Entwined (22 page)

“Birthday?”

“It's her coming-of,” Azalea explained.

“And you forgot,” peeped Hollyhock.

The King unfroze and set his glass down. “Oh, indeed,” he said. “I—I can hardly remember my own birthday.”

“It was my coming-of birthday last January,” said Bramble, gripping the handle of her glass, “and you forgot that, too. You weren't even here.”

“I turnt eight last spring,” said Hollyhock, “'n I didn' even get any present at all!”

All the girls joined in.

“I was thirteen last April and it
rained
on my birthday and I didn't even get to wear anything special—”

“We turned ten—just two months ago—”

“I usually get a book for my birthday—but—this year—”

“You forgot my birthday, too.”

“And mine.”

The girls looked miserable. The King opened his mouth, then shut it.

“Sir!” whined Lord Teddie. “You forgot
my
birthday, too!”

Bramble gave a surprised laugh, then slapped her hand over her mouth, as though shocked at letting it out. The tension broke. The girls laughed sheepishly, and Lord Teddie beamed. He probably did not have many ladies think him funny. In fact, he probably got slapped by a lot of them.

“That will do,” said the King. He looked somewhat relieved.

Eve was sent for some wine, and a touch of ceremony ensued as the King uncorked the bottle. Clover, however, turned her glass upside down.

“I would like to be temperance,” she said firmly.

“What, not like Fairweller?” said Bramble.

“Yes,” said Clover. “Like Fairweller.”

This immediately ushered in a round of teasing, especially on Bramble's part, but the King immediately corked the bottle and sent the wine out.

“It is Clover's birthday,” he said. “She can do as she pleases. Is there anything you should like for your coming-of, Miss Clover? Surely there is something you want.”

By the King's voice, Azalea supposed Clover could ask for a pony. Clover gave her room-brightening smile.

“May we have a Christmas tree?” she said.

The King's face wiped of emotion. Azalea bit her lip. Mother used to be in charge of the Christmas tree festivities. Even when she was ill, she helped with the trimming, laughing and singing and helping to make berry chains and watercolor decorations.

“Please,” said Clover. “We could—all go to the library, and—and make ornaments and thread berries for it? As a family—like we used to.”

“What?” said Delphinium. “But what about danc—”

Azalea trod hard on her foot.

“I think it's a marvelous idea,” she said. “Oh, sir! Please say yes!”

The King's fingers tapped against the glass, his cheeks sucked in.

“Oh, please! Oh, please!” cried the younger ones.

“
Only
because it is Clover's birthday,” he said, finally, to cheers of “Huzzah!” “We shall see about the tree. We are a house of mourning, you will remember that!”

“Oh,
yes
, sir!” the younger girls squeaked, hopping around the table in a pseudo-reel. Clover beamed, so angelic it made the room glow.

I
n the library, among the warm golds and browns of the book-lined walls, Clover took charge of the decoration making. She set Delphinium, who was good with pencils and colors, to watercolor bits of stationery, and Hollyhock and the younger ones to winding and knotting yarn into balls. Even Lord Teddie set to work, sweating over knotting the ornament strings to perfection. Over mugs of steaming cider, and the King's slightly bemused expression at them as he penned a speech, the library echoed with laughter and warmth, and everyone felt an aura of holiday cheer.

Everyone, except Azalea. The crafting would keep the girls from dancing, and it both pleased and worried her. Shaking, Azalea kept pricking herself on the needle she used to thread the dried berries. Finally, after drawing
blood from her thumb, she excused herself and ran upstairs.

It was late now. Fear curled in her stomach as she rubbed her handkerchief against the passage.

Please, she thought to herself as she pushed through the passage. Please…please…let Mother be all right….

Azalea rushed through the silver forest and arrived at the bridge, shawl wrapped so tightly around her shoulders she felt them pulse. Equally tightly she grasped the handkerchief, her one comfort. It was magic. It, perhaps, kept Keeper from doing anything really terrible. She remembered, once, how he had flinched at it.

In the pavilion, Keeper paced, a flat silhouette against the silvers.

“Ah!” he said, without stopping to bow. “Good evening, Princess. So Her Highness feels inclined to grace me with her presence tonight. Come for a dance?”

Azalea kept her mouth shut and her feet planted on the bridge.

“Where are the rest of you?”

“It's…Clover's birthday tonight,” she managed to stammer.

“And the night before?”

Azalea dug her fingers into the silver weave.

“Come now,” said Keeper. “I am only curious. You have never missed dancing before.”

“The…King read them a story, and…they fell asleep.”

“How sweet.” Keeper leaned against the arched doorframe. Twined throughout his fingers was the scarlet embroidery thread. Azalea stared at it, the red burning green into her vision. “Especially since you all hate him so much. Oh, don't flinch like that, my lady. You think I haven't seen it in you?” Keeper's long fingers wound around the thread, twisting it and pulling it into weblike shapes. “If it is any comfort, I hate your father as well.”

“You don't even know him.”

“Do I have to? I hate him because he is the Wentworth General. I've thrived on that hate. Hate, in its own way, is a virtue.”

