Entwined(75)

The King did not drink his brandy. He looked intently at Azalea.

“Lord Teddie?”

“Yes.”

Azalea smiled, considering Lord Teddie’s parlor tricks and boundless good humor.

“He’s a decent, happy sort,” she said. “The younger girls were mad after him. Even Delphinium liked him. But I think he only had eyes for Bramble.”

“Oh, you think so?” said the King.

Azalea’s smile faded. She rested her glass in her lap. “Is he hoping to give the riddle another go? Is that what this is about?”

“No, no,” said the King. “Nothing like that.”

Azalea thought of the jam cake hitting the floor that morning, and sighed. She couldn’t forget the spark in Lord Teddie’s hazel eyes when he looked at Bramble. Surely he was fond of her, but he had done everything all wrong. Azalea almost wondered if he really did only think them a jolly sport.

“That’s good, then,” she said. “I don’t think Bramble could stand to be humiliated again.”

“Humiliated?”

“It was just this morning?” said Azalea, exasperated.

“Oh,” said the King. “Yes, I remember.” He sat down on his stiff, high-backed chair.

Azalea sipped her brandy, a tiny sip, only enough to cover her tongue with the burning taste of wood and sour boots. She thought again of Lord Teddie’s hopeful smile when he looked at Bramble, and sympathy sprang inside her.

“Perhaps he could come to our Yuletide ball,” she said. “If he truly is fond of Bramble, he should prove he’s in earnest. Not this riddle nonsense. Something to show we’re not just sport to him.”

A frown started to line the King’s face.

“Yuletide ball?” he said.

“Oh, yes,” said Azalea, straightening in her chair. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I think—now that mourning is over, we should have a Yuletide. Not for me, naturally. It’s never mattered for me. You know that. But for Bramble and Clover, they’re both over fifteen now, and they should meet gentlemen. Real gentlemen and not the riddle nonsense. If they don’t, they’ll just fall in love with—anyone. I thought perhaps Clover could host it?”

The King’s frown, above his neatly sorted paperwork and blotters, was now fully pronounced. Azalea hurried on.

“Everyone’s been so excited for mourning to end,” said Azalea. “It doesn’t have to be a large ball, just a small one. Please.”

Azalea waited. The King stood, and paced in front of his desk, distracted. When he finally spoke, he did not meet her eyes.

“Azalea,” he said. “About mourning.”

Azalea lowered her brandy glass.

“You and your sisters have managed all of mourning quite well,” said the King. “I’m pleased with you all. But mourning, it is a symbol. A way of being. It…I—I don’t believe we are ready to lift mourning.”

This took a moment to sink into Azalea’s mind.

“Oh,” she said slowly.

“It’s rather not even mourning for you all. You still have dancing, and the slippers,” said the King.

“Oh,” said Azalea.

“And the gardens, too.”

Azalea stared at the brandy glass, shifting it from hand to hand, watching the reddish yellow drink swirl.

“I don’t know what I’m going to tell them,” she mumbled. “They’ve been so excited for the windows, and dresses and things.”

The King was quiet. “Azalea,” he said. “I know mourning means very little to you and your sisters, but it means a great deal to me. A very great deal.”

Azalea traced a brocade flower on the arm of the chair. She should have expected this. Everything else was going wrong; it was too much to hope that this wouldn’t. Only three more nights until Christmas. The world felt in a blur. She had to think of some way to ruin Keeper before then. The brandy in her glass shook. What was stronger than a blood oath?

The warm flickery bit. Oh yes, that was right. Ha. Mother had always spoken of it. Azalea wasn’t sure if she really ever had felt it. If it truly was stronger than the other sorts of magic, surely it could help somehow. Azalea raised her head to the King, who brusquely put the brandy back in the cabinet, and her heart fell. Even his movements were cold.

“I wish you were someone I could talk to,” she said quietly. “I could always talk to Mother.”

“I am not your mother.” The King’s tone was brusque as he locked the cabinet.

That was true enough. Azalea set her brandy on the King’s desk. She felt slumped, weary, and even her gait lagged. Her gracelessness must have shown, for when she reached the door, the King said, “Azalea.” His eyebrows were furrowed. “Is something wrong?”

In the soft lamplight the King looked so deeply concerned that, for a moment, Azalea almost felt that she could talk to him. She paused.

“Sir,” she said. “When we dance at ni—”

Fwoosh.

A mass of prickles swept over her, hit her so hard it pummeled the breath from her. Azalea gasped. Her blood rushed in waves. It bristled in frigid pinpricks all over and stole her voice.

Dizzy weakness flooded her head. Speckled dots filled her vision and turned to blotches.