Entwined (31 page)

“Up here!” the King yelled, not moving a muscle. “Up here!”

Keeper struggled weakly beneath the King's grip and let out a strangled noise. He began to cry.

“Please,” he said. “Please don't hurt me.”

The King wavered.

Keeper writhed, and for a moment even Azalea felt pity for him, a mewling kitten, tangled auburn hair and scratched face, pretty cheeks wet.

“Please,” he said in Azalea's voice. A sob choked his throat. “Please,
Papa
—”

The King dropped the pistol. It clattered against the wood. He pulled back.

“No,” he said. “Azalea—”

“It's not
me
!” Azalea cried.

Keeper's eyes glinted.

“God save the King,” he said, and he raised the pistol to the King's chest.

Crack.

As slow as a nightmare—so slow the snowflakes hung in the air—the King fell forward.

Keeper caught him in the chest by the flat of his boot, and kicked him back, hard. He hit the floor. The limp
thumph
echoed through the tower.

No—
no—

“No!” Azalea screamed. She wrenched her skirts with her full weight. They ripped free with a stark tearing sound.

The clock groaned to life. Gears whirred and ticked. Azalea clawed her way through the pulleys, stinging all over, and hardly feeling it.

Keeper, gaunt, slipped back into his own form with the ease of a breath. He threw the pistol to the side with a clatter, tried to get to his feet, and fell on his hands and knees, coughing, hacking. Horrified, Azalea pulled back, watching as Keeper began to change.

His hair turned silver white, then tangled into stringy clumps, falling to pieces in the storm's wind. His skin clung to his skeleton face. Azalea choked as she recognized the ancient Keeper—identical to the portrait hidden in the attic.

The blood oath. Azalea reeled, watching years of being kept alive pour over Keeper. He writhed, pockmarked, the skin melting from him like a candle. In the dim light, his
black, sagging eyes flicked to the King's limp figure, then to Azalea. They danced with triumph. His voice was like the pages of an old crinkled book.

“I win,” he said.

Azalea dove at him, but not before the wind eroded him, blowing him into streams of dust, his arms and head, blowing away into nothing. Azalea, stunned, pulled back. A final gust of wind snatched the handkerchief from her hand, out the clockface, and into the blizzard.

It flashed silver in the wind, and disappeared.

Dong.
The tower chimed.

Azalea swallowed, backed away from the ledge, and scrambled to the King's side.

“Sir,” said Azalea. “Sir!”

She touched his cheek. It was clammy. The King did not move.

Mr. Bradford arrived at the top of the stairs, out of breath.

“Fetch Sir John!” said Azalea. “Hurry!”

Mr. Bradford disappeared down the steps in an instant. Azalea tried to think. Hold a mirror to his face, it would fog—no, she didn't have a mirror—staunch the blood—she hadn't a handkerchief, and there was too much—far too much. She felt for the pulse on his wrist, but her hands shook too hard to feel anything.

Azalea's sisters arrived at the tower platform, and
their eyes widened when they saw the King.

They didn't make a sound. Not a gasp, not a scream, not a cry. Snow streamed and whirled around them as they stood, frozen. Flora held her hands over her mouth. Kale and Lily clung to Clover's skirts. Clover shook. Bramble was so white, the snow looked gray.

From a memory deep inside her, so faint it only held sounds and slips of color, a tiny, three-year-old Azalea wailed,
“Papa.”

“Papa,” said Azalea to the lifeless form of the King. The word was so foreign, it choked her throat. “Papa…you can't leave us, Papa…It would be very…out of order—”

Bramble knelt opposite her, grasping the King's bandaged hand.

“She's—she's right, Papa,” Bramble stuttered. “We have…rules….”

Clover fell to her knees and pressed her handkerchief to his chest. Blood soaked through.

“Papa,” she whispered.

The girls knelt around the King, their skirts spread out like forlorn blossoms, swallowing, and whispering one word.

“Papa.”

“Papa.”

“Papa.”

It whispered among the gusts of wind stronger than the whistling gales of snow or the creaking, ticking of the clock, which felt strange and distant. Azalea gripped the King's lifeless hand.

“Papa,”
she said.

Through the broken clockface, the wind gusted stronger, and became—

Warm.

The snow, which had been sticking to Azalea's skin, cold and icy,
burned
. The storm burst, bright, and Azalea realized it wasn't the storm—it was her.

Inside her chest, a warm, billowing
something
swept through her, to the tips of her fingers, the bottoms of her feet, shining like a brilliant beam of light. It wasn't the hot, boiling feeling of her temper, nor was it the cold wash of tingles that Swearing on Silver brought. It was deeper. It didn't just pour through her body, but penetrated her soul.