Azalea cast a furtive glance at the willow branches behind her. She scrunched the handkerchief even tighter in her hand. “Mr. Keeper,” she said. “Please. About Mother—you won't…that is, if you could—could maybe cut—”

“Perhaps,”
said Keeper, cutting her short. “Go back, and bring your sisters tomorrow. Do not miss another night. And then, we shall see. You have been looking?”

“I hardly have a choice.”

“No, you hardly do.
Goosey.
”

The needle, dangling from the end of the thread,
flashed in the pale light. Azalea cowered against the swirled railing of the bridge.

“Go now. Bring them back tomorrow, and dance your little dances. You will
not
miss another night.” His voice was dangerously smooth.

Against the pale mist of the pavilion, Keeper held up the thread, a knitted web shape between his hands. In reticulated scarlet string, it read:

3 days.

“Masterful!” Mother was laughing, her bubbled laugh that put everything at ease. Her hair was askew, as always, the mussed look making her even more charming. “You're better than me! Up, up, up. Very good! Ladies' cloaks, in the library, gentlemen's hats—”

“In the entrance hall. Yes, I remember.” Azalea smiled, too, and pushed herself to her feet, the crinolines and silks of her ballgown settling about her.

“Brilliant. The gentlemen will be mad for you. Dance with every single one and find out which one you like best.”

Even the milk-turning feeling from talking of her future gentleman didn't feel so curdled, not when she was with Mother, who made everything better, like treacle in a pie.

“I wish you could come,” said Azalea.

“Your father will be there.”

Azalea shook her head sadly.

Perhaps it was because Azalea had broken from the real script of the dream, or that her eyes couldn't quite meet Mother's—even so, as she did, the flower-papered walls of Mother's room faded and seeped away with the sound of freezing ice, to the dark pavilion, packed with masked dancers and black-thorned vines. Mother had tear streaks down her face. She tried to smile, but cringed with pain. Her lips had been sewn shut.

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.

The clock shop smelled of wood and oil. Dozens of clocks—cuckoo clocks, bell clocks, clocks with rose-shaped pendulums—lined the walls and sat in a glass case at the front of the shop. It was a fine old building that could afford to have an ember lit in the stove at any hour.

Mr. Bradford set a kettle on the stove and unlocked
an understairs closet, revealing more coats hanging from pegs, while Azalea slowly unthawed on a stool by the stove.

“Are you here often?” said Azalea, raising an eyebrow at his familiarity with the shop.

“Yes,” Mr. Bradford admitted. “I often come to help Mr. Grunnings with the clocks.”

“Help?”

“I like to take them apart.”

Ah, thought Azalea. She remembered once how the King had unshelved the entire library and sorted through the books a different way, because he had said it would work better. Azalea hazarded a guess.

“And you like to put them back together in different ways?” she said.

Mr. Bradford lit up.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “Some of those clockwork designs are terribly antiquated. You have to wind them two times a day, at least. Surely there is a better way to harbor energy in such a tiny mass.” Still smiling, Mr. Bradford turned to the coats, which were old-fashioned and far out of style. It looked more like a storage closet than anything. A very old, shabby rag cloak hung from one of the pegs. Mr. Bradford glanced at Azalea's feet. “Perhaps another coat, about your feet?”

Azalea smoothed back her skirts to look. She closed
her eyes with embarrassment. She couldn't find her boots in the dark that morning and, frustrated, had grabbed what she thought were her green dancing slippers from the basket. One was. The other was Bramble's red slipper, knotted around her left foot. It looked terrible…and festive, in a way.

“I—ah, can be a touch impulsive, I'm afraid,” Azalea admitted, cringing. She tucked her mismatched feet back under her skirts.

“It's true, then,” he said. “You really do dance at night.”

Azalea had opened her mouth when movement outside the shop window caught her eye. A great white horse pawed at the cobblestones. A dark figure came up the stairs.

In a rush of billowing skirts, Azalea ran for the nearest hiding place—the closet.

Which Mr. Bradford was already in. He was shoved against the wall as she leaped into it, pressing her skirts flat and yanking the door shut behind her.

Pitch blackness enveloped them. A broom handle clunked against someone's head, and it wasn't Azalea's. A bell jangled outside the closet, signaling a customer's arrival.

There was an awkward moment of silence.

“Eerck,” came Mr. Bradford's voice.

“Sorry,” Azalea whispered, realizing she pressed right up against him. He smelled like fresh linen, soap, and pine. She resisted the impulse to bury her nose into his cravat and inhale.

“It is, ah, togetherness,” he stammered. “I think—”

“Please,” Azalea whispered fervently. “Please. Fairweller is out there. Don't let him see me. Please.”

A walking stick rapped against the counter. Mr. Bradford's hand took Azalea's.

“Forbear,” he said. Then, with quite a lot of racket and rustling of coats, skirts, and the maligned broom, he was out, carefully closing the door to a crack behind him. Azalea peeked through the sliver of light.

“Minister,” said Mr. Bradford. “Good morning. The shop isn't open yet. Mr. Grunnings will be in, but in two hours, I should think.”