Entwined(83)

“Ah, yes, my lady!” Mr. Bradford smiled his crooked smile in full. “His ponytail was simply begging to be yanked.”

Azalea gave a surprised laugh. Mr. Bradford grinned.

“Tell me everything,” he said, sitting down beside her. “Everything you can.”

The story fell from Azalea in gushes, as though it had been dammed up. She told him of the discovery, of Mr. Keeper, the slippers, dancing every night, the oath, and the watch. With difficulty, she told him about the haunted ball, and Mother, and realizing who Keeper was.

She tingled as she told him everything, but it wasn’t breath-stealing or overwhelming. The oath magic could somehow see that Mr. Bradford knew the secret.

When she had finished, the fire had dimmed. She sat next to him, studying his knobbly gentlemanish knuckles, wishing to rub her cheek against his shoulder. Mr. Bradford brought his knees to his chest, deep in thought.

“My father told me about the High King,” he said to his steepled fingers. “I never believed that he could actually capture souls. I always thought it just rumor. Souls. That’s the deep sort of magic. It really was your mother?”

Azalea could still feel Mother’s lips pressing against her fingers. The thread’s weave. She turned her head.

“It was…ghastly,” she said.

In the warm hearthlight, Mr. Bradford took her hands and gave her a weak, crooked smile. “Princess,” he said, “I haven’t taken the oath. We’ve got to tell someone.”

“The King!” said Azalea.

“Just so!” Mr. Bradford squeezed her hands. “This devil Keeper has got to be freed sometime. I doubt very much your father will care to have the High King D’Eathe living underfoot! We can organize the cavalry and bring him to a court of law. If he must be freed, then we do it on our terms. Not his.”

The blood rushed to Azalea’s cheeks in a warm wave, but quelled at a new thought.

“I’m not sure Keeper can be killed,” she said. “The blood oath—”

“Flummery,” said Mr. Bradford, bringing a smile to Azalea’s lips. “The King surely would know what to do. He knows magic better than any of us.”

Us. That word, and Mr. Bradford’s firm, steady hand about hers, sent courage to Azalea’s heart. It wasn’t just her anymore. Azalea wanted to cry and dance and sing all at once. She leaped to her feet, the weak dizzy-headedness of missed meals tripping up her steps.

“Oh, Mr. Bradford!” she said. “You’re wonderful—oh—I could kiss you!”

Azalea immediately pulled back, the hot flush prickling to the very roots of her hair.

“Oh,” said Mr. Bradford, who was pink, even in the dim light. “Well.”

“I—I suppose I should go…wake the King, then,” Azalea stammered.

“Oh—yes. Oh—no. Don’t. It’s nearly morning, and you’re dead on your feet. First thing tomorrow? We’ll find the King.”

“Oh—yes. Naturally—first thing. Of course.”

“Naturally.”

“Of course.”

“Wait…here.”

Mr. Bradford produced a small package from his suitcoat pocket and, going to her, unfolded a napkin from a crumbled muffin. They had eaten cardamom-egg muffins for tea, a great holiday treat. Azalea couldn’t bring herself to eat hers, so she had given it to Ivy. Ivy, in turn, had given it to Mr. Bradford, which meant that she was awfully fond of him. She never gave up food willingly. Mr. Bradford now offered it to Azalea in his large, cupped hands.

Azalea took it, blinking away almost-tears. She looked at him, his soft brown eyes and tall form, and contemplated raising herself on her toes and kissing his ear, or his cheek. In a great blush, she almost did—then pulled back, remembering that morning just a few days ago.

Instead, impulsively before leaving, she reached up and smoothed his mussed hair.

Mr. Bradford beamed.



Azalea awoke the next morning, late and to an empty room, but giddy and glorious, fully embued with Christmas spirit. She sang when she dressed, sang when she pinned up her hair, and daintily danced her way through the corridor and down the stairs. Every time she turned a corner, she added an extra spin, her skirts brushing the wallpaper.

After a quick, late breakfast of cinnamon bread and cream (holiday breakfast—Christmas Eve), Azalea learned from Mrs. Graybe that the girls were out giving Mr. Bradford a tour of the gardens before it snowed again. Azalea grinned, thinking of what sort of tour that would be. They would make him pull them across the frozen pond, and probably balance on the bridge railing, just to see if he could do it.

The King was out in the gardens, too, said Mrs. Graybe, discussing R.B. with a gentleman. Terribly impatient to find him and Mr. Bradford and get the whole business done with, Azalea donned a cloak and began to comb the bright, sunny-snow gardens.

It was nearly tea, the wind blowing in gusts and ushering in a storm, when Azalea found the King in the straw-smelling stable, saddling Dickens. Over Dickens’s back, in its rapier sheath, was the sword. Azalea remembered that the King had promised to have it mended today.

Next to Dickens stood an unfamiliar chestnut horse. Azalea recognized the owner. It was the rain cloud fellow—Mr. Gasperson. Azalea wondered what his business was, to be with the King on Christmas Eve. They spoke in low voices, and Azalea glimpsed a silver wax seal on a folded letter. The royal imprint.