Entwined(87)

She stood at the top landing. The blurred, unearthly translucence to her skin and form was gone, replaced with a sharp, dead pallor. Bloodred lips. She rested her elbow against her side, and an ornament dangled from the tip of her forefinger.

“Mother?” said Azalea.

Mother flicked the ornament into the air, snapped her fingers, and the ornament stopped at the peak of its arc. A tiny gesture of her hands, and the suspended ornaments swayed, then began to swirl around the room, with Azalea in the middle. A shimmering clinking filled the air.

Mother made a sharp movement, and the ornaments smashed to the ground—

And rose up again like spirits, their silver swirls blossoming into skirts, glass shards forming into fitted suitcoats, silver-toned ladies and gentlemen with powdered faces, white as frosted glass. They had gaping holes for eyes. Azalea shrank as they towered over her.

Mother descended the stairs daintily, her blue dress wafting behind her. She smiled at Azalea, and her eyes blazed black. The same dead black eyes flashed through Azalea’s memory, and she remembered how they glinted when Keeper had leaned in to kiss her—

“Keeper!” Azalea spat. She leaped forward, but the skull-like dancers flocked to her, caught her wrists and waist and shoulders, pulling her back, holding her tight.

Keeper laughed a cheery laugh that bubbled.

“Oh, there now,” he said in Mother’s voice. “You didn’t honestly think I was her? Were you so desperate to believe that a person had a soul, you were willing to believe in anything? Stupid, stupid. Many thanks with the handkerchief. It was the only bit of magic left holding me back. Well done.”

“Where are they?” said Azalea. “What did you do to the girls?”

Keeper pulled away. The dimples and twinkling eyes smothered Azalea. He touched the brooch at his mended blue collar.

“They’re not dead,” he said, his voice light. “Yet.”

Azalea struggled against the hands. They grasped her arms and waist tightly, fingers hard and thin like ornament hooks.

“You know, this would make an absolutely marvelous fairy tale,” said Keeper, dimpling. “Just like the ones your mother used to tell you. You can even pretend I am your mother, if you would like. Let us see…how do they begin? Ah, yes…‘In a certain country…’”

Mother’s voice was sweet as honey, with the added smooth sleekness of Keeper’s chocolate timbre. He touched Mother’s hand to Azalea’s face, tracing it with a cold finger.

“There were twelve dancing princesses,” he whispered. “And their little hearts were broken. But one day, they found a magical land of silver and music, where they could dance and forget all their troubles.

“But, alas! All things do not last forever. There was a debt to be paid; and when the accounts were balanced, the dear little princesses were found wanting. And so, when the young princesses arrived on Christmas Eve, they were magicked into the palace mirrors—”

Azalea screamed, cut short when the wiry hands slapped over her mouth, stifling her. Her heart screamed instead of beating.

“—and they died in but a few hours, huddled for warmth. The mirrors do that, you know. Something about moving matter mixing with static matter. Magic is quite scientific, really. And the eldest princess; she became trapped in this very room, only to be found weeks later, curled up in a dry little ball next to the passage door. Which was a pity; she was such a good dancer.”

Keeper leaned in closely, so closely Azalea could see her own frightened reflection in the brooch, and the ghostly thin hands that grasped at her and held her back. He touched Azalea’s neck with his lips. They were cold.

Azalea lashed out. The hands did not catch her in time, and she clawed at Keeper’s throat, the fingers snagging at the brooch and ripping it from the collar of Mother’s blue dress. The hands snatched Azalea back, clutching her wrists. Azalea yelped.

The brooch fell in an arc and clattered against the wooden floor. In an instant, like the snuffing of a candle, Mother had dissolved into the dark, handsome form of Keeper. He did not move but remained smiling at her with his dashing laziness.

“Ah,” he said. “And now you know why I keep things. The same reason your father keeps your mother’s things locked away from sight, and keeps you in mourning. Every object a person owns, no matter how poor, has a piece of them in it.”

“The King will never stand for it!” Azalea snarled. “You’ll never be able to take over the country! The regiments will—”

Keeper pressed his hand over her mouth, his fingers splayed, stifling her and gripping her cheeks.

“Hush,” he said gently. “Do you really think I care about your powerless, impoverished kingship? No, princess. There is only one thing I am after.”

He pressed his hand harder over her lips, smothering her voice.

“Ah,” he said. “I never finished my story. How do these things end? Ah, yes. And the palace was magicked again to its rightful owner, who in turn finally murdered the Captain General, and all was well. The end. Ever after happy.”

Keeper leaned in, so close now that his lips nearly touched his hand smothering her face.

“And now,” he whispered. “I have a blood oath to fulfill. Good-bye, my lady.”

He pushed her into the mass of hands.

Everything swam in whites and grays and silvers around her. Azalea was shoved into a dance formation. A ghostly silence muffled everything; no music, no footfalls, no ruffling of dresses as they danced her into a silent schottische.