Azalea gasped.

The feeling faded until it was just a flicker of warmth inside her chest, lighting her heart like a candle. The wind howled, cold again now, and snow flurried around her, landing cold on her cheek—but the warmth was still there.

Breathless, Azalea looked at her sisters.

Clover had one hand pressed over her heart, breathing tiny gasping breaths. Bramble's thin eyebrows arched so high they reached her hair. The twins grasped each other's
hands, and Hollyhock rubbed her face with her skirts. Even the little ones, Kale, Jessamine, and Lily, didn't cry anymore, but blinked wide-eyed at one another. Delphinium was so pale that if she fainted, no one would believe it fake. They all looked as stunned as Azalea felt.

“Great waistcoats,” Bramble managed to choke. “What
was
that?”

Between Azalea's hands, which grasped the King's hand so tightly she wrung his fingers, something twitched.

Azalea clasped a hand to her mouth.

His hand was warm. So warm, in fact, that it matched the flicker within her chest.

The King's weak voice matched his limp attempt to push himself up. “Ow—”

“Sir!” cried Azalea. She threw her arms around him. “Oh—Sir! Pa
pa
!”

“Ow—”

“Pa
pa
!” cried all the girls.

They tumbled and threw their arms around the King. Azalea tried to keep them back but was too overcome. Their shouting voices and cries of happiness echoed up the tower, and the snow fell around them, white and clean and fresh.

A
zalea awoke to a strange thing: sunlight.

She also awoke among masses of fat, fluffy pillows. She would have thought it a dream, if she were not aching everywhere. She was not in her room, or even in the palace, but in a fashionable manor room with striped wallpaper and Delchastrian casement windows.

Azalea could recall euphoric happiness, the gentlemen arriving at the top of the stairs, the snow, and then—black. Ah, she had fainted. Again.

Flora and Goldenrod, who had been at the foot of the bed, leaped in delight when Azalea stirred, each grabbing her hands, tugging over her like a beloved rag doll, and chattering like mad.

“You're awake!”

“You've slept for nearly
two
days!”

“Sir John says you'll be all right, just that you needed rest.”

“Oh!” Flora slapped a hand to her mouth. “They made us promise to get them when you awoke!”

The twins ran out of the room. Several minutes later, it was filled to bursting with Azalea's sisters. Still dressed in black, a bit shabby and pale, they were in high spirits. Even Delphinium, whose pretty face had jagged lines across it, smiled. They were all pleased as pink punch to see her awake. Azalea was thrilled to see them, too.

“Welcome to Fairweller's manor,” said Bramble, grinning and pushing a cup of minty tea to Azalea's mouth. “Very fancy, very
neat
. We've already stained the dining room rug, to the delight of the servants.”

“Mr. Fairweller is staying at his town house, at present.” Clover handed her a dainty biscuit with a flower imprinted at the top.

“It's just until the King finds the sword and can unmagic the palace,” said Bramble. “Or until the King murders Fairweller.”

“Until
Papa
murders Fairweller,” squeaked Hollyhock.

“Yes. Papa. Him.” Bramble grinned. “Papa, Papa. We've got to get used to that.”

Azalea smiled around a mouthful of biscuit. The King was all right, then.

The girls had the servants draw a bath for her,
chattering as they helped Azalea out of her clothes. Azalea had never seen a bath like this one—there was an actual room meant for bathing, and the bathwater steamed. Up to her neck in bubbles, she slowly removed the bandages from her arms and hands, washing away the dried blood. The younger girls played with the bubbles while the older ones told her what had happened.

“We should have listened to you,” said Eve. Her spectacles had fogged up from the heat. “About not going to the pavilion. You were right.”

Azalea waved it away. “What happened when you went through the passage?”

All the girls' faces became clouded.

“The pavilion…wasn't the same,” was all Bramble said.

Azalea remembered the dark pavilion, its mesh of half-beast, half-human dancers, and the bony hands grasping her ankles. She imagined what it must have been like for them, to arrive to that, and then to be magicked away into mirrors. She shuddered.

“Never mind,” she said. “Let's not think of it.”

The girls, however, pressed Azalea into telling her story, and she started it from the beginning—from the haunted ball, and Mother, and finding out about Keeper, to the wraith cloak and brooch charm. By the time the story had ended, Azalea's bathwater had cooled to only
mildly warm, and the girls hugged their knees to their chests, eyes wide.

“What a story,” said Bramble. “Wouldn't the
Herald
die to hear that!”

