Entwined(86)

Az

Well, YOU have caused quite the scandal. Where the devil were you? The King’s been out all day, and because he wasn’t here Mrs. Graybe made us eat soup for dinner instead of the Christmas Eve pudding. Thank you very much for that.

At any rate, we’re going without you. Don’t be cross, it’s our last night, and we’ve never officially been invited to a ball before. Sir John said you oughtn’t be gotten up for the next few days, but if you wake up, come down. (Did you know Clover had a silver watch? Where did she get that kind of lolly?!)

If not, we miss you, but not enough to stay up here.

Toodle pip.

B



Azalea fled to the fireplace.

She sprang through the passage in such a hurry she scattered hot coals through the billowing curtain, trailing soot as she raced down the staircase. She slammed into the floor at a run, the abruptness making her fall to her knees.

The staircase ended sooner than it had before. Azalea’s head pounded as she grasped her bearings, her eyes adjusting.

The room she stood in was large, the same size and layout of their own bedroom, with brick for the walls instead of wood paneling. It felt sharp, real, and smelled of must. Next to her along the walls, organized in trunks and boxes, lay ribbons and tin and glass ornaments. The Yuletide ornaments! Azalea stumbled to her feet and took one from a hatbox, a tiny gazebo with a ballerina figurine that spun in the middle. It glimmered on its string. The musical movement inside pinged.

“Our storage room,” said Azalea, the ornament trembling in her fingers.

The magic was gone.

A rustle of fabric sounded behind her. Azalea turned.

Soft blue light filtered down from a tiny window near the ceiling, falling over a limp figure. Unpinned hair lay in curls over the wood floor, and a mended dress. Azalea dropped the ornament.

“Mother?” she whispered.

The figure lay unmoving.

Hardly daring to believe herself, Azalea ran to her side and turned her over, feeling Mother’s form, solid and real, beneath her hands. The blue light fell in a ghostly way on Mother’s face; edges blurred as though she were made of mist, or something from a rough pencil sketch. Azalea swallowed a cry. Mother’s lips were still sewn.

“Mother,” she whispered. “Mother, is it really you? Wake up.” Azalea fumbled for the scissors in her pocket, only to realize they were in her other dress. Even so, when Mother’s eyelids flickered, hope surged through Azalea.

“It’s all right, we’ll get them,” said Azalea, touching Mother’s lips, as gently as she could. They were icy. All her skin seemed translucent, swirling beneath Azalea’s touch. “It’s all right. Don’t try to smile or anything. We’ll get you somewhere warm.”

Mother felt lighter than Azalea expected, far lighter than a normal person, but still so substantial. Azalea ascended the creaking staircase, her arm around Mother’s waist, helping her glide up the stairs, her feet moving as though not sensing each step. It frightened Azalea, and she gripped Mother’s cold hand harder, afraid she would simply fade away.

Throbbing, she pulled Mother to the top step, laid her gently as she could against the wood and brick. Mother settled, and her skirts settled after her slowly, floating to the ground. Azalea rubbed her own handkerchief against the D’Eathe mark until it burned. The silver glowed and burst, leaving the glimmering curtain of sheen.

Azalea turned to Mother, and though Mother’s eyes hadn’t opened, she saw tear streaks down her cheeks and into the stitches.

“It’s all right,” said Azalea, trying to not cry herself. “Don’t cry—” She brought her handkerchief to Mother’s cheek to dry it.

With the touch of the fabric to Mother’s skin, the translucent swirls of her skin singed and burned and started to melt. Her skin dripped like a wax candle. Azalea yelped and pulled the handkerchief back sharply, her ears pounding as Mother’s skin faded back into place.

“It’s all right,” said Azalea. “I’m sorry…. This magic—it’s—”

Impulsively she turned to the hot coals she had scattered onto the landing not minutes before. One still glowed red. Quickly, she laid the handkerchief on it.

It lit, melted, and folded in on itself with an acrid burning smell. The empty feeling of an object unmagicked filled the air as it curled. The fire faded, leaving only ashes with a touch of glimmer to them. Azalea choked down air as she stared at the pile, then rushed to tend to Mother, her eyes still closed, and helped her to her feet. She was light as paper.

“We don’t need it anymore,” said Azalea. “I didn’t realize the magic would—here—” Azalea took Mother’s cold hand. “Let’s go, before it closes.”

Mother’s eyes snapped open. Azalea started, and gaped as the thread around Mother’s lips faded into nothing, leaving smooth, unscarred skin.

“Mind your step,” said Mother.

She shoved Azalea.

Azalea fell down the stairs, skirts and feet twisting over each other. The sound of ice creaked and cracked through the air. Azalea hit the wooden floor and caught her breath in time to see the ornaments rising from the boxes at the sides of the room. They clinked against one another and glinted as they flew into the air, rising above her like white petals in a windstorm.

They stopped abruptly and remained floating in the air, a frozen hailstorm of baubles. Azalea, shaking, peered up the rickety stairs at Mother.