down, and his dark cravat was turned askew. Azalea twisted her fingers at the knot in her shawl to keep from reaching out and straightening it.

“Please,” said Mr. Bradford.

And his eyes—the same color as cinnamon bread, Azalea realized—had such a look of concern that Azalea melted.

“You know,” said Azalea as he helped her to her feet with a strong arm, smiling nearly as crooked as his cravat. “One day you’ll rescue me, and I’ll actually look nice.”

“You always look nice,” said Mr. Bradford.

Azalea could have kissed him.



Mr. Bradford’s shop wasn’t far. Just in the square outside the cathedral. Fortunate, too, since Azalea’s feet had frozen into blocks of ice and she half stumbled and was half carried. Mr. Bradford helped her along as though she weighed nothing. He wrapped her up in his coat, and his warmth seeped into her skin.