Servants arrived with more steaming water, and with them, Delphinium, her arms full of fabrics of silks and velvet. Azalea, so used to black, stared at the brilliant pinks and purples and blues hungrily. As the servants left, everyone rushed to Delphinium's side, tugged at the fabrics, and shook them out, revealing dresses of all sizes.

A flurry of fluffing and exchanging blouses brought the right outfits to the right hands. Delphinium, flushed with excitement, laid out a skirt with ruffly blouse over a bathing-room chair for Azalea. With a flourish, she added a matching collar bow.

“The dressmaker says she already had them ready, and she
hopes
they all fit! Oh, Eve, that positively makes your eyes pop! Lavender is just right for the twins, don't you think?”

“But where did they come from?” said Azalea.

“The King!” said Flora. “He gave them to us.”

“P-Papa,” Goldenrod corrected, unbuttoning Flora's black dress.

“Yes, Papa. He said it would be his Christmas present to us!”

“He did?” Azalea's brows knit. The King had wanted to stay in mourning. Hadn't he?

“We won't look like Fairweller's spawn anymore.” Bramble grinned. It faded, however, when she saw Azalea's expression. “I mean—you're excited, right?”

Azalea cupped bubbles in her hands, then dipped them into the water, thoughtful.

“Yes,” she said. “It's just…he told me not long ago he didn't feel ready to lift mourning.”

“But now he is,” said Delphinium, beaming. Her smile disappeared when she saw Azalea's face, and she clutched her pink dress to her chest.

“He never remembered our birthdays,” she said.

“Do you remember his?”

Delphinium flared pink. “Well…that's different.”

Azalea rubbed the cool porcelain beneath her chin. “Only I was thinking,” she said. “He's always gotten us gifts for Christmas, but…we've never given
him
anything.”

Bramble shrugged. “He's never asked for anything.”

“He has. Just in a different way. He's our papa, isn't he?” Azalea raised her eyebrows at her sisters, a trace of a smile on her lips. “Well, now we're going to act like it.”

 

Azalea was proud of them. She couldn't help but be proud. All of them, even Delphinium, had agreed to
dress again in black. None of them knew how long the King would want mourning to last, yet not one complained. They rollicked through Fairweller's austere peppermint-smelling manor of waxed floors, doilies, and boxes of chocolates, and pulled the curtains closed. Even the servants helped, after Clover explained things to them.

“Good-bye, sunlight.” Delphinium sighed as she closed the drapery in Fairweller's gallery. It dropped shadows over portraits of Fairwellian ancestry, all dressed in black. “Good-bye, daytime.”

“Sunlight, daytime,” said Bramble. “Hullabaloos!” She pushed the curtains of the next window closed with a flourish.

“Bramble,” said Azalea suddenly. “Have you written Lord Teddie yet?”

“Who?”

“Lord Teddie,” said Azalea. “You wanted me to write him. Don't you remember?”

“What are you on about?” said Bramble, smiling at her with knit brows.

Azalea glanced at Bramble's hands, clutching the curtain fabric. Her knuckles were white.

“What is all this?”

Azalea nearly leaped for joy at hearing that voice, though every piece of her ached. The King stood at the
end of the gallery, leaning heavily on a walking stick, his military satchel over his shoulder.

“Papa!” said Azalea, as they flocked to him like sparrows to bread. “Oh—sit down. You're going to fall over.”

“I am not falling over,” said the King as the girls pushed him to the nearest chair. He eased himself onto the brocaded velvet, wincing. He was winded, bandaged, pale, and worn, but—his beard was well trimmed. A good sign. If he could shave, he was certain to feel all right.

“You are up at last, Miss Azalea,” said the King, inspecting her as she fussed over him. “You are looking better.”

“
You
are looking better, for being shot!” said Azalea, as the girls sat down around him, on the polished wood floor.

“The ball hit his waistcoat button,” said Eve. “That's what Sir John said.”

“And…it pierced his skin.” Bramble looked entirely unconvinced.

“I beg your pardon?” said Azalea. “His
waistcoat button
? Didn't you see all the blood?”

“Azalea,” said the King.

“You all saw it! It was all over the floor!
Pints
of it!”

“Azalea,” said the King again, and something in his
tone made her stop. She met his eyes. An odd light shone in them, and she remembered snow that burned.

“You're all right?” she said.

“Well enough.” The King gave her a trace of a smile.

“Your satchel is so heavy,” squeaked Hollyhock, who fiddled with the clasps. “What's in there? Open it up.”

The King smiled, shrugged the satchel off his shoulder, and pulled out a wrapped bundle. He unrolled the fabric, and a long, heavy piece of silver fell onto the floor, clanking against the fine wood. He gave the fabric another shake, and a hilt clattered on the ground.

“We dragged the river for it,” said the King.

“The sword!” Azalea scooped up the pieces. “I've ruined it!”

“Ah, well. Yes and no,” said the King. “It would have broken sooner than later. Of course, the circumstances
could
have been better, but—” The King smiled, and Azalea saw a touch of wryness to it, almost like Bramble's. “It can be mended. Now, what is all this? Draping the windows? What of your dresses? Hadn't you new ones?”

The girls clasped their hands in their laps, turning their eyes shyly to the ground. Azalea spoke.

“It's our gift,” she said. “To you. We know mourning means a lot to you. And…we don't really mind it. We can go without dancing and things a little longer.”

“Especially since our Great Slipper Scandal quickened the undead and nearly destroyed the palace,” said Bramble. “It put us off dancing for at
least
an hour. Anyway. Merry Christmas…P-Papa.”

“Merry Christmas,” peeped Hollyhock.

“Merry Christmas,” all the girls chimed.

An unreadable expression fell over the King's face. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He placed his hand over Lily's dark curls. Lily had pulled herself up to his trouser leg and gnawed on it, leaving a wet spot. He lifted her to his knee.

“We never thought about how you felt,” said Azalea, closing her hands in fists so she didn't have to see the red marks across her palms. “We'll be better.
I'll
be better.”

The King placed his firm, solid hand on Azalea's shoulder. She looked up into his eyes, and saw they had a light in them not so different from Mother's.

“And I,” he said. “You will be a fine queen, Azalea.”

Azalea flushed from this unexpected praise, but beamed as the girls giggled and nudged her. The King stood, Lily wrapping her arms about his neck.

“Mourning is over,” he said. “I am in earnest. Draw the curtains. Your mother would not have wanted it to last as such.”

The girls cheered and danced, tugging on the King's suitcoat as he helped them to open the drapes.

 

The sword was mended and sworn on in parliament. In spite of the King's limps and bandages, he set to work on the palace with the help of Mr. Pudding and the regiments. What couldn't be unmagicked with the sword's weakened force was burned or replaced. Regiments with axes cleared away the thorny bushes that choked the palace and gardens. Spider lamps were destroyed, and the mirrors and windows replaced. The ceiling was repainted white, too, the cupids cowering at the corners until they were painted over. It was surprising, the King said, how much Keeper had magicked within the short time he had been able.

Every day the King would return long after the sun had set, arriving at Fairweller's manor, leaning heavily on his walking stick. The girls, waiting for him, flocked to his side and brought him to the dining room for hot pheasant and other Fairweller-esque food, and they would eat as a family.

“All this work and replacements,” said Azalea as they ate dinner one evening, roast quail and artichokes. “How can we afford it?”

“Parliament has granted us a sum,” said the King. “And we will accept it graciously. The palace has needed renovation for quite some time.”

“May we come with you tomorrow?” piped Flora. “Oh, please?”

“No,” said the King.

“Oh, but we miss it so much!” said Goldenrod.

“Please, let us go!”

“Pwease, oh,
pwease
!”

The girls leaped from their chairs and swarmed to the King, tugging on his suitcoat.

“Please, Papa! Papa!” they cried. “Oh, Papa,
please
!”

They went.

The palace felt different. It wasn't the hustle and come-and-go of cranes and workers and glass smithies who mended the facades and tower and windows, bowing when the girls peeked at them working. Nor was it the eager
Herald
reporter who perched about the gate of the palace, inkwell at the ready, begging to be invited in, and only getting a slammed gate in reply from the King. And it wasn't the way the sunlight shone through the palace in patches, like it used to.

For the past year, there had been a tension about it, weighing like the darkness. But like the drapery, it had gone. The palace hadn't felt this bright since before Mother had taken ill.

“Most of the palace has been unmagicked,” said the King, leading them into the east wing, to the gallery. “But you all have keen eyes. If you see anything I missed, raise the cry. Don't step on the rug. It's a bit…peckish.”

Azalea searched the familiar gallery, taking care to
stay away from the rug, wanting to hug the spindly, stain-prone furniture and kiss the portraits. None of them had red eyes now. They looked lifelessly ahead, to Azalea's relief. A second glance revealed a somewhat changed portrait of Great-Aunt Chrysanthemum. Her eyes were crossed.

“Ah,” said the King, following Azalea's gaze. “I unmagicked that one at the wrong time, unfortunately.”

“Papa?” said Flora as the younger girls gathered around a new portrait leaning against the wainscot. It was a fine portrait, one thick with strong brushstrokes and rich colors. Azalea gaped at the figure; tousled auburn hair, sweet smile, and a light in her eyes that sparkled nearly off the canvas.